Lord Voldemort's Christmas Carol

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling. Also, Charles Dickens' classic tale of 'A Christmas Carol' is not mine, I am merely borrowing it for a spell.

Notes: Enormous thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed so far! I've finally gotten around to posting the final two chapters of this story in time for this Christmas.

Chapter Four.

Falling to his knees, Voldemort grasped his bedcurtains for support, his tired mind trying desperately to process all he had seen. For without the spirit's guidance, he would never have known the joys and sorrows happening all around him on this Christmas, and on many Christmases past. It was too much for the Dark Lord, this unwanted and unexpected rush of emotions, old wounds ripped open, sudden regrets for his life decisions.

'I can't take any more of this,' Voldemort mumbled. Nagini, still curled on his bed, raised her head curiously at her master's behaviour. 'I'm the Dark Lord, for heaven's sake!'

He sat there, unwilling to fall back asleep.

When the clock struck three, all too soon, Voldemort raised his head, and seeing an apparition before him, scrambled up in shock.

It looked like a Dementor, black tattered robes draped like dark seaweed, hood concealing the terrible face beneath, gliding across the floor towards Voldemort with grisly grace. A pervasive feeling of misery and despair followed the creature like a cloud.

Voldemort could more than see its presence; he sensed it as well, and knew that this thing was no Dementor. It was a shame, for Dementors were controllable by the Dark Lord. No, whatever this new spirit was, it was something Voldemort had not encountered before, and that disturbed him greatly.

'You, I...assume, are the Ghost of Future Christmas?' Voldemort implored to the creature, trying to keep uncertainty out of his smooth voice.

The thing did not reply, but instead its skeleton fingers grasped the sleeve of its own robe, holding it out to Voldemort, who knew that he must touch the robe. With trepidation, he did so, and found himself standing in a very familiar place.

He was still in his bedchamber. However, there were several key differences; the bed curtains were gone, as were the window draperies; cold bright light streamed into the room, revealing a thick layer of dust. Voldemort looked around, puzzled. His gaze landed on a stretched-out figure, covered entirely by a white sheet, laying on the floor in front of the fireplace, pathetic in its loneliness. It was clearly a body, but the question was, whose?

'Spirit, who is that?' Voldemort asked. 'One of my Death Eaters, perhaps? Someone who crossed me for the last time?'

The intimidating black ghost said nothing, but merely extended its bony finger down at the corpse.

'Who is that?' Voldemort repeated, more urgently. 'Who lays dead in my self-same bedchamber, abandoned like this?'

The spirit continued to point. It was fairly clear that Voldemort was meant to pull back the sheet, revealing the identity of the body.

Voldemort's heart started racing in genuine fear. 'No,' he whispered. 'No.' His intuition was telling him who, indeed, the dead body was. But his mind rejected the thought immediately. 'Take me somewhere else!' Voldemort ordered desperately. 'I will not touch it! I will not!'

The dark ghost obliged, and Voldemort once again found himself on Diagon Alley. It was most peculiar; every person in the street seemed in a jolly mood surpassing even the previously-witnessed Christmas spirit. People were hugging and kissing, laughing with total strangers, and Voldemort saw red-and-gold flags flying from hands and buttons pinned on lapels.

Curiously, Voldemort listened in to a group of Ministry officials clustered together, men he recognised.

'No, I don't know how it happened, but it's for sure: he's dead,' said one of the men.

'When?' asked another.

'Last night, according to rumour.'

'Was Harry Potter involved?' asked a third, taking a whiff from his golden pipe. 'Seems like he would be.'

'The Aurors are mum on that subject, but I heard that it was actually something to do with a spell gone awry. Poor devil had been laying there for days, forgotten.'

'What about all the followers?' asked a ruddy-faced man with large jowls that shook when he spoke.

The other men laughed. 'They seemed relieved most of all. Pardoned by the Ministry, most of 'em,' contributed a fourth.

'Wonder if there'll be a funeral,' said the man with a pipe. 'Likely to be more of a celebration, for I'm sure we'll all agree that the monster is best off dead!'

Their laughter was loud, raucous, and to Voldemort's ears, harsh. They were clearly taking great pleasure in the misfortunate death of the mystery person.

Other people came and went; the company of Ministry men dispersed. Voldemort looked up to the spirit for clarification. The grim hand pointed onward, toward two men Voldemort knew very well: Death Eaters, they were, and from powerful pure-blood families, besides.

'Morning! How are you?' one of them asked.

'Just brilliant, today, and you?'

'Never better. So the old man finally croaked, eh? Thought it would never happen. Frankly, I'm relieved.'

'Ha! And by a misplaced spell, no less. Better for the rest of us. Anyway, cold today, isn't it?'

'Indeed. Going skating with my son, later.'

'I'm a skater, myself! Happy Christmas, then.'

'To you as well.'

The men tipped their hats at each other, the extent of their exchange over. Voldemort did not quite understand the point of listening in to these non-specific, trivial pleasantries; surely it must serve the spirit's mysterious purpose. Voldemort made himself be patient. He could not imagine who might have died to create happy feelings in both the Ministry and his Death Eaters. Dumbledore, perhaps?

He kept waiting to see the future results of his own resolution to change his life. Yes, Voldemort had to admit to himself, he was dissatisfied with what he had done. A change in tactics was necessary, a relaxation of all the torture business. Perhaps more Death Eater parties, maybe even a retreat to some wizard resort that served banana daiquiris. Voldemort nodded. He might even take it a little easier on the Potter kid.

However, he did not see his future self walking around, or engaging in his normal business of any sort. It was very odd, as he was quietly hoping to see some evidence of his change of heart in the future.

The dark phantom ghost glided along beside him, leading him into one of the more notorious back alleys of wizarding London, a place of ill repute and foul inhabitants. Witches and wizards in rags stumbled through the alley, leering and drunk, as well as several urchin-types who peered with greedy eyes toward anyone who might have a trinket worth stealing. It was a low place, indeed, and Voldemort could not imagine why the spirit would have business bringing him here.

They reached a small, dingy hole-in-the-wall shop, a place to pawn stolen goods from the looks of it. Voldemort saw a hunched wizard duck inside the shop, his arms full with a lumpy burlap bag. The phantom pointed, and reluctantly Voldemort entered the establishment.

The shop was crowded from ceiling to floor with dusty, worn, random goods, haphazardly placed. The floor was dirty and the windows grimy, creating an overall appearance of carelessness. A crafty-looking little witch skittered forward from the back room, her gnarled hands grasping for the burlap bag.

'What do we have here, Mundungus?' she cackled. 'New goods to sell?'

'Very valuable, this is,' the man named Mundungus nodded. 'Got it from the estate of...well...you know.'

The witch bobbed her head slyly. 'I see, I see. And what is it?' She peeked her head inside the bag, her eyes lighting up. 'Ha! I will sell this for a good price, indeed. Fine specimen.'

'Was a right free-for-all,' Mundungus huffed gleefully. 'No one to supervise, no one seemed to care.'

'Good,' the woman laughed nastily. 'I know just what to do with this.' She gingerly took the burlap sack, patting it. Voldemort noticed that whatever was inside the bag was moving, just a little.

'You have a buyer, then?'

'Oh, yes. Snake meat is a rare delicacy these days; I reckon I'll get at least thirty Galleons for it.'

Snake meat? Voldemort thought. The package must be a rather sizable snake, then.

'And this one is the largest snake I've seen in years,' added Mundungus. 'I've got to be getting back and around; there're at least a hundred Galleons' worth of stuff be found, still. You can expect me back soon, my fair shopkeeper, laden down with new wares for selling!'

The woman tittered with laughter. 'Ha, ha! Cheers to the plunder!' she waved.

Voldemort watched as the woman muttered things to herself, adding and subtracting figures over the poor lump of a trapped snake, who he could now see was trying to wriggle its way out of the bag. The witch noticed its motions, and took a large brass candlestick and thumped it, hard.

The snake let out a hiss of extreme pain, and flopped around.

'Now wait just a minute!' Voldemort burst forth in a half-snarl, half-gasp. He was concerned for the creature; he had always held a soft spot for snakes.

Of course, the woman did not hear him. But to Voldemort's shock, he saw the weak flick of the snake's scales as it gave a last valiant try to open the bag. He recognised the snake's unique pattern.

'Nagini!!!' Voldemort shouted, lunging for the bag. 'Nagini! I'm here!' He looked up at the black spirit, his face pleading. 'Please, do something. It can't be my Nagini, she is in danger!'

The spirit was ominously silent.

Voldemort felt waves of alarm pounding through him. If he did not do something, Nagini would be eaten! His darling Nagini, his pet, his friend, of whom he was so fond. And how had she been kidnapped from his house, right under his nose? Voldemort vowed to track down that Mundungus character as soon as possible. He would not have his reptilian pride and joy taken from him, and consumed by unappreciative restaurant-goers. Poor, dear, Nagini. Voldemort felt her pain as though it was his own. He hated to admit it to himself, but he really was on the brink of tears with helplessness.

Collecting himself, Voldemort stood to gaze at the shrouded ghost. 'Please, spirit, I realise you have not spoken to me yet, and I do not expect you to now. But I beg you, show me an indication that this future - ' he gestured to Nagini, ' - might be changed.'

The spirit showed no sign of sympathy. Instead, it pointed onward, silent as Death, unable or unwilling to offer comfort.

Voldemort was feeling very morose now. Somehow, all of these terrible future events were connected to the death he had witnessed, the corpse in his own chambers. The inevitable truth was getting closer; Voldemort was finding it difficult to push back the obvious conclusion. It was his personal worst nightmare, that others would dismiss death so readily, laughing over it, feeling nothing but mild curiosity as to its machinations, scavengers scrabbling over the last possessions of a dead man who had not a true friend in the world.

In one last desperate mental plea, Voldemort prayed that it was not the aftermath of his own future death he was witnessing, despite the positive evidence.

'Show me at least someone with feeling over this...this unfortunate person's death,' Voldemort commanded. 'Someone who has been affected with more than disinterest, curiosity, or greed.'

Onward they went, and Voldemort recognised the Weasleys' house yet again. He strode up to the kitchen door and entered, stopping abruptly when he gazed upon the sad scene.

Molly Weasley and several of her sons were gathered around the fire, reading from a book. Each looked depressed and thin, faces drawn into a pathetic attempt at good cheer.

'Where is Father, do you think?' asked one of the boys.

'He was been slow to come home, these past few days,' Mrs. Weasley observed. 'Do not think of it; we all know he has been hit the hardest by our loss.'

Several moments passed, as each family member took turns reading from the book. Voldemort recognised its text as 'Christmas Eve with Elves: the True Story of the Great Wizard Kringle,' by Bobbin Bangladesh. Their voices were quiet and subdued, and there was no cheer to be found in any of them.

With a quiet 'clink,' the front door opened and closed. Arthur Weasley had arrived home, and took off his hat with the movements of an elderly person. His worn spirit had slumped his shoulders and aged his face prematurely.

'Arthur, dear, welcome home,' Mrs. Weasley got up and gave her husband a quick embrace. 'You're just in time for the reading. Here, have some tea.' She bustled to bring him a cup of rejuvenating liquid.

Arthur sat on the sofa, gazing on his sons, his face betraying both pride and sorrow.

'Don't think of it, father,' said one of the boys. 'Don't dwell on what has happened. You still have us.'

'Yes, I still have you.' The poor man gratefully accepted the tea from his wife. 'But I cannot help but think, how dear Ginny loved Christmas so.'

'I wish she was here,' said another of the sons; one of the identical twins, Voldemort recognised.

Mrs. Weasley had started to cry, silently.

'We should be happy,' said a voice, appearing from the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley glanced up.

'Oh, Ron, we are! It's just that...' she could not continue.

The boy Ron looked glum, in spite of his declaration. 'Ginny would not have wanted us to spend Christmas like this.'

'Now, Ron's right, everyone. If Ginny were here, she would want us to be merry, like the Weasleys we are!' Arthur Weasley seemed to be gathering his strength as he spoke. 'Let us remember your sister,' he nodded at his sons, 'and our daughter,' he gazed at his wife, 'with good cheer. Let us never fight or have enmity between us, in her memory.'

'Here, here!' the twins echoed, their faces finally smiling.

Molly Weasley joined in. 'And let us be grateful for Arthur's employer, and that he made such a generous arrangement for him, now that...well, you know.'

'Yes, indeed,' Arthur said. 'Things are looking up.' He took a sip of tea from the chipped cup.

Voldemort was looking around with increasing trepidation. 'What's happening?' he murmured. 'And where is the girl, Ginny?'

The spectre raised its fingers once again. Voldemort followed its gaze, to the corner of the cosy little sitting room, where, all alone in the corner, stood a pair of crutches. They were abandoned, their owner long-gone.

'Spirit?' Voldemort asked. But he knew what he was seeing. Pretty Ginny Weasley had died, after all, and the light had gone out of the Weasley household.

Voldemort sighed. It was overwhelming, what might happen in the future, the misery that was to come. 'Ghost, I sense that our time together is drawing to a close. But first, I must ask something of you: take me to my own place of abode. Let me see what has become of me.'

Instantly he was in another place, very familiar, yet again. The hulking shadow of a yew tree loomed in front of him. Gravestones rose out of the ground in orderly rows, covered with white snow. He was in the graveyard of Little Hangleton.

'Uh oh,' Voldemort said.

The black ghost glided through the headstones, pausing at one, its gruesome finger extending down to point at it.

Voldemort approached, hesitatingly, fear in his heart. Suddenly the shape and manner of the Ghost of Christmas Future took on a new, ghastly meaning. It was all clicking together in his sharp mind, the body, the conversations, poor Nagini's fate, and now this.

'Before I look upon the grave, spirit, tell me...is this the vision of things that will be, or the vision of things that may be, if a new path is not forged?'

There was no response.

'If things keep going the way they have been, perhaps this will happen,' Voldemort persisted. 'But surely the future is not set in stone; surely its course can be altered by a true change of heart!'

The spirit was unmoved.

Slowly, Voldemort crept toward the grave marker, quaking, trembling, every part of him resisting the sight, but he could no longer delay knowledge. He saw the open grave, ready for its body, and the stone, upon which was carved his own name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The realisation was difficult to take. 'It was me! The body in my chambers! Tell me it isn't so!'

The spirit stayed pointing at the grave, and then with terrible purpose raised its finger to point straight at Voldemort.

'No!' Voldemort nearly sobbed. 'No! It cannot be so, I am great! I am Lord Voldemort! And I will change! I am not the wizard I once was. I have changed. After this night, everything will be different. So why do you show me this cruel sight, if I am truly beyond all redemption?'

For the first time, the spirit showed a reaction as the pointing hand appeared to quaver.

'Please, good spirit, if your purpose is to help me, then assure me that I might amend this terrible future, by changing myself and my ways. Tell me that there is hope.'

The hand shook more noticeably now.

'I promise,' Voldemort placed his hand over his heart, 'that I will honour the spirit of Christmas, all year round, from now on. I will not forget the lessons of this night. I will find another way to achieve my goals, I will not longer shut out the warmth of the world. I vow to you, now!' Holding up his hands in his last entreaty, Voldemort watched as the phantom's hood and robes collapsed, shrunk, and turned into his own bedpost.