A Hogwarts Christmas Carol

A Hogwarts Christmas Carol

Stab one: Get On With It All Ready

Goyle and Crabbe were dead as doornails. Get over it. The register of their burials was signed by the Headmaster and the chief mourner - the only mourner really - 'Master D. Malfoy'. Hogwarts students from all four houses sent elaborate excuses for their inability to attend the double funeral.

Sorry, Quidditch practice.

H. Potter

O.W.L.s to study for.

H. Granger

As if.

R. Weasley

Got lost on the way to the funeral parlor.

N. Longbottom

This is not to say there were no other attendants at the funeral other than Master Malfoy. The funeral house and burial grounds thereafter were packed. The 'packed house' situation was brought about by Master Malfoy's shrewd business sense. He sold tickets to the double funeral having advertised around the school that for only four Sickles a randy student could attend an 'underground' event that featured BIG BOOBS. The event was a sell out. And no one received a refund of their Sickles, for surely the advertising could not be said to be false for truly, there were no bigger boobs anywhere than Crabb and Goyle.

So it was upon Christmas Eve after the double funeral that Malfoy retired to his Slytherin dorm room. Draco did not remove the names 'Goyle' or 'Crabb' from the dorm room placard, as Draco was too tight to waste a wand wave on the task. Upon this night he was as cold as his features - eyes gray and lifeless as granite, hair as pale yellow as the snows after naughty little boys had pissed upon it, his thin lips blue with a sneer, his walking gait stiff from too tight t-fronts for he was too tight with a Knut to treat himself to a new pair. Malfoy's skin was as white as runny day old Brie cheese with that crusty stuff all over it. Yes, a miserable, witch squeezing, death eating, dark mark worshipping, icicle hearted, Gryffindor baiting, Hufflepuff arse-kicking, Ravenclaw witch pinching... I lost track... and I think I may have repeated myself, hold on... oh yes. Anyway, a covetous young son-of-a-witch was Draco Malfoy.

After the funeral, Draco shut the door to his dorm room and sat by the fire, to enjoy counting the Knuts, Sickles and Galleons he earned by his dishonest endeavors. He counted his earnings taken from his fellow Hogwarts students by the meager flames of the fireplace. The fire was small as Malfoy was too stingy to pay for first class firewood in his dorm room and made do burning the scats of the school owls and the cast offs of the house-elves. No, you do not really want to know what a house-elf cast off consists of.

And there came a knocking at the dorm room, and a rattling of chains and Malfoy was mightily irritated because that damned Peeves was up to no good and you couldn't kill a ghost because he is dead already and more's the pity.

Two large lumps floated through the dorm room door, rattling long chains bound about their arms and legs. The considerable chains were forged of filibuster fireworks, broken Quidditch brooms, stale cauldron cakes, broken Quaffles and dragon's teeth, all wrought in steel.

Malfoy did behold the two lumpy grotty ghosts that were the spectral forms of Vincent Crabb and Gregory Goyle.

And Malfoy did give cry to say, "You idiots can't even get DEATH right? Go back to the graveyard you stupid pillocks."

"Hee, hee, hee," said the visage of Crabb.

"The devil you say!" shouted Malfoy a tremblin' in his anatomies.

"Huh, huh, huh,' said the visage of Goyle.

"Of course I don't believe you are standing before me!" shouted Malfoy. "First of all you two are talking up a storm and that is something that Crabb and Goyle never did. And besides that, my senses are so affected by little things. Only just the other day Blaise Zabini backed me into the broom closet by the Great Hall and after a good healthy snog from that witch or wizard - I can never quite tell with Blaise - anyway after a dashing good shag from Blaise I ... no wait... that is not the story I meant to relate, although, by Salazar's Scrotum, it is a damned good story. Oh well, anyway, I smell more of cement than cemeteries about you two! No... that certainly isn't right... there is more of gravy than grave about you!

"Hee, hee, hee," said the ghostly Crabb.

"I am not obsessed with sex," protested Malfoy, digging a free hand into his trousers. "I am damned near a 'canon Draco', or perhaps there is a bit of 'slut Draco' in me but I AM straight! More or less although only last week I did ingest a modicum of an irresistible poison while trying to make myself invisible but that is another story for another time, and a better author. And what would you know about it? When alive, the two of you had no more brains than some annoying brainless thing. I suspect you are both nothing more but some great quivering blots of sushi settled to do deviltry to me in my upper intestine, or underdone potato settled into rot in the ceacum off my lower intestine, or perhaps a bit of undigested overcooked haggis wedged between my two back molars or perhaps..."

The spirit of Goyle turned translucent green - an attractive shade really - and then promptly threw up.

"And who is going to clean up that mess?" raged Malfoy. "The house-elves are all on strike seeking higher wages because of that idiot mudblood Granger. Now, off with both of you, right now!"

"Hee, hee, hee," said Crabb.

"Rubbish," said Malfoy. "If I haven't time for you two, I certainly haven't time for three more ghosts, no matter how dishy you two think they are. Now out with you!"

"Huh, huh, huh," said Goyle, wiping phlegm from his dead ghostly lips.

Draco sighed. "Blah, blah, blah, yeah, one ghost of Christmas past, one ghost of Christmas presents, and one ghost of Christmas futures? Well the Christmas present ghost sounds friendly enough, one can never have enough presents..."

"Hee, hee, hee," said Crabb.

"Oh, Christmas 'present', not presents? Yes, well, that's different. Well, shag that ghost then. But the ghost of Christmas futures, now we're talking, when the ghost gives me tips on the magical commodities market then I can invest a few Sickles and make a few Galleons ..."

"Huh, huh, huh," said Goyle.

"Damn it! Not futures, just future, like my future then? Rats. Oh well. I don't have time for this. Forget it boys. I'm not going anywhere tonight."

The ghosts of Goyle and Crabb floated out through the door of the room. Malfoy returned to the counting of his Galleons. And when he grew too tired for that pleasurable task, he striped off his clothes and climbed starkers into his four-poster. You are aware that Slytherin do not wear such things as pyjamas, preferring to save a Sickle on the expense of clothing when no one is really around to see them anyway, and if they had someone with them they'd be naked too in any case. Mr. Malfoy fell asleep upon an instant.

In the hallway outside of Draco's room, Goyle said, "We take the time, and use the best etiquette to provide Malfoy with the benefit of our extensive knowledge of the afterlife and he throws it in our faces!"

"Now Goyle," said Crabb. "Malfoy always was a impenetrable, anachronistic throwback to the feudal era when outrageous wealth dwelt alongside outrageous poverty and to expect him to experience significant spiritual growth has always been only an outside chance at best. The philistine, pig ignorant little shite."

"Yeah. Hee, hee, hee," said Goyle

Stab two: The First of Three Spirits

The clock that Malfoy did not own, and which did not hang by the fireplace, rang out 12 o'clock. Malfoy sat bolt upright in his four-poster.

"What the...?"

The bed curtains were drawn back and floating by his bed was a strange figure.

"Moaning Myrtle you pain in the arse, what the fu...?"

"Oh sure," wept the depressed ghost. "Let's all make fun of Moaning Myrtle. She has to take on a second night job as the ghost of Christmas present just to afford the rent so she can live in the u-bend in her toilet." Myrtle floated, her limp pigtails hanging as limp as the holly she wore on her limp... where was I?

"What in blazes are you talking about Myrtle? Ghosts don't pay rent!" fussed Draco.

"Sure we do now. Dumbledore's new policy. The money to pay the house-elves a higher salary has to come from somewhere. This is all the fault of the stupid mudblood Hermione Granger. 'S.P.E.W.' my transparent arse. Galleons don't grow on trees unless you live in that enchanted back alley in Beverly Hills.

"You'll have to give me the address of that back alley later. Where were we? So, let's see, you're the first spirit Crabb and Goyle told me of? Well, go away you fat dead wench." Malfoy shut the bed curtains to block out Myrtle.

Myrtle passed through the bed curtains. "Fat? Oh sure, call me fat! Fat Myrtle, why don't you fling your used skivvies at old fat Myrtle, she's..."

"Look Myrtle," said Malfoy sitting up. "I can't abide by cheery people in the wee hours of the night. So why don't you run along then, eh?"

"Oh sure, make Myrtle run off without finishing her work so she doesn't get paid and doesn't get to live in the u-bend of a toilet anymore! Ha, ha, ha, that's so funny I forgot to laugh," Myrtle floated miserably staring at Draco, big silvery transparent ghostly tears pouring down her face.

"All right, all right! What do you want?"

Myrtle looked startled that she would get to say her main line. She said almost cheerfully, "Rise and walk with me to see Christmas past."

"Kiss my supple white arse," said Draco rudely and pulled the bedclothes up over his head.

"Oh sure, ha, ha, ha! Let's tell Myrtle to kiss our arse when we know her lips would pass right through an arse! Ha, ha, very funny, Ooo see how Myrtle can't even kiss a git's stupid arse, yes let's..."

Draco uncovered his head, reached for and pulled on his dressing gown, made of deep emerald quilted satin trimmed with the belly fur from unborn Tibetan Yeti pups, stitched with gold thread, fastened by ivory buttons hand carved by unbuggered virgin sailors, with large silk tassels hanging from the hood. Draco only wore that dressing gown when he didn't care how he looked.

Malfoy said, "You stop that irritating and incessant moaning. I go with you. Deal?"

Myrtle reached out and touched Draco's nose, and said, "But the touch of your conk and you are uplifted!" Draco rose from his four-poster, screaming bloody murder and the two floated out through the dorm room window.

The world of Hogwarts melted away and they floated before a huge mansion in front of which a few dozen house-elves were participating in what only can be described as mass self-mutilation. All over the place where house-elves ironed their hands, smacked their foreheads with bedroom lamps and watched cinema featuring Madonna. The mansion and grounds were approximately the size of Orlando Disney, Paris Disney and Tokyo Disney kingdoms all pieced together into the happiest place on earth, more or less, after the happiest place on earth that we all know to be Las Vegas on a day the slots are paying.

"You recollect this over-furnished, overly expensive mansion?" inquired Myrtle sobbing.

"Remember? By Salazar's Manky Man-bits, yes I do!" squealed Draco with delight!

Myrtle and Malfoy floated through the front door of the mansion and she released Draco on his own recognizance on the front hall carpet.

"Home at Malfoy Mansion!" shouted Draco gleefully. The smaller mansion that mother had torn down and rebuilt when I was but a child!"

The two walked along the plush hall carpet, so thick their feet were not visible in the depth of the pile. They entered a massive parlor, sized like the hanger for a muggle supersonic jet. By the cavernous fireplace sat a small pale boy, dressed in a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit. The young lace collared wizard endeavored to set fire to a cat's tail through the use of a toy wand.

Myrtle moaned, "Remember, these are but the shadows of things past. They are not aware that we are spying on them, or they'd pitch a fit. See the solitary young wizard, neglected by his parents, and left without adult supervision to torture the family pet."

Draco stood amazed, taken aback by the patheticness and early signs of wickedness in his earlier self. He giggled but only a little bit.

"Yes, Myrtle! Why that child is me as a rug rat! Left to fend for myself because Father and Mother went to the East wing of the Mansion! I was lost and so hungry I was trying to roast and eat Mother's cat!"

Moaning Myrtle's ghostly nose dripped plasma-bogeys she wiped on her sleeve. "Malfoy, why didn't the house-elves find you or at least feed you?"

"Oh, the house-elves hated my guts, wouldn't come near me. Disobedient, bulbous eyed gits. Refusing to serve me. That's why the little monsters were outside of the castle mutilating themselves.

"Let us see another Christmas," said Myrtle.

The room became darker but more luxurious. An older pale child with whitish blonde hair and of nine years sat, tiny on a massive comfy chair by the fireplace. The room held a massive Christmas tree, a giant redwood, decorated with live goblins, tied up with a riot of festive red and green ribbons. The goblins had their mouths fastened with spello tape to muffle their screaming. Massive presents lay festively wrapped, attempted to attack each other under the tree.

A tall and statuesque woman entered the room. The woman was beautiful but her nose was crinkled as though she was not quite sure if she had stepped in something smelly or not. She went to the child, who looked up at her, a sour look on his sallow face.

Myrtle spoke, "A delicate creature. Unfortunately, still alive to this day, and just as big a bitch as ever she was."

"Yeah, Ma is a right bitch all right," said Draco.

The statuesque woman spoke. "Pack your things Draco dear! You're going to visit your father!"

"Oh joy!" shrieked the younger Malfoy.

"Yes, at breakfast this morning your father was in ever so good a mood, having read that a school bus carrying 47 muggle children escorted by 14 muggle nuns and seventeen orphaned muggle kittens overturned on one of those muggle road systems. I was not sure what a bus is exactly, but your father was so happy that the muggles all perished that I was not afraid to ask him one more time if you might visit him on this festive Christmas day and he said yes!"

"Happy, happy, joy, joy!" shouted young Malfoy. To celebrate he kicked a nearby house-elf in its tiny shins.

"Thank you master! May I have another?" shouted the House-elf, rubbing its tiny bum.

"I kicked you in the shins you incompetent!" shouted Malfoy petulantly.

"Yes, Master," shouted the squeaky voiced house-elf. He jumped, rubbed his tiny shin and squealed "OWWWCCCHH!"

"That's more like it, now get lost you tea-toweled git," said the younger Draco aiming another kick at the at the house-elf.

"Do come along dear," said Mrs. Malfoy. "I've had the house-elves pack your things and lunch for you. It's a long way to the east wing and your father hates when we use floo powder. Gets soot on his favorite carpet in his den."

"Mother... if father is in such a great mood, might I actually speak to him?"

"Don't press your luck dear," said Mrs. Malfoy. "Not to put too fine a point on it, I never... um... I never exactly told your father about you. When I was pregnant he thought I was just 'letting myself go'. To this day he still thinks you are an overgrown albino goblin. But I hear there is an orphan muggle child that fell down a well in Wales and is likely to meet an unfortunate end and hence put a smile to your father's evil lips. I suspect we may be able to tell your father that you are his son and heir today. How would that be my popkins?"

"Happy, happy, joy, joy!" said Draco dancing a little jig.

The older Draco Malfoy looked at Moaning Myrtle, tears streaming down his face. "I remember the day. A nuclear plant melted in some foreign muggle country and mother not only introduced me to father, but..." tears streamed down Malfoy's pale cheeks. "I was allowed to kiss his arse. That was a proud, proud day."

"A small matter to make a small obnoxious child so happy."

"Yes," said the older Draco, drying tears as his allergies were acting up.

Stab three: The Second of Three Spirits

Malfoy woke in his four-poster, sitting bolt upright, looking around. "A nightmare. Only a stupid nightmare. He flopped back down on his pillow and snuggle under the covers and the non-existent clock over the fireplace struck one o'clock. Again, Malfoy jumped, sitting bolt upright. A small annoying ghost floated through the bedcurtains.

"Weee! Come here Malfoy you bad boy! Foy, Boy, Toy, Joy!"

Swearing like a goblin, Malfoy jumped out of his four-poster and put on his dark green velvet dressing gown with the platinum 100-count thread Slytherin patch and the Fijian pearl buttons and the diamond cuff buttons. Draco wore the thing because he didn't hold with wearing his good things unless it was Sunday. He looked up and saw that his dorm room had undergone an amazing transformation. The bedposts were bedecked with holly and mistletoe. A great roaring fire blazed in the fireplace as thought every owl in Britain had pooped fire fodder for Draco's express benefit. And the food! Food heaped upon the floor in a great throne of greasy chops, red staining jellies, steaming hot puddings, and... well, come to think on it, it would take a brave person to sit on such a throne. There were several roast oxen, pumpkin pasties the size of couches, great haunches of hippogriff turning over spits, long wreaths composed of sweetbreads of blast-ended skrewts, barrels of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans with the earwax, dirt, and vomit flavors expurgated, great chamber pots full of fresh butterscotchbeer and seething bowls of boiled bangers. At the center of the glorious feast sat a small and annoying figure of a ghost, dressed with holly in his tangled hair and a cigarette hanging from his tiny mouth.

Draco stood staring at the feast in amazement, his mouth watering and drool spilling from his lips. He then looked up and spoke to the ghost of Christmas present. "Peeves, you irritating, nonsensical, piece of offal-filled phantasmagorical material! Get the flippin' hell out of my room or I'll see that Filch throws your supernatural plasma arse out of Hogwarts for good!"

"I'm not Peeves tonight, I am the ghost of Christmas Present! My rent has to be paid too you know, Malfoy you big goy with no joy! Look upon me Malgoy, Maltoy, Malboy and know me better boy!"

"You sodding," but before Draco could finish his fussing, Peeves the ghost of Christmas Present floated towards Draco.

"No wait, let's have a nice bite to eat first before you drag me away from here," said Draco. "Where's the fire? What's the hurry?"

But alas, Peeves, touched Draco's nose and shouted. "Got your conk!" and the two floated above the floor as the chamber and its many wondrous treats disappeared. The two floated through the countryside across moor and meadow and came upon a large house that looked like manky old moist shoeboxes piled on top of each other, leaning over at strange angles like an old dog that no one had the heart to put to sleep. Peeves and Draco floated through a window and Draco immediately burst into gales of derisive laugher.

The kitchen was modest. Ok, it was appalling. The room looked as thought the occupants probably aspired to live in a rusty mailbox in one of the poorer trailer courts, just for the luxury of it. There were bits of festive greenery strewn about the room - a bit of pine cone here, a branch from a shrub there... all right, it wasn't greenery exactly, but it was taken off something that might have actually been green at some point. In a corner stood a Christmas tree bright with ornaments, with gaily wrapped gifts beneath. That is a pushing the truth of the matter a bit...actually in the corner was a penciled but uncoloured drawing of a Christmas tree, and beneath the poorly executed drawing were bits of rubbish wrapped in odd scraps of parchment of an inferior grade.

A frumpy, dumpy witch, dressed in oddly mismatched clothing stood over a long and misshapen table upon which was laid a meager feast. An emaciated roast that looked as though it might have at one point been a fowl, lay on a plate in the center of the table in the place of honor. A jacket potato carefully carved into nine identical pieces lay upon a broken china saucer nearby. There were cracked jelly jars holding brownish tinted water set by the nine plates. There were broken tree twigs serving as cutlery.

"Bill! Charley! Percy! Oh dear...what are the names of the other ones? Uh... Gred? Forge! Shite, that's not right. TWINS get your arses down here right now!"

Draco stood weak kneed with laugher, holding his stomach least he fall down. He kept pointing at things around the room and laughing his head off. "Look at this...HA HA HA HAAAA! The witch has so many blinkin' children she can't even remember their... HA HA HA HAA HA....names....Needs name tags! HA HA HA HA HAA HAA!"

"Oi Mom, where's Dad and Tiny Ron then?" Charlie, a young man in his twenties, as red haired as his goodly siblings, he had a large burn scar on his arm.

"Can't even afford decent medi-witch care to fix up that burn scar? HA HA HA HAAAAA!" laughed Draco.

"Who knows where they are Charlie," said the dumpy witch. "You couldn't have brought a bit of Swedish Short-snout meatballs, or some nice take-out Chinese Fireball dragon home with you could you, you thoughtless prat. Oi! Come on then, Bill, Percy, and you twins! Your father and tiny Ron will be along any minute now."

All of the family had hair flaming red, the same color as the rusty stove in the filthy corner. One by one the boys raced down the creaky staircase and into the kitchen anxious to sit at the 'feast'. The oldest was Bill wore his hair in a long ponytail. His clothing was quite raggedy and lovingly patched by his dear mother. Unfortunately Bill's raggedy clothing was patched with dead road kill hedgehogs, but his mother did stitch the nasty things with love. I'm almost sure of that fact.

The next young man to come down the dilapidated staircase was Percy the twit, and he was wearing a new suit imported from Italy because he got on well with his former wealthy boss from the Ministry of Magic, Mr. Crouch. The two had a nice flat together in Diagon Alley. Percy was a kept wizard.

"Mother," said Percy, "I do wish we could get on with the meal, Mr. Crouch is expecting me back promptly by 9 o'clock when we will be flying to the Riviera to work on my tan.

"No worries Percy," said the good Mrs. Weasley, "and I want to feckin' thank you for your kindness in bringing us a whole flipping potato to go with our meager supper on this blessed Christmas day."

"No bother mother. Mr. Crouch didn't feel up to eating the potato and I was too full after our luncheon at Chez Moneybags, so I thought you might enjoy the potato to add to the feast."

"Yes, Percy you twit," said Mrs. Weasely. "Thanks a feckin, great bloody lot you miserable Knut pinching..."

"Well," said Draco wheezing from all his laughing. "That one Percy seems to have his act together at least. Waste not want not! HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAA!"

Next into the room came the twins, young teens. As the family was poor, and could not afford clothing for all of their children, the twins shared one outfit. Fred wore the tattered polo top, and George wore the tattered trousers with frayed cuffs. Thankfully, Fred's top was quite long and hung to his knees. Unfortunately the poor Fred's well-endowed privates did not end at the knees. On that portion of his anatomy the boy wore a tattered sock, loving darned by his dear mother. You don't want to know what she darned the sock with. Ouch.

A small cherry lipped, rosy-cheeked girl with red hair just as had her mother and the entirety of her family came skipping through the door. "Mother! I want to send an owl to Harry Potter to wish him well upon this day, but I cannot find Errol anywhere! Is Errol out delivering the post Mother dear?"

Mrs. Weasley looked around furtively and motioned for her daughter to approach. "Well dear, you see... Errol died last night."

"Oh Mother!" cried out the young girl. "Have you buried him yet? I should like to say a few words over our dear owl Errol who toiled so long and hard for two hundred and seventy 'owl years' in the service of our little family!"

"Well my dear. As luck has it, we'll be a' burying poor Errol promptly after our Christmas dinner." Mrs. Weasley looked over at the roast fowl over on the table. "Yeah, dear, Errol served us well during his lifetime and looks like he'll be a serving the nine of us upon this Christmas night as well, God bless 'im! Which reminds me, where is that cranberry I've been saving for this special occasion." The good Mrs. Weasely hustled over to a cabinet and reached in to remove a small wrapped package. Opening it she removed a small withered speck of something that resembled a dried currant. "I'll soak this and it will do nicely for our cranberry sauce. Perhaps I can water it down a bit."

Peeves spoke, "Maljoy! How can I get paid for showing you this tender scene if you lie on the floor laughing like that! Get up!"

"They're eating the family owl for their Christmas dinner! HA HA HA HAAA!" Draco rolled on the floor in spasms of total hilarity. "This is TOOOO FUNNY! HA HA HA HA HA!"

"Ah," said Peeves, who was in fact feeling rather peevish, "Here comes the good Master of the house now! He earns but fifteen Knuts a week and all the quill shavings he can gather up out of the rubbish bins in the good town of Ottersnoses. Good Mr. Weasley keeps a secret from his good wife and family, that he was fired from his job at the Ministry of Magic when a certain blonde haired rich bastard of a git boy told his odious, bigot, muggle hating father that the Weasley family flying car rolled onto his foot while he was out taking a walk."

"I limped for a week," whinged Draco.

"The flying car was FLYING, how did it roll over your foot then?" Peeves pointed out.

"Well, it could have run over my foot," fused Draco. "The damned car absolutely did fly over me! I'm nearly sure of that fact!"

"Where can be your precious father then," said Mrs. Weasley sounding a bit shirty. "Bless me if the git isn't late again. Here, hide Ginny, hide!"

The door to the ... house... opened and in walked Mr. Weasely, with his small son Tiny Ron who was about 6 foot 3 inches, sitting upon his shoulder. "Molly my dear! Bill! Charlie! Percy! Fred! George! Um... just a minute, I know there is one more... uh... Ron? No, he's here on me shoulder... Oh, Godric Gryffindor's Gooleys, where is our Ginny?"

"Not coming. The whorehouse where she works over her holidays from Hogswarts couldn't spare her! Shame. She's rather young but if she didn't ply the trade we couldn't afford to have a shite load of children at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had to raise the tuition because they pay the House-elves a living salary. All because of that damned mudblood Hermione Granger. And to think we've allowed that filthy blooded witch to sit at our table and eat boiled dust motes with us like she were our own child like!" Mrs. Weasley dabbed at her eyes with a moldy green handkerchief.

"Not coming?" asked Mr. Weasley who managed to remember what the heck his wife rabbited on about in the first place. "Ginny not coming on Christmas day?"

"I told you she's working today, of course she'll be..."

"FATHER!" shouted the young Ginny leaping out from under Fred's overlarge shirt. "I could not tease you on this of all days Father!" Young Ginny raced and embraced her father. "That will be one Knut for the hug father. For one more Knut you get a kiss too."

"Later Ginny," said Mr. Weasley winking at his goodly, hard working and obedient little daughter.

Draco laid upon the dirt Weasley floor rolling from side to side and laughing and squealing, "I can't take it! It's just too, too flippin' funny! I knew the Weasley's were hard up but this is PRICELESS! HA HA HAA HAA (snort, snort) HA HA!"

"And how did our Tiny Ron behave?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

"As good as Galleons! And better. Except the git fell off his damned racing broom and now he's on crutches until he gets back to school and goes to the infirmary there. We sure can't afford a medi-witch for him at home. And anyway, do you know what our Tiny Ron said at the Quidditch match today?"

"Naw, what then?" inquired Mrs. Weasley.

"Well Molly, our Tiny Ron said, 'Oi Dad! I hope everyone's watching me!' And I asked him why, and do you know what he said?"

"No damn me, get on with the story, what did the git say?" said the good Mrs. Weasley.

"Well, he says, 'I hope everyone watches me upon this Christmas day because at Hogwarts they all watches Harry Potter and I'm sick of it and want some attention for meself I does!'"

"Very sweet dear, now sit, our supper is getting cold."

"HAHAHAAAAAA!" Draco pounded his fists on the dirt floor in total delight.

Arthur Weasley placed his Tiny Ron on a pile of dirty and manky old school books because they hadn't enough chairs. The family faced the feast that lay before them and two or three of them burst into tears of disappointment and the others figuring the cry babies couldn't have much appetite, stole their potato bits and they all had a lovely row.

Mr. Weasely spoke up, "I give you the founder of the feast! Master Lucius Malfoy, new Minister of Magic!" Mr. Weasley muttered under his breath, "stinking shite who fired me."

Mrs. Weasley held her jelly glass high and fussed, "I wish I had that flaming arse-hole here, I'd give that wanker a piece of me mind to feast upon!"

"My dear," said Arthur. "The children... Christmas day...Wait and tell me what you think of them bloody Malfoy rubbish later, all right?"

"Yeah, right," said Mrs. Weasley.

"Stand children," said Mr. Weasley raising his cracked jelly glass. "Let's drink to the bloody health of the whole bleeding Malfoy clan! May their teeth rot in their blondie heads, may their willies fall off and them as not got willies may their nipples turn green and bloody fall right off!

"Yeah right, whatever Dad!" shouted the Weasley Children.

"Father," said Percy in a very self important manner, "I'm not sure that the Ministry of Magic would consider that an actual toast. According to section 137.4 of the Code, it says, 'a toast must be a rectangular or square bit of bread, roasted by close proximity to a flame that has been heated to..."

"Shut the feck up Percy you twit!" yelled all the remainder of the Weasley family.

"HAAAAAA HA HA HA HA!" Draco stood up off the floor and asked Peeves. "So you little git, tell me, is Tiny Ron going ever walk or fly his broomstick again?"

Said Peeves, "I see a vacant seat, in the chimney corner. A third hand, broken racing broomstick, and a very tiny owl without an owner, carefully stuffed with breadcrumbs for Easter dinner. If these shadows remain unaltered by the future, Tiny Ron will go to work for the ministry and likely grow up to be as big a prat as his eejit brother Percy."

"No, no!" shouted Draco. "No! Stop, you're KILLING me here! HA HA HA HAAAA!"

Continued Peeves, who was way past being peeved - he was livid. "Then if Ron works for the ministry he had better do so and decrease the surplus student population at Hogwarts."

"Oh Peeves! I did say something like last week, didn't I? HAHAHA! Damn, me but I'm a hoot!" laughed Draco.

Stab Four: The Last of the Spirits

The ghost floated towards Draco, its long black flowing gowns smelling of graveyard soil, moldy dead bodies and peppermint scented foot powder. The face of the phantom was hidden by a hood from which emitted frosty breath like unto the last breath of a new made corpse.

The spirit held out a finger at Draco.

"Holy Hufflepuff spittle spirit! You are the spirit I dread the most!" whimpered Draco.

The spirit held out a second finger and scraped it along the first, making the unmistakable sign of 'shame, shame, I know your name'.

"Crikey, spirit," said Draco. "Let's get this third rate fan fic over with! Lead me on!"

The spirit moved away from Draco, and floated through the dorm room door and did not cease its floating until it arrived at a painting of a Fat Lady dressed in pink. The spirit and Draco, close behind, floated into Gryffindor Commons.

At a table by the fireplace sat Harry Potter, Seamus Finnegan, and Dean Thomas.

"When did the git die?" inquired Dean.

"Last night I understand," said Seamus. "Hey, did I tell you this joke yet? Why couldn't the Slytherin blonde make ice cubes? He forgot the recipe!"

The three boys laughed and slapped their knees.

"Oi," said Harry, "What do you call a blonde Slytherin with half a brain? Gifted!"

Harry and the other boys burst into further gales of derisive laugher.

"Spirit, asked Draco in an annoyed drawl. "What is this all about? I have to get up early tomorrow. There are girls to pinch and inferiors like these Gryffindor gits to insult. Do we have to watch these pitiful twats swapping inane blonde jokes?"

The spirit slapped its forehead in annoyance and pointed to Harry, Seamus and Dean.

"What'd the git die of anyway?" inquired Dean. " Hey, maybe he died because he drank milk... And the cow sat down!"

The boys laughed so hard they were snorting.

"What happened to the little shite's money? " asked Harry.

"Who knows. Probably left it to buy the Slytherin team all new racing 'Big Flippin' 1000 Special-arse broomsticks'," said Seamus wheezing because he'd laughed so hard. "How do you give a blonde Slytherin a brain transplant ... blow in his ear!"

"But he had enough money to leave all of the Quidditch teams in the world brand new racing broomsticks. Hey, here's another one... How do you get a blonde to laugh on Monday? Tell him a joke on Friday!"

Draco looked at the Spirit. "And this is so damned important for me to hear because...? And who is the wise, rich and most likely highly attractive poor soul of whom these gits speak?"

"Well," said Harry, wiping tears of laugher from his green eyes. "It's likely to be a cheap funeral, because his father is such a damned tightwad and muggle bigot. Doesn't matter though. I don't know anyone who will go."

"Well someone has to go," said Seamus. "I don't mind going if a lunch, two thousand Galleons, a Firebolt 4000 racing broomstick and a big fat kiss on my lily-white Irish arse are provided."

"Say," said Dean, "Why did the blonde Slytherin wash his hair in the sink? That is where you clean all the vegetables!"

The boys laughed, and laughed and laughed.

"Oh, heavens that's funny," said Potter. "You know I haven't told you how he died yet."

"Oh, well I know," said Seamus. "Sad really. Some prat glued a galleon on the bottom of the Prefect's pool and the git wouldn't give up trying to fetch it out and he drowned!"

"This is really in poor taste spirit," drawled Draco with annoyance. "And I'm missing on my beauty sleep. Can't we go some place else? Maybe there's someone that actually gives a rat's bum about this incredibly interesting dead fellow? Hum? Perhaps?" Draco abruptly turned 180 degrees and flipped his right thumb over his back and walked off as though he had a stick up his... but that is another scene from HP COS, you know, the wizard's duel? No? Hum? Perhaps? This ringing a bell yet?

The spirit followed Draco up the steps that lead to the Gryffindor girls dorms. Draco and the spirit stopped to stare in one room with a cracked door, behind which a buxom seventh year Gryffindor witch was disrobing in preparation for going to bed.

"But spirit, you are dead. Why is this incredibly hot bodied bird of interest to you?"

The spirit pulled off its hood, revealing a specter that strongly resembled Professor Snape. "Because you dunderheaded oaf, there's 'dead' and there's 'dead'."

"Professor Snape?"

"No, Professor Severus Snape's long dead twin brother, Professor Snip. Now shut up and come along."

"You think they'd have had time to wash their greasy black hair in the afterlife. I mean, really!" said Draco.

They floated through a dorm door. There seated with solemn face was Hermione Granger. The solitary girl wiped a tear from her eye with a handkerchief. She sat at a desk and turned the pages of a large book. Draco and the spirit moved behind the girl and read over her shoulder.

Dear Diary,

That feckin' albino git had the nerve to call me a mudblood again today. God I hate that little shite. He makes me angrier than runs in my tights and lumps in my porridge or Ron Weasley when he sits looking all cow eyed at me but won't ask me to the freakin' Yule ball.

Hermione turned the page, and took a minute to blow her nose. Tears streamed down her face.

Dear Diary,

That blonde arse-hole made a horrid comment about poor Hagrid today. I slapped the little prat so hard the blonde fell off his hair. I hate him more than I hate eating eggs with the yolks all runny. I hate him more than I hate Ron Weasley when I go to study in the library and he makes stupid comments about how I need to get a life.

Hermione burst into sobs that lasted for several minutes and turned the page of her diary again.

Dear Diary,

That sawed off bit of grey-eyed rubbish had the nerve to call me a bodacious babe and copped a feel as I was passing him in the hall on the way to Transformation class. Ok, well today he wasn't so bad. But I'm still really hacked off at that annoying Ron Weasley.

Now Hermione began to cry as though her entire world had crumbled. The diary slid to the floor with a loud noise.

"So, she must have repented her ill feelings towards whoever that tasteful blonde, grey eyed fellow was and now she is to suffer unrequited love for the remainder of her miserable days which she will undoubtedly spend as a virgin spinster librarian. Is this the tenderness that I asked to see then?" said Draco looking to the specter.

"Oh, why! Oh why!" Shouted Hermione, sounding beyond comfort. "Why? If I'd acted faster, I could have been the one to kill the little shite, but NO! I had to play by the freakin' rules! Someone else had the immeasurable pleasure of gluing that Galleon to the bottom of the Prefect's bath and killing the little blonde arse-hole!" Hermione ran to her four -poster and threw herself down upon it, crying as though her heart would break. "Come to think of it," said the girl stopping her tears for a minute. "I still have time to be the one who gets to kill Ron Weasley."

"The mudblood's mental," drawled Draco. "I could have told you that."

The dorm room disappeared around them. Draco and the spirit apparated in the midst of the Weasley living room back at the Burrow. Molly Weasley sat in understuffed comfy chair. There was a knock at the door. "Come in damn it you big prat, too lazy to open the door for yourself, I swear, if I had an Knut for every stupid thing you do..."

Entered Mr. Arthur Weasley. He unwrapped a threadbare scarf from his neck and said, "I walked there today Molly, my so-called 'good wife'. It did me good to see what a lovely place it is. The lawns green, the flowers growing bright even in the midst of this wretched winter weather." Mr. Weasley burst into tears and sobbed into a corner of his raggedy scarf.

"Now there, there Arthur," said Molly. "What good are tears? If our Tiny Ron couldn't get a job at that nice posh Quidditch club then we'll just have to be happy he got that position with the Chudley Cannons. Don't pay as much but every Knut helps. And his work is honorable, and he learned it at Hogwarts."

"But Molly," sobbed Arthur. "Our Ron is emptying and polishing bedpans, true he learned the trade well, him having polished the infirmary bedpans the hundreds of times he got detention, but..."

"Now Arthur, don't take on so," said Molly. "But no use crying over spilt spittlebeer."

"Molly, if only Tiny Ron could have practiced on a decent racing broom, instead of that piece of second hand crap we purchased for him," Mr. Weasley pointed to a broken racing broom by the fireplace. "If only that were a decent racing broom then Ron might have been somebody! He could have been a contender!" Mr. Weasley burst into tears again and sobbed pitifully.

"Oh for crying out loud," fussed Draco. I've had it. I want to go home. These raggedy arse Weasleys don't care about whomever it was that died. I certainly have no idea who the wealthy, grey eyed blonde with a tightwad, muggle and mudblood hating father, who is unpopular with all the Gryffindors, hated by Hermione Granger and... hey...hang on!"

"Well, DUH!" said the specter. The Burrow disappeared and Draco and the specter stood in a graveyard. The black hooded spirit led Draco to a grave with fresh soil heaped upon it and to a large elaborate white gravestone carved of the finest marble.

"Oh dreadful apparition," said Draco, on the verge of a' wetting himself.

The spirit pointed again to the gravestone.

Draco walked around the gravestone and read the wording.

DARCO MAYFLO

R.I.P.

1981 - 1996

"Whew! It isn't me anyway," said Draco.

The spector slapped its forehead at the incompetence of labor nowadays, and pulled out a wand. One swish and flick later, the lettering on the gravestone rearranged itself to read.

DRACO MALFOY

R.I.P.

1981 - 1996

Draco threw himself at the feet of the specter. "Oh annoying and greasy haired apparition, tell me I can change the course of my life and have some unpaid house-elf sponge away the lettering on this incredibly beautiful and expensive gravestone, and Bob's your uncle, I shall do so! Or I'll give it a shot anyway. So what do you say? Can I? Huh? Is that at all possible, hum?"

The spector threw off its hood and looked at Draco. "You cheated on the Potions section of your O.W.L.s exam didn't you, you little..."

"No one saw me, you can't prove a thing..."shouted Draco, as the world went black around him.

Stab Five: That's All She Wrote

Draco woke with a start and sat up in his four-poster in his dorm room in Slytherin Commons.

"Am I in the grave! It's dark, it's dark," he opened his eyes. "Oh."

Draco climbed out of bed and put on a dressing gown composed of the delicately stitched gossamer wings of castrated Cornish Pixies - the movie subspecies with wings, not the canon species that are wingless - and underlined for modesty with the tanned matched penises of albino Ukrainian Ironbelly Dragons with a nice edging of black silk embroidery thread that spelled out 'HA! Let Us See You Top This Ensemble!' and a few buttons that flashed 'Potter Still Stinks'. Draco raced to his bedroom door and looked in the hallway. An ikle firstie Slytherin half the size of tiny Colon Creepy... I mean, Colon Creevy, walked down the hallway.

"Oi, you, you little cretin. What day is this?" called Draco.

"What? Why Sunday you lousy piece of ..."

"No, you little dipwad! I mean, what holiday is it today?"

"Why Christmas day you nincompoop."

"Then I haven't missed it! Happy, happy, joy, joy!" Draco danced around in a circle and did a cartwheel and a few backflips. "Here boy, come here. Is the very special prize racing broom in Hogsmead that's hanging at the Quality Quidditch Supplies Outlet Store window still there?"

"What? The flippin' racing broom what's as big as me?"

"No you eejit, the one as big as my willie. Yeah the big broomstick you insolent boy, you dimwitted, obstinate boy! I want you to go there and order the very special broomstick sent to the Weasleys of the Burrow on the tab of Mr. Draco Malfoy. Do you hear me or are there chocolate frogs in your ears you little cretin? Here, have the very special racing broomstick sent inside of the hour and there'll be a shiny new Sickle just for you!"

"Oh kiss my ikle Scottish arse you great sod," said the small boy.

"Have the racing broom sent to the Burrow within the half hour and I won't kick your juvenile 'ikle arse' from here to Diagon Alley, got that Skippy?"

"Yes!" the child ran off as though he had wings on his feet.

"Oh," shouted Draco happily, "I am as giddy as one of those Hufflepuff dimrods, as happy as a mindless Gryffindor and smarter than one of those boring book memorizing Ravenclaw! I am quite a babe! A looker! A keeper! I am the bees knees and I am HOT!"

"I have no right to be so happy. But damn it, when I imagine the look of surprise on the Weasleys' faces when the prize 'very special' racing broomstick is delivered to them! I am quite happy! Just imagine when Ron mounts that racing broom and just as he gets it more than twenty-five feet off the ground it explodes into a thousand and one pieces! HA HA HA HA HA HA! I'd give good Galleons to see the looks on the Weasley's faces." Draco wiped a happy tear from his eye.

"Damn me, I am going back to bed. Then I'm going over to Gryffindor and teach that damned mudblood Granger a thing or two and maybe pinch her ikle mudblood alabaster arse into the bargain. Paying house-elves a salary. If that isn't the stupidest thing I've ever heard of in my entire life..." Draco fussed to himself.

Draco was better than his word. He pinched Granger's ikle bum. And to Ron Draco became a nemesis worse than ever before. Draco was a continuous thorn in the side of Harry Potter and.... What? You say this was supposed to end on a happy note with Draco honoring Christmas in his heart and showing love for his fellow witches and wizards? As if. Don't you know anything about the Malfoys?

The End