The Ghost of Narrators Past

It was December 20th, 1979. All of the stores in Diagon Alley were packed like that wet dog food into one of those little cans. Everyone had shopping left to do, but none had as much as Albus Dumbledore.

You see, running a school is expensive. If a student needs books, and the Board is too busy sitting around, eating Chocolate Frogs to care, who pays for the books? Who works overtime so the teachers don't quit the first time a student steals their quills? Who is the first one to pay for scholarships? Everyone who said, "Dumbledore!" gets a free virtual cookie.

So Dumbledore was in debt. Very much in debt. And Christmas is not a good time for that, especially with his 56-person Christmas list, who were all currently getting sticks of gum for the holiday. So he went to Gringots, where they declined his application for a loan, because of 1) his debt and 2) his afro was getting out of style.

Dumbledore wandered the streets of London, looking for money to actually buy legitimate presents for his friends/cousins/coworkers/neighbors/owlsitter. He went by the Daily Prophet office, which was practically rolling in the dough, literally. He had heard that each employee got a 40% off coupon for Patty's Pastry Palace. His mouth watered.

Not thinking very well, Dumbledore went into the building, entranced by all of the expensive things and rich people.

"Can I help you?" the cranky receptionist squawked, spinning around in her wheelie chair that was imploding under her.

"Moneeeeeeeeey…" Dumbledore murmured under his breath.

"Pardon?" she groaned.

Dumbledore thought that she got minimum wage, too.

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, I really must be on my way…"

"Wait just a ding-dang-dong minute! Aren't you Albert Dumplepoor?" Her face lit up.

"Yes, yes, money, yes, but I must be going now." He tried to rush out of the building, as he had just seen his least favorite reporter-

"Albus! Darling! How are you doing, dear?" blabbed Rita Skeeter, then just an intern.

"Oh, just fine, child, just fine." Dumbledore replied wearily. He was not in the mood for Rita's antics today.

"Really, Albus? Because I hear that you could use a little moola."

Dumbledore's ears perked up beneath his Afro. All he heard was "moola."

"Of course, all you need to do is sign this contract stating that, when we need the money back, should that ever happen, you will pay it back in full, plus 500%, or do any one favor we ask of you. Okay?"

Now, Dumbledore is not an idiot wizard. And I am not going to be an idiot author, to make him just say yes like that. But, one thought did creep into his mind.

"Say yes…" I said to him.

"What? Mother? Is that you?"

"I don't know… but say yes and sign the contract and it will all go away…"

"Who are you?"

"I'm a ghost… the ghost of… Narrators Past…"

Dumbledore shook his head. Must be the caffeine, or lack thereof.

"I'm truly very sorry, VERY sorry, Miss Skeeter, but I must be on my way."

He turned to leave, but Rita shouted, "Fine! Sign this, and all we'll need is one favor, Albus, one favor!"

He contemplated this. Could one little thing really do any harm?

He took a quill from a nearby desk and signed.