Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a Kreacher was stirring, not even Ron’s mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that The Chosen One soon would be there. The wizards were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of butterbeer danced in their heads. And mamma in her witch hat, and I in my cap, Had just laid down our wands for a long winter’s nap. When out on the grounds there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my four-poster to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon, sparkling down on the new-fallen snow, Gave the luster of midday to objects below. When there, to my unblinking eyes, with a snitch, Was a miniature team of nine playing Quidditch. With one lanky ol’ rider, so lively and fun, I knew in a moment it must be The One. More rapid than dragons, his coursers they came, And he whistled and shouted and called them by name! “Now, Viktor! Now, Ronald! Now, Katie and Cho! On, Johnson! On, Spinnet! On, Fred, George, Draco! To the top of the goal! To the top of the wall! Now fly away! Fly away! Fly away all! As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. So up ‘round the goal-tops, the players they flew, With quaffle and bludgers and golden snitch too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof, What sounded to me like a hippogriff’s hoof. As I turned all around, I had not a clue, That The Chosen One entered, most likely by Floo. He was dressed in all black, from his head to his foot, And his robes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A bundle of goodies he had on his back, And he looked like Mundungus, just opening his pack. His eyes--how they twinkled--the eyes of his mother, With hair like his father and scar from The Other. The twig of a wand he held tight in his hand, Controlling a feather to fly, twirl, and land. He spoke not a word, but went straight to work, And stirred up his potion, then turned with a jerk. And laying his finger beneath of his nose, He whispered, “It’s Snape, he’s coming--he knows!” Ingredients stolen, he bottles his potion, And jumped on his broom without causing commotion. A patronus of warning, Hermione’s--an otter, Away he did fly, shouting “I’m Harry Potter!”
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