Hullo! Happy Holidays to everyone. This story was written in response to a challenge posted by Torak and Spenser Hemmingway to the staff, so I must thank them for their wacky ideas. They certainly prodded my muse out of hibernation.
Thanks, of course, must go to my super beta - Chreechree. Lots of luurve and get some rest, woman!
I hope you like this. I'm kind of nervous about posting after so long. :)
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A Christmas Carol | ||||
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Category: Post-OotP, Alternate Universe, Holidays Characters:Harry/Ginny, Harry/Ginny Genres: General, Humor Warnings: None Story is Complete Rating: PG-13 Reviews: 38 Summary: Harry couldn’t understand it. Why was everyone so happy? Granted, it was Christmas, but didn’t they remember that there was a war going on? The holidays find Harry broody and miserable, the prophecy weighing heavily on his mind. But all is not lost, as several supernatural visitors and one spirited redhead remind him that there was more to life than Death Eaters, Voldemort and an out of tune Argus Filch. Hitcount: Story Total: 10056 Disclaimer: Harry Potter Publishing Rights © J.K.R. Note the opinions in this story are my own and in no way represent the owners of this site. This story subject to copyright law under transformative use. No compensation is made for this work. Author's Notes: |
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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the… Oops, wrong Charles Dickens story to parody. Let’s try this again, shall we? Draco Malfoy was dead, to begin with. In fact, the entire Malfoy clan appeared to have been wiped out by a rather virulent strain of spattergroit several weeks before Christmas, if the Daily Prophet were to be believed. Normally, Harry Potter would have welcomed the news that the Foremost Ferret Family was no more with wild celebrating and great joy, but right now, Harry could not care less if it was reported that Rita Skeeter had eloped with Ernie Prang and that they were currently honeymooning happily in Bermuda. Christmas, mistletoe, yuletide carols being sung by a choir — who cared about those things when the very real threat of his rendezvous with fate and a certain pasty-faced Dark Lord lurked around the corner like Mundungus Fletcher trying to pawn off some dodgy cauldrons? Not Harry, brooding yet again in his dormitory room, as something akin to melancholia had seeped into the marrow of his very soul. Such dreariness was very inappropriate for the festive season. It did not help that everybody else staying in Hogwarts for the winter holidays seemed so happy for some reason. Take Argus Filch, for example. The usually cantankerous caretaker had taken to warbling jovial jingles in the corridors at every opportunity. Filch. Warbling. Dear Merlin. One more off-key rendition of “The Little Drummer Boy”, and Harry was certain that no one would blame him if he took Mrs Norris, Filch’s mangy cat, out for a little “stroll” in the dead of the night. Even Ron and Hermione seemed to be rejoicing in their first Christmas together as a couple. Harry did not begrudge his best friends their happiness, but, “Damn it,” he could not help thinking, “do they have to be so bloody sappy about it?” Everywhere Harry looked, the two were doing revoltingly ‘couple-y’ things — holding hands, feeding each other tasty little tidbits during meals, or sitting so close together that they looked like Fluffy, minus one head, and maybe some of the slobber. After taking one look at the couple cuddling cozily by the common room fire, Ginny had wryly commented, “Don’t people believe in warm coats any more?”, which, if anything, only drove the couple to snuggle even closer to each other. Speaking of Ginny, she was the worst of them all, in Harry’s opinion. For someone whom he thought would be able to understand what he was going through, she obviously was not taking his surly mood too seriously. She was forever greeting him cheerfully, always joking and laughing that tinkling, musical laugh of hers, and — this was what got Harry’s goat the most — she was always smiling at him with those shiny pink lips and that maddening twinkle in those bright brown eyes. Who did she think she was anyway? Santa’s happy little helper? Bah, peppermint humbugs. He had left the lot of them back in the great hall, where the Christmas Eve feast was still well underway; a Professor Flitwick pissed on eggnog and attempting to kiss a giggling Madam Pomfrey while perched precariously on a stool was too much for Harry’s already pounding head. What made matters worse was that right before Harry had slinked out of the room, he had heard a whispered conversation that only contributed to his current funk. “What’s with Harry?” Ron. Strangely perceptive. “He has been quiet lately. I wonder what’s wrong.” Hermione. Master worrier. “Oh, Harry’s just being a little drama boy again. Leave him alone. He’ll talk when he’s ready.” For some reason, Ginny’s flippant comment rankled the most. Little drama boy, am I? Hmph. Parumpumpumpum. Harry did not know how much time had passed while he stared blankly at the red and gold hangings of his four-poster, listening to the news report on Dean’s small Muggle radio enchanted to run without batteries. “....and if you’re thinking of doing a little last-minute holiday shopping, you may want to think again. The snow’s really coming down hard out there, people. Motorists were trapped for hours on the motorway outside Oxford in several inches of snow and temperatures down to -6°C...” He must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was being awakened by a strange clanking noise and someone calling his name. “Potter!” “Zzzz... sgrmf...” “Scarhead!” Ice-cold needles prickled his feet, forcing Harry’s eyes open. “What the–!” He grabbed his wand. “Lumos.” The pale pinpoint of light illuminated an equally pale, pointy face. “Awake now, Potter?” “Oh, hello to you, too.” Harry pointed his wand at Draco Malfoy. “What the hell are you doing here?” “Doing something totally against my will as atonement for past misdeeds,” the Slytherin drawled. “And hopefully to get rid of these stupid chains.” Malfoy’s hovering form was pearlescent in the wandlight, wrapped from the neck down in what appeared to be heavy shackles. Harry blinked and rubbed his eyes behind his glasses. Then he remembered the article from the Prophet. “Hang on. You’re–” “Dead?” supplied Malfoy mockingly. “Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me, Potter.” “While I’d love to trade insults and rejoice in the fact that you’re not here to grace us with your lovely presence any more,” said Harry acidly, “I don’t have the time or the patience, so bugger off wherever you ghosts bugger off to.” “Too bad,” declared Malfoy nastily. “I don’t want to be here either, but I can’t leave until I give you a message.” Harry groaned. “I’ve enough problems without you adding to them.” He looked at the sneering spirit with suspicion. “You’ll go as soon as you deliver this message?” “Yes.” “It’s not another prophecy, is it?” “What?” “Never mind.” Harry sighed. “All right, go ahead.” Malfoy smirked. “What if I don’t want to?” “Don’t be even more of a ferret’s arse than when you were alive, Malfoy,” growled Harry. Malfoy swelled indignantly, his spattergroit spots gleaming. In a superior voice, he announced, “I have come to warn you, Potter, that tonight you will be visited by three other ghosts–” “Three more!” spluttered Harry, looking around wildly. Where’s Ron? The feast should be over by now. Am I dreaming all this? A chilly hand passed through his foot. Okay, maybe I’m not dreaming. “Do you mind?” Malfoy frowned petulantly. Harry shook his head, wincing and rubbing his foot to warm it up again. Malfoy gave an affected little cough and then continued his oratory. “As I was saying, before midnight of Christmas Eve, you will be visited by three other ghosts, who will show you the true meaning of the Christmas spirit that you seem to be sadly lacking nowadays.” He lowered his voice dramatically. “If you don’t change your present attitude, Potter, I have it on authority that you will suffer a fate worse than death.” “‘A fate worse than death’, you say,” echoed Harry. Malfoy crossed his arms across his translucent chest and nodded smugly. Harry could not help it. He laughed. And laughed some more. Clearly, this was not the reaction that Malfoy had been expecting. “What’s so funny?” he asked, peeved. After letting out a final snort of laughter, Harry finally managed to gasp out, “Sorry, it’s just that I can’t imagine anything worse than having to face bloody Moldyshorts one final time.” Malfoy gaped at him as if he could not decide which had shocked him more — Harry’s reaction or the reasons behind it — and finally settled on haughty disdain. “Well, my job is done, Scarhead.” He turned and drifted away, muttering, “Free from Myrtle at last!” before melting into one of the stone walls. Harry stared after Malfoy. Three more ghosts. Well, what was the big deal anyway? He had numerous encounters with ghosts everyday — Nearly Headless Nick, Peeves, the Fat Friar — and he certainly was not frightened of them. Malfoy’s words, however, left him feeling oddly disquieted and just the tiniest bit apprehensive. Deciding that Malfoy was not one to be trusted — alive or dead — Harry flopped back down onto his pillow. He was almost nodding off again when he noticed a faint radiance emanating from one corner of the room. The glow soon coalesced into a familiar form — no, make that two familiar forms — and suddenly, Harry could not speak past the lump in his throat. “Mum?” croaked Harry. “Dad?” “Hello, darling,” said Lily Potter, while James Potter grinned widely at him. “Wha– What are you doing here?” Harry looked wide-eyed between his parents. It might have been wishful thinking on his part, but they seemed to be more substantial and more colourful than the usual spirits. Both were clad in white robes, his mother’s had bright summer flowers on it, while James had a twisting pattern of holly leaves on his. “Well,” replied James, “we’re supposed to be the ghost—” “Ghosts, dear,” corrected Lily. “Right,” acknowledged her husband. “We’re the ghosts of Christmas Past.” “What does that mean?” “Well, we’re here because–” began Lily. “It’ll take too long to explain,” James broke in. “Why don’t we just show you?” “Show me wha — aaaah!” Harry screamed in surprise as he and the room dissolved in a dizzying swirl of colours until he reappeared in the middle of a cosy living room with a cheerily crackling fire and a large Christmas tree in one corner. Over the mantel, three white stockings were hung, the smallest of which had “Harry” embroidered in gold letters. “Is this–?” he whispered. “Our house in Godric’s Hollow,” his father affirmed. A knock was heard and the living version of James came clattering down the stairs. He was wearing a Father Christmas hat on his head and an excited expression on his face. “Lily! They’re here!” he hollered before throwing the front door open to reveal a rather shaken Remus Lupin and a madly grinning Sirius Black in the middle of a discussion. “Didn’t you hear me shouting ‘Red light! Red light! Stooo—’” “Aw, c’mon Moony.” Sirius tucked a motorcycle helmet under his arm. “I missed that lorry by a mile!” “Padfoot, when I got on that blasted contraption of yours, I was under the impression that we were going to fly.” “Where’s your sense of adventure?” “I left it somewhere in Bristol,” answered Remus shortly. “Happy Christmas, you two,” interrupted James, smirking at both of them. “Prongs!” shouted Sirius, slinging an arm over James’ shoulder. “Happy Christmas, mate!” “Happy Christmas.” Remus, now smiling broadly, shook James’ hand. “Where’s Lily?” “Right here.” Everyone turned to look at a beaming Lily cradling a small bundle in her arms. “Happy Christmas.” Sirius bounded over to her and peered at his godson. “Merlin, he’s titchy!” he exclaimed then danced out of the way when Lily swatted at his arm. Harry found himself moving involuntarily towards his infant self. He took a peek and shrank back in astonishment. “Sirius is right! I’m tiny!” His ghostly parents laughed heartily. “Well, you are only about four months old, dear,” said Lily fondly. “But people were already saying that you looked like me.” James smiled at Lily. “Except your eyes. You’ve got your mother’s eyes.” “I get that a lot,” said Harry wryly. He watched in fascination while the living Lily and James chuckled as Remus and Sirius took turns in gingerly holding baby Harry, who slept blissfully through all the commotion, even when Sirius began singing “Good King Wenceslas” at the top of his voice. “That was the best Christmas ever,” stated Lily’s spectre wistfully. “We were so happy, weren’t we, James?” “Thank Merlin Peter wasn’t around,” James muttered to Harry. “He was abroad, or so he says, the lying bast–” “James!” admonished Lily. “Sorry, love.” James looked properly abashed, but he gave Harry a tiny wink. “Anyway, son, we wanted to show you that even though the threat of Voldemort was always there, it never stopped any of us from trying to have as much joy in our lives,” said James. “Yes,” said Lily softly. “Some people thought we were mad for having you while there was a war going on, but what they didn’t realise was that you brought us — Remus and Sirius, too — hope and happiness in those dark times.” “Remember, if you only focus on the negative things, well, you’re letting that poor excuse for a wizard win the battle before it’s even been fought.” James looked at his son keenly. “Do you understand what we’re trying to tell you?” Harry nodded slowly. “I think so.” “Good.” His father smiled at him. “I always knew you’d grow up to be as smart as me.” Lily shot him a disbelieving look. “Oh, all right. As smart as your mum,” conceded James. “That’s all right, love.” Lily patted her husband on the arm. “At least he has your dashing good looks,” she teased. “You got that right!” said James impertinently. Harry looked on as his parents — both the living and the supernatural — showed their affection for each other with gentle banter and teasing. His heart ached just a bit for what could have been, as he watched the living Lily and James smile lovingly at each other over baby Harry’s head, but he was comforted by the fact that they were obviously still enamoured of each other even in the afterlife. “Harry,” said Lily gently, interrupting his reverie. “Dear, I’m afraid we have to go.” “What? No!” Harry protested. “You only got here!” “We’re sorry,” said James sadly, “but it’s getting late and you still have two other visitors.” “Two? But you and Mum–” “Yeah, well, we were sort of a package deal,” explained James with a chuckle. “Kind of like two spirits for the price of one!” “Will I see you again?” asked Harry desperately, as the surroundings blurred once more and they found themselves back in the sixth-year boys’ dormitory. “We’ll always be with you.” Lily blew him a kiss. “We love you, Harry.” “Keep your chin up, son, and oh, tell that little red-headed girl how you feel about her soon, okay?” James raised an eyebrow, winked, and then they vanished, leaving Harry staring forlornly at the spot they had been floating in for a few seconds before his father’s last words registered. “Wait, what?” “Great. Just great.” Harry sat down heavily on his four-poster, feeling both happy and miserable at the same time. “I don’t know if I’m up for more of this stuff.” “Well, now, that’s really too bad,” said a voice behind him. Harry whipped around, his eyes widening with delight when he spied his next otherworldly guest. “Sirius!” His godfather’s shade grinned; Sirius looked loads better and much younger than when he was still alive. Like Lily and James, his form was very distinct and solid-looking for a ghost. In fact, his face looked quite ruddy, and, Harry was amused to note that Sirius was wearing what appeared to be a circlet made of green holly leaves in his long, black hair. “Erm, Sirius, if you don’t mind my asking,” said Harry tentatively, “what’s with the headdress?” “Huh?” His godfather reached up and touched his head. “Never you mind; it’s part of the standard-issue Ghost of Christmas Present costume.” He narrowed his eyes at Harry’s sniggering. “I heard you’ve been quite the grouch lately. What’s wrong, Harry?” Harry instantly sobered up. “I’m sorry!” he blurted out. “It’s my fault you…” “No, it’s Voldemort’s fault. Is that what’s been troubling you?” “Partly,” admitted Harry, “but mostly it’s this whole prophecy thing.” “Lighten up, Harry. It’s Christmas! Your friends aren’t letting old snake-eyes dampen their Christmas spirit.” “They wouldn’t feel so merry if they were in my position,” muttered Harry defensively. “They just don’t understand.” “Oh, I think they do. Let’s go find them, shall we?” Sirius snapped his insubstantial fingers, and Harry was now standing once again in the Great Hall, where the feast was apparently still in full swing. “Didn’t I just leave this place? I thought we were supposed to be looking at Christmas present?” asked Harry a bit sarcastically. “This looks like Christmas Eve present.” “Details, details.” Sirius waved a dismissive hand. “Besides, somewhere in the world, it already is Christmas, right?” “If you say so,” said Harry with a shrug. “I do say so,” said Sirius authoritatively. “Now, take a look at that, Harry.” Professor Dumbledore was leading the teachers, except for a sullen Snape, in a rousing rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, and, as Harry watched, seven swans swimming in a small pond materialised in front of the staff table, joining the cacophony created by six geese, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree upon whose branches hung five golden rings. Harry stared at him blankly. “What? The extremely large mess all these birds are making?” Sirius sighed in exasperation. “Don’t you see, Harry? Even though bad things are happening in our world, people still find it in them to celebrate the joy of simply being alive.” Hagrid’s booming voice could be heard above the racket, his beetle-black eyes closed as he sang the chorus with great feeling. “But they don’t have a bloody prophecy hanging over them like a Lethifold,” said Harry derisively. “They don’t need one,” retorted Sirius. “Every single one of them has as much at stake in this war as you.” He paused and looked sombre. “Every one of them can die, too.” Harry was speechless. Sirius smiled sympathetically at him. “Well, enough of that for now. Where are your friends? Ah, there they are.” Sirius, beckoning a reluctant Harry to follow him, floated over to Ginny, Hermione and Ron. As he approached them, he could see that they were deep in conversation, although Ron was also attacking the plum pudding like there was no tomorrow. “What did you mean when you said that ‘he’ll talk when he’s ready’?” Hermione was asking Ginny. “Don’t you think we should ask him what’s been bothering him?” Ron swallowed a bite of pudding and said, “Ginny’s right. Harry won’t talk if he doesn’t want to. We’ll have to wait him out.” Harry goggled at his friend. When did he become so observant? “I already know what’s wrong,” replied Ginny. “He’s been depressed ever since the Prophet reported those Death Eater attacks over in London.” She bit her lip and looked so bothered that Harry felt guilty for thinking that she — and Ron and Hermione — did not understand what he was going through. He had the strangest urge to hold Ginny’s hand and tell her everything was going to be all right, just to get those lovely brown eyes of hers laughing again. He shook his head. Where did that come from? “I’ve been trying to cheer him up but, well, it just it doesn’t feel like Christmas when he’s so unhappy,” murmured Ginny, gazing at the eight milkmaids who were now squabbling over the five golden rings. “That’s true,” said Hermione, glaring at the nine ladies giggling and waving at Ron, “but if ever there was someone who could cheer Harry up, that would be you, Ginny.” Ron waved cheerfully back, sending the ladies into another round of high-pitched giggling and causing Hermione to huff angrily. “Yeah, Harry’s never happier than when he’s with you, Ginny,” he said. Sirius gave a bark of laughter, causing Harry to stare at him in confusion. “What?” “Oh, nothing. I always did like hanging around Ginny. Quite fun and pretty too, eh?” asked Sirius, smiling meaningfully at him. “Well, yeah, she is very pretty…” Harry’s cheeks grew warm, although he did not exactly know why. Just then, an owl bearing a large, colourfully wrapped package flew through the window and landed in front of a surprised Ginny. Who’s sending Ginny gifts? Harry wondered, something that felt oddly like jealousy pricking at his chest. He thought of his own present for her — a Snitch charm for her bracelet; it seemed pitifully small in comparison to whatever was in this huge box. “It’s from Dean,” said Ginny, reading the card while Hermione gave the owl some bread. It then took off and landed on the pear tree, tilting its feathered head and looking curiously at the partridge. “What’s Thomas sending you gifts for, eh?” Ron asked his sister suspiciously and then looked around in bewilderment at the ten fancily-dressed men who had begun performing a bouncy ballet about them. One bold one, in a dazzling demonstration of gymnastic skills, jumped clearly across the table, only narrowly missing Ron’s head. “Oi! Can someone do something about those bloody lords who won’t stop leaping all over the place? Someone could get seriously hurt around here!” he shouted crossly. “Well, if you must know,” Ginny said as she tore off the wrapper, “he’s asked if we could go out sometime.” She held up a pink cashmere sweater and looked at it critically. Harry privately thought it paled in comparison to the green jumper — wait, was that his Weasley jumper from fourth year? — that Ginny was currently wearing. “What?” roared Ron, standing up and upsetting the wassail bowl. “But — but, what about Harry?” he stammered while a disapproving Hermione siphoned off the spilt mulled cider with her wand. “What about him?” challenged Ginny. “But...” “We’re friends, Ron, that’s all,” said Ginny, an odd catch in her voice. “But...” “Drop it,” snapped Ginny, unceremoniously shoving the sweater back in the box and dumping it on the floor. “Harry’s got enough on his mind without your silly matchmaking. You know perfectly well that he doesn’t feel that way about me.” She gave her brother and Hermione a rather forced smile. “Let’s just try and make it a better Christmas for him, all right?” Something large and heavy had settled uncomfortably in Harry’s stomach at the word ‘friends’. Was friendship all he really wanted from Ginny? He tried to think over the din the eleven pipers and the twelve drummers were making as they marched around the great hall, the teachers trailing gaily behind them. Even Snape was in the impromptu parade, Professors Sinistra and Sprout having taken hold of each of his arms as they dragged him along, happily taking no notice of his struggles to escape. Ginny was fun, beautiful, and understood him more than anyone else ever could. Plus she always smelled fantastic, like something fresh and flowery. She also made him feel better about himself and his stupid destiny just by being there. Harry could not imagine how he would have made it through last term without her by his side, and now, everything was going to change because he had been a blind idiot and she was now thinking about going out with bloody Dean Thomas. He turned and gave Sirius a stricken look. “I fancy Ginny.” “Finally figured that out, eh?” Sirius chuckled. “Time to go,” he said, and the room slowly disappeared, the fading beat of the drums sounding ominous to Harry’s ears. When they were back in his room, Harry exclaimed, “This is a disaster. I can’t fancy Ginny!” He began pacing, waving his arms around in agitation as he did so. “Well, technically, I can, but I can’t!” He stopped in his tracks and pivoted to face Sirius. “Not now. What if Voldemort finds out? I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to her!” “Bollocks,” said Sirius bluntly, ignoring his godson’s theatrics. “Pure, unadulterated bollocks, Harry. Don’t give Voldemort the satisfaction of dictating when and whom you can love. You’re letting him win that way!” he said emphatically. “Your parents certainly didn’t let that wanker tell them what to do, and I’ll be the first one to tell you that they were happy, and they were even happier when they had you.” With an intent gaze, Sirius added in a kinder voice, “Don’t push your friends away, and don’t be afraid to love. You deserve your share of happiness too, Harry. Grab it while you can, or you might end up alone and miserable for the rest of your life.” Harry nodded, chastised. “That’s my boy.” Sirius smiled, his figure beginning to become blurry at the edges. “Come on now, promise me you’ll at least try and tell Ginny how you feel, okay?” “Okay,” said Harry dubiously. “Try being the operative word here. You know my track record with girls.” Sirius roared with laughter. “Right. Well, don’t forget you’re the son and godson of two Marauders, so I have a feeling you’ll do a lot better than you think. Now, I must say my good-byes, but before I leave, I think I should warn you about the next spirit.” Harry looked at him in alarm. “Why?” “Well, if I’d be careful about what you say to her — she’s a bit... sensitive.” And with a last sly chuckle, Harry’s godfather winked out of existence. “She?” Harry repeated to the now empty room. “Mum’s already been here, so that would leave either the Grey Lady or...” “Hi, Harry.” He swallowed convulsively before turning around with great trepidation. “How are you, Myrtle?” he inquired politely. “The pipes are frozen, my U-bend’s blocked, and now Draco has left me,” intoned Moaning Myrtle in her gloomy voice. She looked even more caliginous than usual. “What do you think?” Harry decided it was a rhetorical question. “You’re the final ghost, eh?” “That’s right, I’m the ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, the last spirit,” said Myrtle bitterly, her cheeks glowing silver with resentment. “Poor Moaning Myrtle, always being picked last at everything.” “Um, at least you were chosen?” said Harry feebly. Myrtle went on as if she had not heard him. “Why, when they were selecting players for Gobstones, that mean Olive Hornby made sure...” Harry hurriedly interrupted her litany of woes before she could hit her stride. “Myrtle, aren’t you supposed to show me something?” The gloomy ghost glared at him. “Fine. No one ever listens to me anyway.” She swooped down towards Harry, and when the unpleasant icy sensation of having a ghost go through you passed, Harry was taken aback to find himself standing in the rain in front of a rather run-down Muggle establishment, a chip shop, if the faded sign with ‘A Tale of Two Chippies’ done in peeling black paint was anything to go by. “Erm, what are we doing here, Myrtle?” “Oh, now you’re interested in what I have to say,” she sniffed contemptuously. “Well, you’re just going to have to wait and see, won’t you?” He sighed in resignation and made his way through the entrance. After his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he found that the inside of the shop was every bit as dodgy as the outside, although the owner seemed to have at least made an effort to decorate for the holiday season by pasting some cheap cardboard cut-outs of angels and holly wreaths on the dingy windows. There was even a small, artificial Christmas tree over by one dingy wall, a few brightly wrapped gifts under it. A tinny version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was playing on a portable radio on the counter. However, there was no one around except for an exhausted-looking young man wearing a white Muggle baseball cap. He was wiping down the tables, his movements slow and weary. There was something strangely familiar about the man. Harry stepped closer to take a better look and recoiled in shock. It couldn’t be... “Harry!” Startled, Harry looked up to find who had called his name, before remembering that no one could see him except Myrtle. “What am I doing working in a chip shop?” he demanded angrily of the sulky ghost, who ignored him and went about inspecting a rather ugly stuffed fish mounted on a wall. A grey-haired woman wearing a stained apron came out of the kitchen. The man cleaning the tables straightened up and pushed his glasses up his nose, a gesture that Harry found himself mimicking unconsciously. “You’ve got a letter,” she said, then eyed him closely. “You look peaky. Are you all right?” “I’m fine, Gertrude.” The man who was apparently Harry's older self smiled tiredly. “Just didn’t sleep all that well.” Gertrude clucked in sympathy. “Well, I hope this letter will cheer you right up. I found it on top of the rubbish bin, of all places. Strangest thing, though. I swear there was an owl standing on it right before I picked it up,” mused Gertrude, missing the way that her employee had suddenly stiffened up at her words. She glanced out the window and gave a small tsk. “I ask you, whatever happened to a white Christmas? I know it’s only rain, dear, but still...” She shook her head in dismay before bustling back to where she had come from. The man slowly sat down on a worn chair and stared at the letter for a long time before finally opening it. Harry moved to read over his older version’s shoulder. He became more and more upset with each word that was written in the letter. Dear Harry, Harry had to stop at this point as he tried to wrap his mind around what he had just read. It could not be true, and yet there it was, written clearly in scarlet ink. He had to take several deep breaths before he could continue with the letter. No one blames you for that, Harry, especially none of the Weasleys. Voldemort was solely responsible for every single bad thing that happened that day and we can only be immensely grateful that you finally got rid of him. The other Harry crumpled the letter before burying his face in his hands, his whole posture defeated. Harry looked at him for a while, and then walked up to his ghostly companion, resolve filling his entire being. “Take me back, Myrtle,” he said quietly. “I understand now.” Myrtle paused in her examination of a mismatched set of chipped beer steins, peered at him short-sightedly, before she nodded her head. “All right.” Harry opened his eyes to find out that it was already light outside. Feeling disorientated as snippets of what had been a very weird dream flashed through his mind, he groggily sat up, frowning when he realised that he must have fallen asleep without changing for bed. When he pushed open his hangings, he was surprised to find that he was quite alone in his dormitory; Ron was nowhere to be found, although his bed looked like it had been slept in. Harry made his way to the bathroom and took a quick shower, before making his way back to the still deserted dormitory. As he was putting his annual Weasley sweater over his head (dark blue this year), his eyes fell on the small box on his nightstand — Ginny’s gift — and on the pile of Christmas presents at the foot of his bed, and all of a sudden, the events of last night came rushing back to him. “Oh no,” he said, horror-struck as he recalled his sad future at that appalling little chip shop. He quickly did an about-face and ran down the stairs, only to come to a halt when he saw Hermione and Ron snuggled together yet again on one of the common room sofas. “Harry!” shrieked Hermione, jumping up and hugging him tightly. “Happy Christmas!” “Happy Christmas, Hermione,” he mumbled through her bushy hair. When she released him from her death grip, Harry looked up to find his other best friend smiling at him. “Happy Christmas, mate,” they said at the same time, before they laughed and slapped each other on the back. “Look,” began Harry, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I was such a git for the past few days. It’s just that, you know...” he trailed off uncertainly. “We understand, Harry,” Hermione told him tearfully. “We’re sorrier that we haven’t been there for you.” “No, no!” he protested. “It was my fault. I let all the bad news about Death Eater attacks and Voldemort get me down that I completely forgot that there are still things left to be thankful for.” “It’s okay, mate,” said Ron. “Ginny’s told us what was bothering you, and well, we would have said something earlier, but she told us to leave you alone first.” “Yeah,” said Harry, smiling at his two best friends. “I reckon that Ginny knows me too well.” He looked around for the redheaded object of his newly found affections. “Um, speaking of Ginny, where is she?” Hermione and Ron exchanged knowing glances. “She went to the Owlery,” said Hermione. “She said that she had a letter to send.” “Pig’s useless — the feathery git somehow got hold of some pudding yesterday and now weighs the equivalent of a Bludger,” offered Ron as an explanation. Harry’s insides froze. Was she writing to Dean to tell him that she was agreeing to go out with him? Not if I can help it. “Oh, erm, well, I’ll just go make sure she doesn’t get lost on her way back here, yeah?” he said, edging his way toward the portrait hole. “You do that, Harry,” said Hermione, poker-faced. Beside her, Ron was turning red with the effort of suppressing his laughter. Harry smiled weakly and then exited the common room. As the Fat Lady slowly swung closed behind him, calling out “She’s just left, dear!”, he heard the two of them explode into loud chuckles, but he paid them no mind and dashed down the corridor. When he got to the Owlery, it was empty except for a few school owls and Pig, fast asleep, his little tummy bulging like he had swallowed a Pygmy Puff. Hedwig was not there, and Harry thought that she was probably out hunting. Not knowing if he had missed Ginny or if she was still on her way there, Harry decided to wait just in case she did show up. He leant against the wall, shivering slightly in the drafty room before he remembered to cast a warming charm on himself. As he glanced out of one of the open windows, his eyes caught sight of a small figure trudging through the deep snow. He tore out of the Owlery, startling the owls into flight and sending poor Pig toppling from his perch to land on the floor with an audible thud. Harry ran down the stairways two at a time until he finally burst out the doors of the castle. He paused to catch his breath and scanned the surroundings and was exhilarated when he saw Ginny, her bright blue (not pink! Harry gleefully noted) sweater and the vivid red of her hair standing out amidst the sea of white. “Ginny!” The redhead stopped and turned around. Her face lit up and she waved to Harry enthusiastically, waiting until he made his way to stand before her. Up close, she looked even prettier than he remembered — her cheeks were rosy from the cold and her eyes were bright as she smiled at him. “Hello, Harry,” she greeted him cheerfully. “You finally decided to wake up and join us for Christmas?” “Um, yeah,” he said eloquently. He stood there for a while, just staring at her lovely face, until he realised that she was waving a concerned hand in front of his eyes. “Harry? Are you all right?” He snapped back to attention and grinned at her. “I’m fine. Never better, come to think of it.” Ginny arched an eyebrow before her mouth curved upwards into an answering smile. “Well, I, for one, am glad to hear that.” She glanced back over her shoulder and then looked up at the sky. “I’m going to the lake to give the giant squid some Christmas cookies before the snow really comes down. He likes that. Want to come with me?” “Did you send a letter to Dean?” he blurted out. At her shocked expression, he rushed to explain himself. “It’s just that I’ve been a blind, surly tosser lately and I’ve only realised that now and I really don’t want to end up in a chip shop and have you go off and marry Dean because I was too afraid to tell you that–” “Stop! You’re babbling!” Ginny laughed and held up her mittened hands. “I don’t know who’s told you that I’m writing Dean, but the only letter I sent was a Christmas card for Mum and Dad.” “Oh,” said Harry, feeling rather foolish but also immensely relieved. “That’s, erm, well, that’s fantastic, then.” “And that last part about me marrying Dean in a chip shop...” Ginny shook her head. “I have absolutely no clue what that’s about, but I’m certainly not about to marry anyone any time soon, especially not Dean Thomas. He’s cute and all that, however, I don’t really fancy him as much as I fancy–” Ginny gasped and quickly closed her mouth, looking quite horrified at herself. Harry took courage in the fact that her entire face was now glowing as brightly as her hair and that she refused to meet his gaze. “As much as?” he prompted gently. “Nobody. It doesn’t matter.” Taking a deep breath, knowing that he really did not want to become that awful, lonely person wiping down tables in a greasy restaurant in London, he gently brushed away a stray curl that had fallen across her face and softly said, “Ginny, I’ve been an arse.” “A great, big, enormous, fat-bottomed dimwit,” he continued, taking no heed of her involuntary snort of laughter, “because I’ve been letting Voldemort make my life miserable without him even lifting a finger. However, some people have shown me that life without any joy was a far worse fate than confronting him one last time, and that I should grab my chance at happiness while I can.” He tentatively put his arms around her waist, causing her to look up at him in surprise. Thankfully, she did not pull away. “So, what do you say, Ginny?” She gazed at him for quite some time without speaking that Harry began to grow nervous. “Ginny?” “I hope this isn’t just a pitiful excuse for you to fondle my bum, Harry,” she said matter-of-factly. “What?” Harry dropped his arms as if he had been electrocuted. “No! Of course not! There is no bum fondling going on...” he spluttered, and then glared at Ginny when he realised that she was laughing at him. “You should have seen your face!” she giggled. When he continued to glower at her, she stopped chuckling and pulled at his hands, and then placed his arms firmly around her waist once more. “I was only having a bit of fun, Harry,” she said as she circled his neck with her own arms. “You can grab me — and my bum,” she added cheekily, “any time you want. I’ve always been yours anyway.” Harry smiled, his heart positively bursting with happiness, and slowly bent his head to press his lips against hers. Ginny returned the kiss with equal enthusiasm, and it was quite some time before the cold finally forced them to stop. Ginny sighed with apparent satisfaction. Harry was feeling quite jolly himself. “Happy Christmas, Harry.” “Now it is,” he said, giving her a quick kiss on the temple. “Happy Christmas, Ginny.” “You know, all I ever really wanted for Christmas was you,” confessed Ginny. “Really? But what about the present waiting on my nightstand with your name on it?” Harry sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “Oh well, I suppose Hermione would like it.” “Oh no, that one’s mine,” she said firmly. “Although I do hope it’s not anything pink.” She made a face. “I hate pink. Clashes with my hair.” “No, it’s not pink,” Harry informed her with a grin. “Good. What are we waiting for then?” asked Ginny playfully, tugging at his hand. “Let’s go!” Harry laughed. “All right.” He put an arm around her shoulder, and she put hers around his waist. Together they walked back towards the castle. |
| Reviews 38 |
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