A Lucius Christmas Carol

 

Karkaroff was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the representative goblin from Gringotts, as well as the assistant headmaster of Durmstrang, McNair of the Ministry of Magic, Nathanial Diggory from the Department of Recordation and Recovery of Records, and the chief ghost, who confirmed that Karkaroff had indeed passed into the ghostly plane. Lucius Malfoy signed it: and Malfoy's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Karkaroff was as dead as a door-knob. Well, not any doorknob - just the sort that have been charmed to remain silent when you approach, not the type that tell you "Turn to the left!" or "Push, you idiot, don't pull!"

I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-knob, as I often disregard their conversational attempts. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmagicary in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Ministry's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Karkaroff was as dead as a door-knob.

Malfoy knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Malfoy and he were cohorts for I don't know how many years. Malfoy was, in an act that surprised even the unsurprisable Severus Snape, named as Karkaroff's sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole residuary legatee. It was not because he was his sole friend or sole mourner, some suspected, but many presumed that Malfoy had a literal hand in the naming. And thus even Malfoy was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent wizard of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Karkaroff's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Karkaroff was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentlewizard rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say the Hogsmeade ramparts for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

But Malfoy was possessed of a tight-fisted mind in discussion of certain topics. Malfoy! a xenophobic, exclusionary, self-important, hypocritical, scraping, demanding and lying control freak! Hard and sharp as Flint, who had a reputation at the Prophet in days of old as the most disingenuous debater on the editorial floor, no wand of his had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and as solitary in leadership as an oyster, yet as likely to be surrounded by sycophants as a mollusk.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks not dampened by either supplicance or fear, "My dear Malfoy, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No witch or wizard inquired the correct flight path to such and such a place, no Muggleborn who knew his face dared ask a favor or apply for a job at the Prophet of any level above messenger, although those who were a few generations removed from such base beginnings might feel secure enough to seek freelance writing positions, of Malfoy. Even the blind wizard's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, Dark Master!"

But what did Malfoy care? It was the very thing he liked. He liked it almost as much as he liked controlling the thoughts of the masses of witches and wizards who partook of his publishings, without consideration for whether the controls he was creating were in fact beneficial or harmful. It was all advertising and publicity, and thus was all good for and to him. He liked it almost as much as he liked Christmas, with the cold air bracing the bodies and hearts of the common wizard on the street, the sparkling decorations that covered the trees and shops and even the houses of Hogsmeade, Godric's Corner, Chipping Sodbury and Chudley. Every boxing day, the Malfoys enjoyed a sleigh ride through the streets of Puddlemere, gazing with appreciation on the stuffs created by Diamond Tod Smiling, a longstanding expert in the field of field circles and fairy decorations.

Once upon a Time - in fact, of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve itself -- old Malfoy sat busy in his office, high above the bustle of Diagon Alley. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go about casting warming spells in the air, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the cobblestones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already -- it had not been light all day: and torches were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable air, and just more than seven feet above the cobblestoned streets, so the owls that flew amongst the flames needed to keep a careful eye on the obstacle course. On this day, none of them would burst into flames from an inadvertent twist in their route. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Malfoy's office was open that he might keep his eye upon his new clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters from public wizards and witches so that their names could be archived among the others criticizing the Dark Lord. Malfoy had deemed that Percy Weasley, this new clerk who had been foisted upon him in recent days, would not receive the usual office attained by even such a recent Hogwarts graduate, with a view of the center of the Prophet office atrium.

A magnificent tree stood there in the center, twenty feet high if it was an inch, and festooned with unmelting icicles, torches that were less than an inch high, and garlands made of twisted sickles that roped their way around the tree, twisting and turning in lovely patters amid the green. The Prophet always had a tree decorated only in green and silver; ornaments of no other color were permitted. Piled under the lowest branches were packages - one for each employee of the paper. And in each box was a flask of potion, privately commissioned from Potion Master Snape's private laboratory - the witches were to receive Snape Balm in Gossip scent, and the wizards would take away a package of Snape Skin, a new beard removing potion.

"A merry Christmas, sir!" cried Malfoy in a cheerful voice to one of his staffers, who was walking amid a group of children who were visiting the Prophet for the annual holiday festivities that cold afternoon. The tradition had begun in the days of Malfoy's father, who appreciated any justification for a party, even amongst babes too young for even their first wand. His mother had asked to suspend it this year, from her cruise ship in the Seychelles as she proposed that the ordinary staffers at the paper would not be enthused about a celebration in what others seemed to think was the bleak midwinter of the first holiday since the Dark Lord had returned to them.

"Bah!" said the staffer, who went by the name of Midgen, "Humbug!"

Malfoy had so heated himself with rapid walking in the fog and frost, and was so full of joy about the upcoming holiday season that this woeful Albert Midgen, only the most recent in a line that stretched back through seven generations of Prophet accountants, faced a Malfoy that was all in a glow; his face was ruddy and delighted; his eyes sparkled, and his breath smoked again.

"Christmas a humbug, sir!" said Malfoy, attempting to spread the holiday cheer. "You don't mean that, I am sure. You have fully enjoyed the holiday in years past."

"I have but I do not," said Midgen.

"Merry Christmas nonetheless!" Malfoy retorted. "What right have you to not be merry? You're settled enough in the Dark Lord's good graces, now that he has returned, as long as you continue magicing those books."

"Come, then," returned Midgen hesitantly, as if forcing himself to speak the words his employer wished to hear. "One truly should be looking forward to the holidays as the Dark Lord has set various celebrations that we have heard about on the lower levels of your gallery below."

Malfoy having no better answer ready on the spur of the moment, said "You!" sternly, "Then you can certainly keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."

Malfoy continued, "there are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas Time, when it has come round -- as a good Time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant Time: the only Time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when wizards and witches seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, sir, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

Weasley in the tank involuntarily applauded.

"Let me hear another sound from you," said Malfoy, "and you'll keep your Christmas by losing your position."

"You're quite a powerful speaker, sir," Midgen added as he moved to return to his station. "I wonder you don't go into the Ministry."

Malfoy returned, as he was wont to do, to the editorial office, to put his last touches on the front page editorial for the Christmas Day front page story, which would appear to each Pure Blood reader as a personalized message from the Malfoy family, wishing each a happy holiday, a delicious Christmas feast, and a promise that with the segregation of Mudbloods away from the grand community of magic folk, there would finally be a Roast Beast in the cooker of every Pure Blood family. Mixed families and Muggleborn readers, however, would simply see an ad for WartMart along the right-hand side of the paper; the advertisement was set to drip snowflakes onto the table for at least an hour.

At length the hour of sending the paper to the press arrived and passed. With an ill-will Malfoy vacated his office, and tacitly admitted the fact to the expectant clerk in the Tank, who instantly snuffed his candle out, and put on his hat.

"You'll want all day to-morrow, I suppose?" said Malfoy.

"If quite convenient, sir."

"Of course it's convenient," said Malfoy, "and despite your family's proclivities for inviting those of Mudblood backgrounds to share in your festivities, I cannot imagine spending the energy organizing something to keep you busy here. So I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier next morning."

Weasley promised that he would; and Malfoy walked out with a smile, filled with joy and hope about the coming year. Finally, after over a decade of waiting, this would be a wonderful holiday.

As he Apparated back to the Manor, he thought back a year, to their Christmas amid the Yeti, then along the Christmases prior - all good fun, all filled with seasonal treats and grand celebrations and tonnes of presents for Narcissa and Draco - the one day each year when he knew she wouldn't drink to much and the boy would pay particular attention to his father's concerns. On his return, the fog and frost so hung about the black old gateway of the house, that it seemed as if the Genius of the Weather sat in meditation on the threshold, and that his object of contemplation was the knocker on the door which all, even Malfoy himself, were noted by upon arrival to the Manor. Once inside, he would be able to Apparate around, but first, the threshold to this, his house, would have to be crossed.

Now, it is a fact, that there was nothing at all particular about the knocker on the door, except that it was very large, and that it had a nervous habit of twitching what would, if it had a face, be its nose at women who entered unescorted, trained, as it had been, by a House Elf in 1893 who was unnaturally possessive of her owner's son. It is also a fact that Malfoy had seen it, night and morning, during his whole residence in that place. Let it also be borne in mind that Malfoy had not bestowed one thought on Karkaroff, since his last mention of his six months' dead cohort that afternoon. And then let any wizard explain to me, if he can, how it happened that Malfoy, having his hand on the knob of the door, saw in the knocker, without its undergoing any intermediate process of change -- not a knocker, but Karkaroff's face.

Karkaroff's face. It was not in impenetrable shadow as the other objects in the yard were, but had a dismal light about it, like a bad lobster in a dark cellar. It was not angry or ferocious, but looked at Malfoy as Karkaroff used to look: with ghostly spectacles turned up on its ghostly forehead. That, and its livid colour, made it horrible; but its horror seemed to be in spite of the face and beyond its control, rather than a part or its own expression.

As Malfoy looked fixedly at this phenomenon, it was a knocker again.

To say that he was not startled, or that his blood was not conscious of a terrible sensation to which it had been a stranger from infancy, would be untrue. The knocker had a certain patina, it did not change with the seasons or with moods and trials as others did; it was an old part of Malfoy Manor and it served its purpose well. But this - this was a true circumstance of unexpectedness, and it made Malfoy pause, with a moment's irresolution, before he shut the door.

The fireplace was an old one, built by some Dutch merchant long ago, and imported at low expense by a Malfoy who had an affinity for Delft. It was paved all round with quaint Dutch tiles, designed to illustrate a selection of Muggle stories, but as the glazing was wizarding, the images moved amid their tiles. There were Pharaohs' daughters; Queens of Sheba, Angelic messengers descending through the air on clouds like feather-beds, hundreds of figures to attract his thoughts -- and yet that face of Karkaroff, seven months dead, came like a rusted and rutted cauldron, and swallowed up the whole into its dank belly of brew.

Malfoy pulled a parchment, quill and ink from the table beside his chair, and commenced creating notes for the speech he was to give at the festivities the next day. A special guest was to be in attendance, his identity masked to the other guests until the proper time by a red suit and white beard. He had even procured a belly that shook when its wearer laughed, like a bowl full of jelly. Malfoy wondered casually if certain of the guests would not leave the Manor in the same condition in which they arrived, then gave the matter a moment more thought and concluded that yes, they would, especially those crazy Parkinsons.

After several drafts, he stood up again and began to pace the room. In the silence of the Manor's rooms, he heard an unexpected clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine cellar. Malfoy was horrified at the sound - the ghosts in the Manor were all forbidden to make distracting noises with their chains, except on Halloween itself.

A door to a distant room flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door.

" Quiet yourself!" Malfoy shouted. "This is not the time for such annoyances!"

His colour changed though, when, without a pause, it came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes. Upon its coming in, the dying flame leaped up, as though it cried, "I know him; Karkaroff's Ghost!" and fell again.

The same face: the very same. Karkaroff with his spindly beard, usual dark robes, pointed hat and boots; the tassels on the latter like the hair upon his head. The chain he drew was clasped about his middle. It was long, and wound about him like a tail; and it was made (for Malfoy observed it closely) of anchors, ships masts, and other items of a nautical bent, all wrought in steel. His body was transparent, so that Malfoy, observing him, and looking through his waistcoat, could see the two buttons on his coat behind.

Malfoy had often heard it said that Karkaroff had no heart, but he had never believed it until now.

No, nor did he believe it even now. Though Karkaroff looked the phantom through and through, and Malfoy saw it standing before him; though he felt the chilling influence of its death-cold eyes: he was still quite angry, and strove not to fight against his senses. He despised being near ghosts; the sensation of being plunged into a bucket of ice water was one he tried to keep to a minimum. Thus he tried to remain as distant from the spectre as possible.

"How now!" said Malfoy, caustic and cold as ever. "What do you want with me?"

"Much!" -- Karkaroff's voice, no doubt about it.

"Who are you?"

"Ask me who I was."

"Who were you then?" said Malfoy, raising his voice. "You're particular, for a shade."

"In life I was your fellow Death Eater, Igor Karkaroff."

"Can you -- can you sit down?" asked Malfoy, looking doubtfully at him.

"I can."

"Do it then."

Malfoy asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so laden down with shipping accouterments might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.

"You don't believe me," observed Karkaroff.

"I do," said Malfoy. "I must. But how did you come upon the Manor, when the only ghosts who are allowed within its walls are those of Malfoy blood and..."

"And those who died on its grounds," the Ghost returned, causing Malfoy's face and manner to pale. "I am prevented from doing as all wizards wish to as they undertake the next great adventure, and cannot travel far and wide. Instead, I have now completed my training at the -shire School of Ghosting and Haunting, and have been tied to this Manor, to this place of my death, to accomplish goals that even I know are far and unattainable. The spectre raised a cry, and shook its chain and wrung its shadowy hands.

"Oh, do shut it. I find the noise self-aggrandizing and ill mannered. I knew you were a git and a hypocrite when you said to my face that I should present the facts we agreed to, then created a whispering campaign to discredit me behind my back. Tell me, why are you here, to spoil my holiday, our party plans and my sole relaxation period? Will you be attending the feast tomorrow as well? I shall have Anton add an extra chair in the dungeons for you, if you promise not to bring those horrible chains."

"I must wear the chain I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you? Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, even those months ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!"

Malfoy glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing.

"So, then, am I to wrap the chains in tinsel and dance a gavotte from now 'til next Solstice Eve?"

"Perhaps; I have no assurances to give," Karkaroff replied and clanked its chain so hideously in the dead silence of the night, that the Ward would have been justified in indicting it for a nuisance. Malfoy, of course, wished he had the chance to do so, but it would be ill mannered to use his wand to cast out the ghost of one who had died on Manor grounds; he would get a reputation in the spirit realm that he did not seek. He searched his mind for a reason to entreat Karkaroff to leave, so he could get on with his speechwriting duties; he was glad that this recitation was not one that he trusted to that Weasley clerk.

"Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," continued the phantom, "I have learned over the past months that the common welfare was to be my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence, all. At this Time of the rolling year," the spectre said "I suffer most. Why did I walk through crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, ashamed of the face I hid behind a mask when I ventured forth on destructive missions and activities with you by my side?"

Malfoy was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, as he had a plethora of other projects to accomplish that evening. He wanted to sneak into Narcissa's quarters and see what presents she had hidden for him, tuck coal into each of the elves' parcel-bags, which they hung every year as replacement for the stockings none of them owned, in desperate expectation of gifts and scarf down at least a half dozen of the sugarquills that had been set aside for the children at the party.

"Hear me!" cried the Ghost, calling his mind back to the present. "My Time is nearly gone."

"I will," said Malfoy. "But be quick about it, sir. I have many more important and festive things to do with my time than listen to the likes of you."

"You will be haunted," resumed the Ghost, "by Three Spirits."

"Yeah?" Malfoy asked shortly. "So?"

"This is to be the chance and hope you need, Mallfoy," Karkaroff started in a faltering voice.

"It is?" Malfoy replied in a bored drawl.

"Without their visits," said the Ghost, "you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first within the hour, and the others will follow in quick succession."

"Will I be done with this nonsense with sufficient time for me to draft the balance of my speech before the guests arrive? You know how I hate to be pressed to a deadline when I have an important writing project to get out of the way."

The ghost did not reply with a specific answer, which frustrated Malfoy to no end. "Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us!" He disappeared into the floor in the way that ghosts so often did, and Malfoy was not displeased, as he had nothing further to say to the apparition.

Malfoy had never heard of a ghost being ordered to send messengers and visitors before, at least not in such a context, and decided to pass it off as a momentary antagonism by Karkaroff against himself. Perhaps the spirit had gotten into some spirits that only spirits could partake of? He returned his thoughts to his parchment and wrote a few more invigorating lines about the need to remove insidious Muggle influences from common entertainments. He did not spare a glance to his mantelpiece, where the celestial clock was setting to chime the presence of the moon in the seventh house and Jupiter's alignment with Mars.

"Ding, dong!"

The curtains of the window were drawn aside by a pair of hands, and then the undersheers were pulled aside by another pair as Malfoy, starting up into a slouched attitude, found himself face to face with the unexpected visitors who drew them: as close to it as I am now to you, and I am standing in the spirit at your elbow.

The pair were strangely garbed for ghosts, clad not in the styles they wore when they were killed, as was common among modern spirits Each wore a tunic of the purest white, and round its waist was bound a lustrous belt, the sheen of which was beautiful. It held a branch of fresh green holly in its hand; and, in singular contradiction of that wintry emblem, had its dress trimmed with summer flowers. But the strangest thing about it was, that from the crown of its head there sprung a bright clear jet of light, by which all this was visible; and which was doubtless the occasion of its using, in its duller moments, a great extinguisher for a cap, which it now held under its arm.

He recognized their faces in an instant.

"James, I thought you swore never to darken my doorstep again, in that or any other lifetime. And Lily, you've been banned from this place since my son's naming ceremony."

"Oh, have I been banned? I seem to be able to circumvent the blocks you've put in place in your attempt to rewrite the past."

Her voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

"Why the hell are you two here?" Malfoy demanded. "Am I going to need to have another table brought out for tomorrow? Why am I inundated with gate-crashers?"

Lily exchanged an uneasy look with James. "We are the Ghosts of Christmas Past."

"Long Past?" interrupted Malfoy. "Recent Past? Just Times Past in general?"

Lily spoke again. "No. Your past."

Most put out, Lucius then made bold to inquire what business brought them here.

"Your welfare," said the Ghosts.

Malfoy expressed himself much obliged, but could not help thinking that a night of unbroken rest would have been more conducive to that end. James Potter shot a disgusted look at his phantom wife, and said, "Your reclamation, then. Take heed."

They put out strong hands as they spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm.

"Rise. And walk with us." With a motion to swift for Malfoy to properly catch, James Potter twitched Malfoy's wand from his robe pocket and it disappeared into his own garb. Malfoy was impressed - it was unusual for ghosts to have the corporeal power to move things in the physical world.

It would have been in vain for Malfoy to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; their grasp, though gentle as a witch's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Potters made towards the window, clasped his robe in hesitation.

"I am mortal," Malfoy remonstrated, "and liable to fall without my broomstick or wand."

"Bear but a touch of your hand there," said Lily, laying his hand upon her heart, "and you shall be upheld in more than this."

As the words were spoken, they passed through the wall, and stood upon the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, but they did not see the stores as they had been earlier that day; instead, Quality Quidditch Supplies was promoting the cushioning charms of what they called the "Newly Released Shooting Star", and dragon liver was only seven sickles an ounce.

The sign over one of the shop windows read The Daily Prophet and the legend below noted that they featured "Lots of News To Read."

"Good Heaven!" said Malfoy, his left hand bestowing an inquiring squeeze to Lily's insubstantial bosom. The phantom moved away quickly, looking offended. "I was practically bred in this place. I was a boy here."

The Potters gazed upon him curiously. Malfoy was conscious of a thousand odorous floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long, forgotten.

"Your lip is trembling," said James. "And what is that upon your nose?"

Malfoy muttered, with an unusual catching in his voice, that it was a pimple; and begged the Ghosts to lead him where he would.

"You recollect the way?" inquired the Potters.

"Remember it!" cried Malfoy with fervor -- "I could walk it blindfold."

"Strange to have forgotten it for so many years," observed the Potters. "Let us go on."

They walked through the door of the Prophet building, and as Malfoy had recollected, soon a wide interior opened up to him: marble stairs leading up into dimness, fountains filled with splashing wine, and everywhere the decorations and music that let the newcomers know that a holiday gala was in full sway. A red carpet had been placed down each flight of stairs, and they merged together in a blood-coloured puddle in the entrance, then led through the door and onto the street. Outside, there was assembled a large crowd of sightseers, whose interested and admiring faces were illuminated by two flambeaux which burned at either side of the entrance.

When the offices had been constructed, they had been done so the giant editorial room could become a ballroom with little effort. A second set of stairs led to the grand room, which was just below street level, and another set, almost as glorious, led to the upper rooms, where certain of the offices were stationed.

All the witches and wizards who passed gaily dressed through the rooms were in great spirits, and shouted to each other, until the walls fairly shook with the sounds of their gaiety, causing Malfoy to glance around in disquiet.

"These are but shadows of the things that have been," said the Potters. "They have no consciousness of us."

The jocund revellers came and went; and as they did, Malfoy knew and named them every one...and of course noted the blood purity of each of their families. His parents, of course, did not have the same level of commitment to including in their social circle only those with sufficient generations bereft of Muggle influences and blood, unless superceded by other qualities that Lucius himself deemed worthy of incorporation.

The Notts were there, the Parkinsons, the younger members of the Bones family, Karkaroff's annoying brother in law Steve, even Vestigius Black... "Why do you show me this?" he demanded of the ghosts. "If it is an attempt to surprise me into some show of regret, it will fail. I quite enjoy Christmas parties...they are an excellent opportunity to lord it over minions and greet old friends, all the while reminding them who's best - and richest."

The ghosts ignored this sally. "The upper rooms are not quite deserted," said the ghost of Lily. "A solitary child, neglected by his parents, is left there still."

Malfoy said he knew it. And he glared.

They looked into the gala celebration and spotted a handsome couple of some thirty years standing at the head of the staircase to welcome those guests who passed from the hall on their way to the ballroom. The man was very grand in slate-gray robes, the woman a gracious blonde. All the guests of importance paid their attentions to the pair as they moved to the grand room where the strains of the "Macho Wizard" drifted in from the ballroom itself, the robes of the young couples and singletons being admirably set off by the verdant green walls, the slender white pillars capped by gold acanthus leaves and the banks of dark green foliage which decorated the alcoves of the room.

During a pause from their efforts in greeting their guests, the hostess said to her companion, "We've combined two of the essentials for a successful ball (too many guests in a smallish room)."

He noted with pleasure the "elegance and lavishness of the supper tables and the sober richness of the appointments", and she then reminded him that most of the people who were present knew each other slightly.

"All the ingredients for success were present and success has been achieved."

"There's only one person who doesn't seem to be having the most wonderful time," the wizard pondered, surveying the scene. "He hasn't had a thing to drink, and appears almost unsure of himself, whispering into corners in a manner I have never seen on him in the office."

Xanthippe paused and considered, "Well, what do you expect? He's Muggle-raised, spent all his holidays at that drafty, empty school. He's probably never seen something like this in all his days."

"Perhaps we should put him to work then, instead of fretting like this. I would rather concern myself with my true guests, not a staffer who is here simply because he's rather good looking, and I had hoped he would speak with some of the exchange witches from Beauxbatons. Instead he merely wishes to chat with Gevenieve Weasley," Julius added with a sniff. "How I do despise Weasleys!"

"Oh, there is no harm in the Weasleys. They are merely tedious," said Xanthippe, adding with an exclamation, "Look, Julius, there he is!"

Malfoy and the Potters turned to look where she indicated, and Malfoy felt his eyes widen, so surprised was he by what he saw. There, standing beside a Fluttering Fern, was a tall wizard. His hair was midnight black, as were his robes, and he was in the full flush of his youthful handsomeness, for he could not have been more than one-and-twenty. Beside him stood a young witch with flaming red hair, and together they appeared lost in some private and amusing joke.

"Merlin's Beard!" cried Malfoy with a laugh, "It is the Dark Lord - Tom Riddle that was. How young he appears, I should hardly have recognized him. Indeed having red eyes and skin like green parchment makes a difference to the look of a man, though I had not thought much on it before."As the Malfoys senior approached Tom and his companion, Malfoy and the ghosts followed on their heels, Malfoy still with a look of amazement and surprise. "Young Tom!" cried Julius Malfoy, bestowing a hearty handclasp upon the black-robed wizard, "Why, Tom, Happy Christmas to you, a very Happy Christmas."

"And to you Sir," replied Tom, his voice melodious and even.

"And young Miss Weasley, congratulations upon the news of your engagement to Ruben Starkadder..." Julius sounded intrigued. "Or was that announcement premature?"

With a glare and a muttered aside to Tom, the red-headed witch swept as the Malfoys and down the stairs. Tom watched her go without expression.

"Tom," Julius continued. "I hate to draw you from the festivities, but you are my most promising young reporter and I had a very special task for you this evening, a very special and significant task..."

Tom's dark eyes were alight with interest and consideration. "I put myself at your service, Mister Malfoy...whatever you might require. Shall I arrange for an encore presentation of the Flying Elephant Parade along the street to remind the populace of the extravagances that the Prophet has sponsored this past year?"

"No, nothing that requires you to venture outside in your green and silver scarf, my young friend. No, in my private office on the third floor, there is something I need you to attend." Tom nodded and looked eager to embark on whatever project his employer required. "My son Lucius is there; he is a shy and meek child, and we brought him tonight in hopes of drawing him into conversations with some of the other children here, including Celeste Hawk-Monitor and the Hart children, but he has expressed extreme disinterest."

"Julius, he had a fit and smashed three dancing ornaments."

"Not in front of the staff, dear," said the elder Malfoy sternly, turning back to Tom and noting that "there are puppets in there, for his amusement. You can put on a show!"

"You wish me to babysit?" exclaimed young Riddle with a countenance of the deepest disgust.

"He is hardly a baby, he is nine years old," began Xanthippe with some animation, but Tom interrupted her.

"Of course he is, I have much experience with children myself, having been a caretaker to the younger children in the orphanage in which I was raised," Tom said, "And as in everything else, I am your servant in this matter, Mister Malfoy," and he executed an elegant little bow.

As he ascended the stairs, Lucius Malfoy and the ghosts heard the elder Malfoy say, "What a considerate young man," as he and his wife returned to the gay festivities. After the happy couple had disappeared from view, Tom paused a moment before ascending to Mr Malfoy's office and spoke to his invisible audience, his face wreathed in glee.

"This errand might have had all the earmarks of a tedious chore, something they would only force upon a poor orphan, fathered by a worthless Muggle. Only I can turn this moment to an advantageous end. I will snake my way into young Malfoy's confidences, gauge his talents and interests, and become his most trusted advisor. What is a decade of waiting, if it serves to accomplish one's dearest goals?"

As he dashed up the steps, he laughed to himself, "Mwahahaha."

"So you see, he never cared for you at all," Lily Potter spoke for the first time since they came across the younger incarnation of the man who murdered her. "His affection was all for your station, your connections; he sought from the first to mold you into his..."

"His most trusted lieutenant!" Lucius Malfoy interjected. "The man behind the power! The wizard who..."

The hall dissolved at a gesture from James Potter, who said nary a word as they went, the Ghosts and Malfoy, to an office at the top of the building. It opened before them and disclosed an opulent, garish room. The torches were all tucked into streamlined sconces and the desk and bookcases were all inlaid with onyx and malachite. The floor was marble, save for a carpet towards the western window which hovered almost two feet off the floor, and which was topped by a fully stuffed set of green leather armchairs and an ottoman. In one of these a lonely boy sat curled up on the seat, almost hidden behind a large book, was a young boy dressed all in green, from the soft cap atop his fine blond hair to the suede shoes that dangled over the side of the seat. There was a polished savour in the air, a chilly sumptuousness in the place, which associated itself somehow with too much getting up by candle-light, and far too much to eat.

Malfoy sat down upon a form, and gaped to see his poor forgotten self as he used to be.

Not a latent echo in the office, not a note of the songs played in the ballroom below or the scrape of the chairs to and from the supper tables along the halls, not a sigh among the leafless and fairyfilled boughs of the imported palm trees that faced the offices, not the idle swinging of the swings in the festively festooned yard behind, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Malfoy with a nostalgic influence.

The Potters touched him on the arm, and pointed to his younger self, intent upon his reading. Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, Malfoy said, in expectation for his former self, "Lucky boy, he is about to be shown the secrets of the world!" and glared again at the accompanying ghosts.

Tom moved quickly across the floor, and with his long legs was able to stand face to face with the boy in the chair. However, the child did not move the book, and none of the observers, those visible and those not so, were able to see his face.

"Epicyclical Elaborations of Society? Excellent book, Lucius! I read it my first year at Hogwarts myself," Tom said in a voice devoid of pretense and malice.

"He's dripping with pretense and malice," Lily observed, sotto voce, to her late husband.

The young Lucius ignored all the speakers, as did the adult one. One was too absorbed in what he was reading, the other too absorbed in watching the intent young face of the man who would become the Dark Lord. Tom tried again to get young Lucius' attention with the promise of a puppet show, then when there remained no response, looked to reconsider his approach.

"You don't seem interested in childish things like puppets. Perhaps some of the sugarplums from the tray," he asked, gesturing to the silver platter a House Elf had delivered shortly before, "or would you prefer a timbale a la milanaise or beignet de cervelle?"

"I would like to be left alone to read in peace!" cried the boy in a shrill and ill-tempered tone. "Confections do not tempt me; it is spells which hold my interest."

"And which spells fascinate you, young Lucius?" asked Tom in a caressing tone. "Should you like to know how to raise and control the most powerful of monsters, or how to turn the basest of materials into..." Tom looked ill for a moment, "Sherbet Lemons?"

The boy's eyes widened. "Oh, yes, I should like to know that."

"The truth is," added Tom confidingly, "that when you attend Hogwarts, as I did, young Lucius, all paths will be open to you...and while there will be much to be learned from your fellow Slytherins (for I am sure you will be among the inhabitants of that most noble of Houses), there is even more power to be gained in the library." All Lucius' attention was on young Riddle now, and Tom leaned back, smiling, as he spoke. "I have always said," he continued, "that one of the most powerful tools at any wizard's disposal is a really...good...book..."

Riddle's voice began to fade as, with an awful smile, the ghost of James Potter again raised his hand, and the opulent room faded away into mist, as James' voice took on a misty tone, saying, "Let us see another Christmas!"

Malfoy's former self grew larger at the words, and the room became a little darker and more dirty. The panels shrunk, the windows cracked; fragments of plaster fell out of the ceiling, and the naked laths were shown instead; but how all this was brought about, Malfoy knew no more than you do. He only knew that he was looking upon a place he had never seen, a tumbledown of dull red brick, with a little diricawl-surmounted cupola, on the roof, and a bell hanging in it. It was a large house, but one of broken fortunes; for the spacious offices were little used, their walls were damp and mossy, their windows broken, and their gates decayed. Fowls clucked and strutted in the stables; and the coach-houses, sheds and area around the moat were over-run with grass. Nor was it more retentive of its ancient state, within; for entering the dreary hall, and glancing through the open doors of many rooms, they found them poorly furnished, cold, and vast. A pair of boys stood in the yard, puzzling over some creation.

Malfoy looked at the Ghosts, and with a casual toss of his head, glanced with a bored look towards the door. It opened; and a little girl, much younger than the boys, came darting out, and putting her arms about their necks, addressed them as her "Dear, dear brothers." After a few minutes' conversation, another voice was heard from the house.

It was a familiar and most hated voice, but in this moment contained none of the loathing which had grown through the decades between Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy.

"Yo ho, my boys!" said Weasley. "No more projects or plays to-night. Christmas Eve, Christmas - they are here, you are home, and we are to celebrate. "Clear away, my lads, and let's have lots of room here. The Hawk-Moniters will be here shortly, and we have suppers to organize. Hilli-ho, Fred! Chirrup, George, and search for the others, Tiny Gin!"

Clear away! There was nothing they wouldn't have cleared away, or couldn't have cleared away, with their father looking on. It was done in a minute. Every movable was packed off, as if it were dismissed from the gardens for evermore; the air was charmed to be full of warmth, the torches were hung from the branches with care, the tree walked through the door and took up residence in a corner by the house, where it was still easy to see the clearly hand made ornaments that decorated its greenery; and thought they were outdoors, because as Malfoy supposed there was not enough room in the house's public areas to hold such a number of people as this, they were as snug, and warm, and dry as could be, and it was as bright a ball-room, as you would desire to see upon a winter's night.

Out came a lad with a fiddle and a music-book, and went up to the lofty desk, and made an orchestra of it, and tuned like fifty stomach-aches. Malfoy realised in an instant that it was a years-younger version of his own new clerk, Percy Weasley! Out came Mrs Weasley, one vast substantial smile. Out came the other young Weasleys, including that tall brat who was in the same year at Hogwarts as Malfoy's own Draco. It was clear that they hoped they looked beaming and lovable, but all Malfoy could see was cheapness of their robes and the shabbiness of the linens, and the inferior cuts of meat on the table. They were clearly having the cheaper chicken and not the veal.

There were dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a shabby piece of Roast Beast, and mince-pies and a pumpkin pie that was ignored by all, until the youngest, the girl they called Ginny, brought it back into the house, as if it held no interest for this one big happy Weasley family, and there was a tankard of Butterbeer for each child in attendence. But the great effect of the evening came after the Beast, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind! The sort of wizard who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him!) struck up a version of the old, hoary chestnut Could It Be Magic?" Then old Arthur stood out to dance with Mrs Weasley. Top couple too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pair of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

Throughout the scene, Malfoy was led by the Potters to overhear various conversations. Mad Eye Moody was castigating the Ministry to the eldest Weasley boy, complaining of their lack of interest in tracking Dark wizards; Malfoy chuckled and wished that he had heard such things years prior, as he would've avoided certain entanglements by Ministry forces. Clive and Michelle Bones were bemoaning their daughter's expectation of receiving her Hogwarts letter in the coming year, as they had not allowed her far from their sight since Death Eaters killed his parents over ten years before, and others agreed that the shadow of You Know Who was still upon them, though nearly ten years had passed since his last appearance. Arabella Figg, in her rare respites from the dancing, muttered worriedly to anyone who would listen about a boy who she babysat for on occasion, but found few listeners, as nobody wanted to hear about a Muggle brat.

During the whole of this Time, Malfoy had acted like a wizard out of his wits with boredom. He had never seen such a dull party in his life; in festivals at the Manor, or when he played the role of host elsewhere, if things were so insipid, he would order dancing girls to enliven the event, or arrange for transfiguration specialists to alter the decorating scheme on the spot or create gifts out of cocktail umbrellas for the guests. Parties were chances to be away from children; even Draco rarely attended anything beyond a cocktail hour where his parlour tricks were useful in one-upping the other parents. Here, the children ran wild, flying their broomsticks amid the crowd, which would've been dangerous if their parents could've afforded a reasonably zippy thing amongst them, but as it was, all the guests, including the elderly lady with one eye, were able to get out of the brats' way with ease. Each conversation he overheard was full of regret, sadness and tragedy and bereft of the political intrigue and gossip that made his parties the talk of the wizarding world. He didn't even pick up any useful information, and was actually puzzled as to why the Potters were encouraging this eavesdropping.

The Potters responded by signing to him to listen to the guests' words as they poured out their hearts in praise of the Weasleys: and when he had done so, said,

"Why! Is it not! He has spent but a few pounds of your mortal money: three or four perhaps. Is that so much that he deserves this praise?"

"It isn't that," said Malfoy, heated by the remark, and speaking unconsciously like his former, not his latter, self. "It isn't that, Potters. Weasley, and the others here, bemoan a fate they chose for themselves, and it's identical to the one both of you knowingly took. My master has the power to render us - any witch or wizard - happy or unhappy; to make our service light or burdensome; a pleasure or a toil. The happiness he gives, is quite as great as if it cost a fortune."

He felt the Potters's glance, and stopped.

"Our Time grows short," observed the Potters. "Quick! Examine this crowd - these wizards of the pure blood which you hold in such high regard - and speak whether they have made the wrong choices in deciding to protect hearth and home, while you, Malfoy - you strive to destroy it. You would see them each dead, if you had your way, and for what?"

"Potters!" said Malfoy, "you bore me. Show me no more, as you can do nothing but waste my time! Conduct me home. Why do you delight to torture me with such trivialities?" Hearth? Home? Nay - what is important is power, and there will always be those too weak to seek it."

"One shadow more!" exclaimed the Ghosts.

"No more!" cried Malfoy! "No more, I have things to do!"

But the relentless Ghosts pinioned him in both his arms, and forced him to listen to the words they spoke next. "I told you these were shadows of the things that have been," said the Ghosts. "That they are what they are, do not blame me!"

"Remove me!" Malfoy exclaimed, "I am disgusted by it!"

He turned upon the Ghosts, and seeing that looked upon him with the same expression of sadness on each of their faces, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with them.

"Leave me! Take me back. Haunt me no longer!"

In the struggle, if that can be called a struggle in which the Ghosts with no visible resistance on their part were undisturbed by any effort of its adversary, Malfoy observed that their lights were burning high and bright; and dimly connecting that with its influence over him, he seized Lily's extinguisher-cap, and by a sudden action pressed it down upon her gleaming red head.

Not only she but her husband dropped beneath it, so that the extinguisher covered their whole form; but though Malfoy pressed it down with all his force, he could not hide the light, which streamed from under it, in an unbroken flood upon the ground.

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and, further, of being in his own den. He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; then stood and picked up his snifter of brandy, which was still the perfect temperature for drinking, and took a healthy gulp before returning to his speech. He added a few lines and...