Disclaimer: All characters and situations associated with the Harry Potter series are the property of J. K. Rowling, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, Warner Bros. etc. A Christmas Carol is the literary property of Charles Dickens. No money is being made by this story and no copyright infringements were intended in its creation. Some of the original language of Dickens' work is preserved (every noticeable bit of dialogue is the property of Charles Dickens).
Author's Note: This story was written as a collaboration between authors Soupofthedaysara and Tajuki. It was written as a farce directly on the language and concepts in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. This story was written in jest and is intended to be taken lightly—just a little Christmas cheer (or lack thereof to ring in the season for all our fellow writers and readers of fanfiction). Any errors and liberties taken with characters is the fault entirely of the authors and we gladly bear responsibility for bastardizing the works of two great British writers.
Hogwarts: A Christmas Carol
Chapter One: Crabbe And Goyle's Ghosts
Crabbe and Goyle were dead to begin with. No doubt remains on that point. The Great Hall was packed that day unfortunately. Everyone was there. It was just by luck that the Hufflepuff reached for a silver platter to deflect their badly aimed curses. Bronze, pewter—anything other than sacred silver and the boy would be dead and they would be alive. Malfoy saw it with his own eyes, was close enough to feel the heat of the reflected curses, watched as the bodies thudded to the ground like large sacks of potatoes. He saw. And his eyes never lied.
Crabbe and Goyle were as dead as doornails.
Still Malfoy never really needed the louts anyway. He didn't really rely on the faithful lackeys. But every now and then he would find himself nod a silent command, expecting one or the other of his bookends to obey mindlessly. It still felt odd to be without them chronically at his side. Always with him, but never really his friends, Malfoy just tolerated their presence, made it useful to him. He cared little for companionship. It meant little to him indeed whether they were here then or no.
Oh, but he was a sharp-tongued wit, was Malfoy! A sneering, jeering, smirking, quipping, bullying, venomous little sinner! The weather, neither heat nor cold, affected this stony being. Rain, nor snow nor sleet could get the better of him. Cold could not chill him further, for he had long before reached the extreme. The very furnaces of hell could no more melt his exterior than could his own fiery hate within his heart. He befuddled foul weather because the very essence of foul was fair to him and fair was just as foul. Only sleet and snow and rain and hail boasted one advantage over him—they very often fell from their perches to the lowly earth. And that was something Malfoy simply could not do.
There was no stranger ever brave enough to stop him in passing and bid him good day. No one asked him for help, not even the time of day. People went out of their way to avoid him in passing, they would go to great lengths and personal harm to flee his scrutinizing glare. Even the smallest and most naïve of first years knew to duck into an empty classroom or shelter behind a statue when he strolled by. Only the foolish and unlucky presented such targets. Better to risk stigma as a coward than to brave the sharp reproach from his unforgiving and brutal tongue.
But what did Malfoy care! It was his greatest pleasure to watch as the sea of humanity parted before him in sheer terror. Let them flee. A ready victim was always to be had despite their best attempts. What they said about him was of little consequence. Nothing penetrated his austere and infallible sense of self-righteous loathing of humanity in general. Malfoy wanted none of their sympathy, gratitude nor care.
Once upon a time on just any other day of the calendar, Malfoy walked quickly through the halls, taking as little notice of the excitedly chittering crowds around him. For, if it were just any other day to Malfoy, it was a day to be merry and joyous to those around him. It was indeed Christmas Eve. That pronouncement held little of that joy and merriment for Malfoy. In fact, if anything could ruffle his apathy it was this insufferable cheer everyone seemed to exude in excess. To make matters worse, it was his lot to endure. The letter he held grasped in his hand informed him of his parents' extended stay on the continent and that he was required to remain there. At least it was cold and bleak and foggy outside; the light was beginning to fade. If he had to be miserable, then the rest of humanity should at least suffer a dull, gray Christmas Eve.
He crumpled the letter in an angry fist, the slender pianist's fingers well adapted to bruising and bloodying the offending paper. Enraged and incensed by the words of his father, he stalked angrily through the halls of the school, defying any to spread their holiday cheer within a ten foot radius of him.
"A Merry Christmas, Draco!" a cheery and chipper voice called out to him from behind.
A willing victim; this should be fun, thought Malfoy, turning slowly to make his displeasure known to all. But as he turned to face the offender, his face fell in disappointment. Only one thing could hope to stay his brutal wit: the green and silver tie that designated the wearer as a member of his own house. And even this could only give small reprieve to those who dared to cross him.
Blaise Zabini was standing before him with a lopsided and boyish smile plastered across his face. His cheerful voice echoed in Malfoy's head like a train whistle on a hangover. Yet something held him back. Zabini was one of the tolerable few whom his cold and scathing temperament could stand to hold company with. Zabini was one of the lucky handful that could hope to aspire to the echelons of Malfoy's limited esteem. Even for God himself this would be a dizzying height to attain.
"Humbug, Zabini!" Malfoy replied with mild scorn, turning to be on his way.
Zabini's blithe, rakish laughter was almost addicting. Malfoy could understand why he could worm his way into his tolerance. He had a knack for being likable. "Humbug, Malfoy? What the hell does that mean?" He continued to laugh at the blond boy standing in front of him. It was not something Malfoy was accustomed to.
"It is a word that amply sums up my aversion to this season," Malfoy spoke with contempt.
Zabini checked his laughter as Malfoy's nasty temperament might be provoked and settled for a charmingly mocking smile, nodding his head to the chronically pessimistic sentiments. "So are you going home for the holidays?"
"No," he replied blandly, a blank expression masking every emotion or lack thereof.
Leaning back against the cold masonry of the ancient wall, Zabini looked his friend over with a discerning glare. After a moment of thought only then did he speak. "Come to my house, Malfoy. There's always room for one more Scrooge at the Zabini's."
A snort of derisive laughter is the highest reaction the invitation elicited. "Come to your house? I thank you Zabini, but no. But your invitation gladdens my heart."
His answer was surprisingly civil for someone of Malfoy's reputation. It took all of Blaise's manicured self composure to remain aloofly blithe in the face of such unexpected courtesy.
With an arch of his eyebrow, Malfoy warned Zabini not to jump to conclusions. "That is, I didn't think there would exist a place half so wretched as Hogwarts to spend my holidays. Thank you for presenting me with a more loathsome option, Zabini!" His cold, pale face broke into a harshly amused smile.
"Come on, Draco! The common room will be completely deserted. All of the other Slytherins are already gone."
Malfoy smiled. "Good, solitude for once."
Zabini smiled as well and shook his head. "How do you do it?"
"Do what?" Malfoy circumvented.
"This," Blaise persisted, gesturing to the students around him, laughing and enjoying the day surrounded by their friends. "Ignore it! It's intoxicating." Blaise winked at a gaggle of girls exchanging gifts by a suit of armor that happened to be butchering one of his favorite carols.
"I see nothing useful in Christmas cheer. It has done nothing for me. Why should I revel like an idiot just because another day expires on my calendar, passing from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth?"
"Have you ever given it a try?" Blaise smiled widely at his friend and spread his hands out far at his side. "It's glorious! Come have Christmas dinner with me tomorrow. I'm sure even you can find joy then."
"Zabini, keep Christmas in your own way, and leave me to keep it in mine."
"But you don't keep it!" Blaise protested wildly, clearly exasperated by his friend's blasé attitude.
"Then leave it to me alone! Much good it may do you. Much good it has done for anyone," Malfoy spat, leveling a cold glare in Zabini's direction.
Blaise nodded his affirmation. "I believe it has done me good. Christmas is a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time. The only time in the long and weary procession of days I know when people feel freely to give and to receive cheer from their fellow beings. And therefore, Malfoy, although it has never advanced me monetarily or in any other way measurable by your scales, I believe it has done me good, and will do me good. And I say God bless it:"
Malfoy stared blankly at his comrade, his cold, expressionless face melting into a taunting smile. He solemnly applauded Zabini, whose boyish glee melted into amused and friendly indignation. "A fine speech, Zabini. You would make a grand politician. But I am not sold."
Blaise favored Malfoy with another classic smile. "I see I have no sway over you."
Malfoy returned the smile in a genuinely friendly and civil manner. "None whatsoever."
Shoving his hands into his cashmere coat, cheep cashmere, Malfoy noted, he nodded to the blond. "Well, then. I wish you a Merry Christmas!" He waved a leather-clad hand as he retreated through the large doors of the school, bound for the train station.
Malfoy shot him a venomous look. "Good Afternoon," was the only reply he deigned to give.
"And a Happy New Year," Zabini called over his shoulder.
Still, all Malfoy could muster was an ill-tempered "Good Afternoon."
He watched for a moment as the other boy continued until he was out of sight. Zabini's step was light and he was truly in good cheer. What a stupid sot! Malfoy thought as he turned back to his scheme of making someone else's day miserable.
Stumbling with surprise, Malfoy halted abruptly as a bushy head smiling at him with enormous teeth accosted his field of vision. He was in no mood to deal with the mother hen of the two wretched banes of his existence.
"What do you want, Granger?" Malfoy asked narrowing his eyes and backing away from her slightly.
"Well, a Merry Christmas to you as well, Malfoy!" she scoffed moving a step closer.
Malfoy felt as if he had made the greatest of mistakes in not walking away in that moment as he watched with some sort of slow motion terror as Granger pulled out a parchment with the ghastly letters H.E.L.F. written plainly at the top.
"At this festive season of the year, Malfoy," Granger said, adjusting some god-awful bow of holly and ribbon wrapped in her tangle of hair. "It is more than usually customary that we should make some slight provisions for the poor and destitute, who suffer greatly at the present time."
Malfoy sneered. "House elves are rarely destitute and never poor. Besides, the ones at this school are paid, aren't they?" he asked.
Hermione's cheerful grin dissipated somewhat as she said, "Just sign the petition, Malfoy. I'm trying to get them Christmas day off."
"Christmas day off?" Malfoy laughed.
"That's right. I think they deserve a holiday from slavery…at least for one day." She narrowed her eyes and moved closer. "You of all people should be charitable!" she screamed.
"Why on earth would I want to do that?" he asked, folding his arms in front of him.
Hermione huffed. "You have never wanted for anything. It is your station in life to be charitable. Sign the petition." She thrust the paper and a quill out at him.
Malfoy stepped away from her presumptuous entreaty. "I don't do charity."
"You ought to. It may be the only way you could ever make up for so much evil," Hermione raged. "Sign it, Malfoy and set an example for the rest of the Slytherins."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Now there's something I've always aspired to do, set an example." He neared the Gryffindor menacingly. "I wish to be left alone."
"Well, that's easy enough, Malfoy. You're always alone because no one wants you around and no one needs you," Granger huffed, flipping her holly and ribbon-tied hair over one shoulder and walking away.
Christmas day off for house elves, he'd never heard anything more ridiculous in his life. He wondered if Granger had considered who would prepare the feast or tend to the fires or do the millions of other things that made this hell-in-castle-form bearable in winter. That was their job, their place in life. Why on earth would you want a holiday from life? It would make them think they were entitled to more and they weren't. They are house elves.
He shrugged the thought away feeling his anger rise to its boiling point.
He decided to head for the solitary comfort of the common room.
Somewhere along the way through the dark and lonely halls beneath the school, he heard the footfalls of someone following him.
He stopped periodically and listened, craning his neck around to see beyond the last corner he had just turned.
The footfalls would stop when he stopped.
When he began to walk again the footfalls would start up only seconds later.
He let out a calming breath and turned without ceasing his constant stride. The footfalls continued too. When he rounded the corner, he nearly collided with the house elf Dobby.
"Why the hell are you following me, elf?" Malfoy asked in an angry and impatient tone.
"Dobby was not following, Dobby was trying to remain out of sight," the house elf explained in a high-pitched and pained tone.
"Fine. Then why were you trying to remain out of sight?" Malfoy endeavored.
"A mark of a good elf, sir," Dobby answered, showing that there was no affection lost on either one of them. "I was on my way to tend to the fire in the common room."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "So tend it then." He gave the password which opened the entrance to the Slytherin common room from an ordinary blank space of wall.
Eying the elf as he performed a number of duties for the comfort of one lone student, Malfoy watched with a scrutinizing gaze, fearing deep within that his patience was about to receive another ill-timed test.
As if on cue the house elf turned tentatively to the student who scowled back.
"Excuse Dobby, sir," the elf began. "But, if you would just sign Miss Granger's list, sir, we house elves would be able to have Christmas day off."
"Your point being?" Malfoy drawled with a yawn.
"Dobby's point being, sir, house elves are meant to serve wizards and we do this everyday of our lives," he paused to stoked a half-burning log. "But, sir, elves have families and friends too. We wish to spend the day with them, as you wish to spend yours with your family."
Malfoy gave a derisive snort. "I will be spending the day as I do every day of the year. Studying." He narrowed his eyes further on the elf and leaned forward. "I will be doing tomorrow the thing that I do three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. Because it is a poor excuse for laziness, December the twenty-fifth is."
The elf's eyes widened. He had suspected harshness. After all, he had known Master Malfoy since he was a young child, having grown up himself in serving the pampered wretch of a human. "Christmas day, sir, is for spending in the manner that makes you happy and those around you." He picked up the stoker and leaned it against the masonry of the hearth. "I am happy in my work as are my friends that work alongside me. If we cannot have the day to spend as we please, it pleases us that we can at least spend it with each other. And in making the students and staff that we serve happy, well then we elves could be no more so. We will celebrate in any manner that we can. Happy Christmas to you." With that said, Dobby snapped his fingers and was gone.
Malfoy grumbled for a moment, having had endured such a blatantly inspirational speech. He took a moment to calm himself into casual unaffectedness. He lay back on the couch and stare up at the ceiling. At least he was finally alone.
Halfheartedly he kicked his feet from the couch and stalked upstairs.
Now it was a fact that there was nothing particular about the knocker on the door to his room, except that it was very large; also, that Malfoy had seen it, night and morning, during the whole of his residence in that place. And yet Malfoy, having his hand on the doorknob, saw in the knocker, without it going through any immediate process of change, not a knocker, but Crabbe and Goyle's faces.
Crabbe and Goyle's faces, with a dismal light around them, like two Blast-Ended Skrewts in a dank cellar, not angry but looking at Malfoy in the way that Crabbe and Goyle used to look—only with a wiser knowledge about the eyes that suggested that they knew something that Malfoy did not. (That was a rare look, indeed).
As Malfoy glanced fixedly at this phenomenon again, it was a knocker. With a shrug and a raise of one eyebrow he proceeded into the room.
The door closed with a loud clack that echoed throughout the cavernous room like solemn and somber peels of a mournful church bell. The room was dark and silent and cozy. A candle was the sole light source, but it burned amply on the bedside table, sufficiently lighting the room and chasing the shadows into the very depths of the corners until the master blew out the flame, allowing them to rush forward. Quickly, Malfoy exchanged his school robes, woolen jumper and trousers for his pajamas and dressing gown.
Never one to admit a shortcoming, Malfoy denied the fact that he strode over to the fireplace and grabbed the poker out of fear. For fear had not led him to make a thorough inspection of the bedchamber, under the bed, behind the sofa, in the wardrobes. He had not been seeking to secure the room from the terrors that he had or had not encountered on his way inside. No, the motivation was prudence. Someone may very well be playing a trick on him. And hell if he let anyone gain the upper hand—not even a pair of ghosts. Finally he was satisfied in his search, locking the door securely and discarding the poker by the fire, slumping wearily onto the sofa.
Resting his head on a squashy pillow, Malfoy's eyes rested for some inexplicable reason on a bell occupying the table of another roommate off on holiday. The bell was a mere silver trinket with no understandable use. No one came when the owner rang, so where was the point in keeping the useless thing around? With the oddest feeling of dread and apprehension, Malfoy watched as the bell began to ring itself as if in arrogant protest to his thoughts. The high tinkling of the bell only grew louder and louder, more impatient as the tense seconds wore on until another sound was added to its noise. It seemed to Malfoy's ears as if someone were dragging something, very heavy and metallic by the sound of it. A chain. The noise seemed to echo throughout the chamber, resonating from above and below in a confusing profusion of sound that it was impossible for Malfoy to tell where the noise originated from.
Then with a cold chill, he realized that the owners of those chains stood but a few feet directly behind him. The noise had stopped abruptly as if the bearers of the burden were awaiting his notice. Reluctantly and filled with dread, he turned.
Standing in front of him were the specters. The very same ghosts he saw, yet pretended not to have seen, loomed in front of him now. Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle had changed as little in death as they had in life. Still the same hulking, apish louts, the only difference that was readily noticeable besides the hefty ton of shackles were the weary expressions, calling up images of people that held portentous news within their grasp, yet feared to speak of it. He felt inclined to question the macabre specters and to flee from them in the same instant.
Malfoy steeled himself up to the point where he stood in front of the two specters. Though he looked the phantoms through and through and saw them standing before him— he felt the chilling influence of their death-cold eyes.
"What is this?" said Malfoy, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"
They looked at each other as if debating a point known only to the specters. The phantom of Crabbe dumbly prodded that of Goyle. There was no doubt about it. Malfoy was staring at the ghostly images of his friends in life.
"There's a lot to show you," Goyle's image spoke finally.
"If you would listen, Malfoy. But you're stubborn. And you won't," Crabbe answered dumbly.
Malfoy narrowed his eyes in a scrutinizing manner. "Who are you?"
"Ask us who we were," Goyle answered cryptically.
Malfoy scoffed. "Fine then, who were you?"
Goyle exchanged another look with Crabbe. "In life we were as close to you as friends."
"I had none. Never," Malfoy answered, suddenly struck.
The outlines of the two phantoms flickered and wavered slightly.
The silence was chillingly cold.
"You don't believe in us?" Goyle asked in a low gruff tone.
"I don't."
"What evidence do you need of our reality beyond that of your own senses?" Crabbe asked in a solemn, quiet voice.
Malfoy lifted his chin proudly. "I don't know," his voice wavered as he spoke.
"In life you never doubted your senses."
"Because at this moment a little thing could affect them. A slight weariness might make them cheat. Why are you here?" Malfoy stood erect, drawing himself to his full height. He paused and leveled and incredulous stare. "Is this the part were I say, 'There is more of gravy than of grave about you"? Nice try. I know that one."
"It is required of every man, that the spirit within him should walk abroad among his fellow-men, and travel far and wide; and if that spirit goes not forth in life, it is condemned to do so after death. I cannot tell you all I would. A very little more is permitted to me. I cannot rest, I cannot stay, I cannot linger anywhere. My spirit never walked beyond this school -- mark me! -- in life my spirit never roved beyond the narrow limits of our misdeeds; and weary journeys lie before us!" Crabbe answered in an ever sorrowful tone.
Malfoy found his voice after some moments in silence. "Two years dead and wandering all this time? Do you travel fast?"
"On the wings of the wind," Goyle answered sounding evermore ridiculous with his large language.
"You might have gotten to a great many lands in two year's time," Malfoy answered mockingly.
"O Malfoy, you fool! not to know that ages of incessant labor by immortal creatures for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed. Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness. Not to know that no space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunities misused! Yet I was like this fool; I once was like this fool!"
"Don't talk to me of Christian spirits!" Malfoy demanded in a contempt that voiced his anger and impatience. "But you two were always good at your craft, in making little of others." Malfoy faltered, beginning to now apply this to himself.
"My craft!" Goyle shouted, incensed. The walls shook with his anger. He calmed as Crabbe placed one translucent hand on his shoulder.
"Hear me! Our time is nearly gone," Crabbe said.
"I won't promise a thing," Malfoy said with arms crossed stubbornly before him.
"We are here tonight to warn you that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping our fate. A chance and hope that we could give you if you but just listen, Draco." Crabbe waited for a response.
From Malfoy, none but the slightest nod came.
"You will be haunted by three spirits," Goyle said finally.
"I've already been haunted by two. Can you send the next chap in then so I can reject this divine intervention and get some sleep?" Malfoy asked in a sarcastic tone. Laughing, he continued, "Thanks but no thanks, mates."
"Well, you will be haunted by three more spirits," Crabbe clarified.
"Other than us," Goyle added. "If you don't listen to these spirits," he pleaded, "You will be condemned to the fate that we share."
Malfoy gave a derisive and unconvinced nod.
"Expect the first at the stroke of one," Goyle said.
With a fading of light and texture, the phantoms of Crabbe and Goyle diminished into nothing but a cold and empty room.
Malfoy raised his eyebrows and laughed, "At the stroke of one…right."