FIC: Dear Father Christmas (Harry - 3700 - PG)
Title: Dear Father Christmas
Author/Artist: LILYEYES
Pairing(s): None
Prompt: Own Prompt: Harry writes a letter to Father Christmas for the first time
Word Count: +/- 3700
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): *implied child abuse/neglect*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks to my beta! ♥
Summary: Harry has never been allowed to write a letter to Father Christmas.
**~*~**
Dudley pushed Harry out of the backseat of the car as soon as Harry had opened the door. He laughed loudly as Harry fell onto the roadway, the palms of his hands scrapping painfully.
"Get up, boy!" Aunt Petunia hissed at him, opening her window slightly. "Stop mucking around in the street! Mind Mrs. Figg and don't do anything freaky!"
Harry scrambled to the curb as car surged forward, tyres spinning. He could hear his uncle's bellowing laugh even after the car screeched around the corner. Brushing his hands off gingerly, Harry limped up the walkway, his knee stinging as it rubbed against the excessive cloth. The slushy rain soaked through his thin jacket before Harry got to the front door, knocking quietly. He shifted uncomfortably as cold water dripped from his hair and trickled down his back. For a horrifying moment, Harry thought Mrs. Figg had forgotten he was coming, until he heard footsteps inside and the door was thrown open.
“Harry! You’re soaking wet!” Mrs., Figg exclaimed as she stepped back and motioned him inside. “Stand here, while I get you a towel to dry off on.”
Moving carefully, Harry took off his jacket and held it over the small rug, not wanting to drip on the floor. An orange cat with an ugly smooshed-in face eyed Harry from the corner of couch, looking as grumpy as Aunt Petunia before her morning tea. Several other cats were sleeping in a pile in one of the chairs.
"Here you are, dear," Mrs. Figg said, coming from the hallway. "Let me help you dry your hair."
Harry looked up as the dark mass came at his head and ducked, covering his face with his arm. Mrs. Figg stopped for a moment, before slowly wrapping the soft towel around his head and rubbing briskly. His cheeks burned in embarrassment as Harry stood still. He knew Mrs. Figg wouldn't hurt him, even if she was a little batty. She had always been nice to him when he'd stayed with her in the past and usually gave him a hot lunch to eat with pudding, even if it was ancient chocolate cake. Sometimes she even washed his clothes for him, while he took a lovely, warm bath.
"I think you need to get out of these wet things and warm yourself up in the tub, dear-Harry! You're bleeding!"
Harry paused in stripping off his over-sized jumper to look at the palms of his hands, wincing as he saw the dirty scrapes on them. He held them out, trying not to get blood or grim on anything.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled at the floor. "I fell getting out of the car."
Mrs. Figg made a humming noise as she draped the towel over his shoulders and took the jumper. "I have some ointment I'll put on after your bath, dear."
Nodding, Harry scrambled out of his shoes, socks, and trousers. Securing the towel around him, Harry hurried to the small bathroom in the hallway which he'd used before. The orange cat followed him into the room and Harry smiled at it as he filled the tub. He slid all the way under the water, loving the feel of being surrounded by warmth. His fingers were wrinkly by the time Harry emerged from the bathroom, the towel wrapped firmly around him and room spotless.
Harry stopped as he heard whispering coming from the sitting room, his heart skipping a beat at the thought the Dursleys were back already. He pulled the towel tighter about him and took several deep breaths. It would have been nice to at least get a sandwich before he had to go back. Harry's stomach rumbled in agreement. The whispering stopped with a whooshing sound.
"Is that you, Harry dear?"
"Yes, ma'am." Harry trudged into the sitting room, only to find no one there but the orange cat who seemed to be following him everywhere.
"Let me see your hand," Mrs. Figg said, appearing from the kitchen with a green jar in her hand.
Harry shifted the grip on the towel and extended his hand, his scraped palm up. Mrs. Figg made a sound as she opened the jar and dipped two fingers into a paste. She spread it first onto Harry's right hand and then his left. By the time it had disappeared into his skin, the scrape, along with bruises from where Dudley slammed the door on his hand, were gone. Harry stared at his hands for a long moment, amazed.
"There are some clean clothes on the couch for you. Change and then we'll eat."
Finding them quickly, Harry dropped the towel before pulling on the gray running pants and green jumper. He smoothed his hand down his front in awe - they fit him perfectly! Harry hurried to hang the towel in the bathroom before joining Mrs. Figg in the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stew waited for him and Harry climbed into the chair he'd used before, his mouth watering as he waited for permission to eat. Mrs. Figg turned from the hob, putting some warm bread on the table, and shooed a cat out of her chair to sit down.
"Go ahead, dear," Mrs. Finn nodded at his bowl. "You look like you haven't eaten anything today."
Not bothering to answer that it had actually been two days since he'd eaten, Harry dipped his spoon into the brown gravy and took a taste. Flavor burst on his tongue and Harry savored it as he tipped a tiny bit more into his mouth. He didn't think he'd tasted anything so good in his life!
"So, your aunt and uncle took Dudley to see Father Christmas?" Mrs. Finn asked, as she put a buttered piece of bread on the small plate in front of him.
"Yeah," Harry muttered, swallowing a carrot and the jealousy making his chest ache.
"You didn't want to go?"
Mrs. Figg's voice sounded sort of strained, but Harry didn't look up. He didn't want to see the look of annoyance he was sure was there.
"Umm, no, ma'am. I'm not allowed."
"Why not?"
Harry took a large bite of stew, hoping Mrs. Finn didn't take it away when she learned the truth. "'Cause Father Christmas doesn't bring presents to kids like me." He looked up for a second to see her scowling. "Freaky things happened around me sometimes."
"Have you ever written a letter to Father Christmas, Harry?" Mrs. Figg's voice sounded funny again. "Maybe he just doesn't know where you are."
Harry felt hope well up in his chest - could his relatives be wrong? "Maybe he couldn't find me in my cupboard, but I'm not allowed-"
Mrs. Figg held up a hand. "You are here this afternoon and could write one, Harry." She leaned closer. "And I know a special, magical way of getting the letter to Father Christmas."
A grin spread over Harry's face as Mrs. Figg winked at him. Magic held a special lure for Harry, even if his aunt and uncle constantly told him it wasn't real. They didn't have dreams of flying motorcycles and brooms or have abnormal things happening around them. Aunt Petunia seemed to particularly hate strange things of any kind, but then again, she'd never told him not to write Father Christmas, only that freaks like Harry didn't get presents. Mrs. Finn gave him a smile in return and gestured at his bowl. Harry ate every bite and the piece of bread covered with butter. He glanced at Mrs. Figg again, wondering why she was acting so different today and not at all batty. With a shrug, Harry finished the bread and the glass of milk set in front of him. He'd learned not to ask questions.
It was a most pleasant afternoon for Harry. Mrs. Figg gave him a strangely thick piece of paper that wanted to curl up and a biro to write his letter to Father Christmas. The orange cat brushed against him and then curled up in his lap as Harry sat in front of the fire. Mrs. Figg brought him a cup of weak tea and a plate of Christmas biscuits to snack on while he considered what to say. Even though he was eight, Harry had never written a letter and he wanted this one to be perfect.
Dear Father Christmas,
My name is Harry and I am eight-years-old. You probably don't have my name anywhere cause you've never brought me any gifts before. My room is the cupboard under the stairs and you might have missed me. I live with my aunt and uncle and cousin Dudley, who you always leave a pile of presents for. Mrs. Figg said it was alright for me to write you a letter.
For Christmas, could I please have a blanket, because it gets cold in my cupboard, and a jacket so I can stay warm walking to school. And a pair of trainers that fit and don't hurt my feet.
Could I please have a book of my very own?
Thank you and Happy Christmas!
Harry
Harry drew a small picture on the bottom of a reindeer and sleigh, before carefully folding the paper up and handing it to Mrs. Figg.
"There's a good boy. Now, go change back into your clothes so your aunt doesn’t get mad at both of us." Mrs. Figg told him as she slipped his letter into her pocket.
Harry changed and had barely sat down again when a car horn blared from the street. Mrs. Figg sighed and pressed a small vial of the paste she'd used earlier into his hand. She slipped a package into his other pocket. Winking at Harry, Mrs. Figg mussed her hair a little, change her shoes for carpet slippers, leaned forward a bit, and threw open the door.
"Oh, Petunia, dear!" Mrs. Figg shuffled out to the car, ignoring the rain, with Mr. Tibbles at her heels. "Did you have fun?"
Harry skirted around her and pulled open the back door of the car. As he climbed in, he saw Dudley ignoring everything but the new GameBoy in his hand and the bag of sweets in his lap. Careful not to squish the sandwich in his pocket, Harry kept his head down as his aunt and uncle exchanged nasty comments about Mrs. Figg in the short drive back to their house. The rain was trying to turned into snow and Harry hurried into the house before it could seep into his ill-fitting trainers and went right to his cupboard, while his family went ahead of him into the sitting room.
Quickly stashing the things Mrs. Figg gave him, Harry headed out back out, as it was almost teatime. He knew what was expected of him and filled the kettle before putting it on the hob, preparing the tea pot for brewing. Climbing up on the counter, Harry retrieved the tea tray and set it on the table. Harry allowed himself a small smile as his fingers expertly built sandwiches, remembering the letter he had written and the kernel of hope taking root in his heart. It was only a few days until Christmas and he swore he'd be the best boy ever.
"Boy! Isn't that tea tray ready yet?" His aunt's voice screeched from behind him, a cuff to his head punctuating her impatience.
"Just waiting for the water, Aunt Petunia." Harry moved out of her way, setting the sandwiches and a plate of Christmas biscuits on the tray, before climbing on the stool to add the now boiling water to the tea pot.
"I'll carry it through," she snapped, reaching up to add more biscuits to the plate. "Into your cupboard!"
Harry scampered ahead of her, sliding into his cupboard. Curling up on his bed, Harry pulled the tattered baby quilt over him, the only thing which actually belonged tohim, and daydreamed about the nice warm blanket Father Christmas would bring him.
**~*~**
Harry curled into the warm around him, his ear pressed against something with a steady beat. He turned his head toward the beat, breathing in an earthy, soothing scent.
"-an actual bloody cupboard! I just can't believe-"
"Shhh! I did tell him they were the worse sort of muggles!"
Trying to force his eyes open, Harry felt himself being carried up the stairs. There was a tingly feeling that washed across his skin, it didn't hurt or feel dangerous, and left behind a warm feeling.
"Underweight, evidence of injury, hairline fracture-bloody hell! How could-"
"Enough, Severus, the room is ready, and we need to get him into bed before the Sleep Charm wears off. We still have those Muggles to speak to."
Harry felt himself lowered onto something soft and reached out to grab the front of the man holding him. "Father Christmas?"
The man stilled for a moment before settling Harry onto the softness. "No, Harry, we are merely Father Christmas' helpers. Go back to sleep and, in the morning, you will have a wonderful surprise." A hand wrapped around Harry's and gently loosened his fingers, tucking it under a thick blanket.
The man stood up, leaning back down to brush Harry's fringe away from his face. "Happy Christmas, Harry."
Unable to keep his eyes open, Harry burrowed into the warmth surrounding him and sighed softly as he fell asleep.
**~*~**
When he opened his eyes to bright sunlight filling his cupboard, Harry panicked, sitting straight up. He looked around the room he found himself in and rubbed his eyes, before he saw his glasses on a small table by his bed. Beside his glasses was an envelope. Harry picked up both carefully, leaving the letter in his lap as he slid on his glasses. The room came into focus as Harry picked up the envelope. He ran his finger over his name, printed in spidery handwriting, on the front. Slowly, Harry opened the letter and pulled out the same kind of think paper Mrs. Figg had used.
Dear Harry,
Thank you for your letter. I was very sorry to discover I had missed you these many years and am hoping, with some help from Christmas magic, I can make it up to you today.
The bedroom you are in, is now yours and no one can come into your room unless you invite them in. The door at next to the window leads to your own bathroom. The cupboard next to your wardrobe has food in it and is where your meals will appear.
Harry, you will never go hungry again.
Your chores are to keep your room clean and do well in school. There will be no more bullying by your cousin, no more screaming by your aunt, and no more hitting by your uncle. Your relatives will leave you alone from now on.
This magic is just for you and is special, as you are. Your relatives can't see it and you must keep it a secret.
I will not forget you again, Harry, and will have my elves check on you through the year.
Happy Christmas, Harry!
Father Christmas
Looking up, Harry saw a small Christmas tree over by a desk, presents piled around it. There was a gray chair and a low wooden table at that end of the room, along with a large window. The wood of the table matched a tall wardrobe and a narrow cabinet beside it. With the note still in his hand, Harry slid out of bed, noticing it was bigger than Dudley's with a thick green blanket covering it. Looking down, he saw he was wearing green and white pajamas that matched his bedding. Ignoring the presents for the moment, Harry opened the extra door to find a small bathroom with everything in it he needed, including a shower.
After using the toilet and washing his hands, Harry hurried back out into his room and straight for the food cupboard. Inside was a plate with eggs, bacon, and a pancake! And there was a glass of milk beside it! Harry reached in with both hands and carried the warm plate over to his table before going back for the milk. He felt like a prince as he quickly ate his Christmas breakfast, half expecting his aunt to pound on the door at any minute, demanding he get back into his cupboard. The clock on his desk showed it was half seven, well past the time Dudley usually got up on Christmas morning, but Harry didn't hear a thing. When he finished, Harry carried the dishes back and put them into the cupboard, knowing he could wash them in his bathroom sink.
Glancing at the presents under the tree, his curiosity won out and Harry tiptoed over to the door. He cautiously turned the handle and eased the door open a crack. Instantly, Harry heard the sound of Dudley's whining and his aunt yelling at him.
"Make Harry fix breakfast, Mummy! I want to open my presents!"
"We do our own cooking from now on, Dudley! And mind what I said about your cousin!"
Harry closed the door silently, a delighted smile on his face as he realized the magic in his room was keeping out the sounds of his relatives. He wrapped his arms around himself and laughed, unable to contain his happiness. While he was still at his relatives, Harry could escape them and, if Father Christmas was to be believed, was safe in his very own room. And he would be able to eat! Harry giggled as he ran to his bed and jumped on it several times, before sliding off and making it neatly. He went to the food cupboard to gather the dirty dishes, wanting to have everything clean before he opened his gifts, only to find them gone. In their place was a mug of hot liquid and a plate of biscuits.
“I love magic,” Harry whispered, sniffing the liquid and finding it was hot chocolate.
Carrying the mug and plate to his table, Harry sat on the floor and finally allowed himself to pick up a present. Slowly, Harry tore a corner and peeled back the gold paper to find a book: The History of Magic and he ran his fingers over the title, convinced he could feel the magic in the book. Setting it carefully on the couch, Harry reached for the next gift and opened it a bit faster than the first, finding a selection of long-sleeved tee shirts. The next held three jumpers in green, red, and black. They were the softest, warmest clothes Harry had ever had and he immediately pulled the green one over his head. The other boxes contained more clothes, including everything from pants and socks to trousers and jeans. Opening boxes with trainers, more books, several different toys and games had Harry overwhelmed by the amount of gifts Father Christmas had given him.
The last present was wrapped in green paper with a red and gold ribbon and Harry opened it slowly, savoring it. The paper fell away to reveal a small wooden box and inside were a stack of pictures. With a shaking hand, Harry reached in and lifted out the top picture showing a red-haired lady and a dark-haired man with glasses. He almost dropped it when both of the people waved at him. Turning it around, Harry saw there was writing on the back:
"Lily and James, 1979".
Turning the photo back around, Harry brought it closer to his face, and studied the faces. The man had the same messy hair that Harry had and wore glasses, too. The lady had beautiful red hair and the same green eyes that Harry did. All of a sudden, Harry realized the people in the picture were his parents. Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Mum and Dad?"
The couple waved frantically and Harry sobbed as he waved back. It was the first picture he'd ever seen of his parents. Reaching back into the box, Harry pulled out the next one, of his mum at his age with a thin, black-haired boy beside her. This picture didn't move and Harry recognized it as a normal photograph. One by one, Harry lifted pictures out of the box, setting them on the floor around him and grouping them by age and whether the moved or not.
Harry never did get dressed that day, spending it going through the box of pictures; alternating between laughing and crying. He kept all the pictures around him as he reached for one of his new books and began to read it. A soft chime alerted him when there was food in his cupboard and Harry loved every bite of the Christmas goose dinner. Finally, he got up and straightened his room, leaving the stacks of pictures on his table. Harry knew there was one last thing he needed to do before he went to bed and he'd already decided the magic cupboard would deliver it for him.
Dear Father Christmas,
Thank you so much for all the wonderful gifts! There were so many, I don't know how to tell you how much I loved everything! First off, I love my new room and all the magical things you brought me, they are amazing. My aunt and uncle told me magic wasn't real, but you have shown me it is. All my clothes fit me and I don't have to use string to hold my pants up now! I started reading my new books and I think maybe I might be magic, too. I even got to eat three times today AND have pudding, too!
The best gift was the box of picture, Father Christmas, because now I know what my parents looked like and their names! They don't look like drunks or anything and wave at me every time I look at their magic pictures. I wish I had a friend like my mum did in all the pictures of when she was little.
Thank you, Father Christmas, for the best Christmas, the best DAY of my life!
Love,
Harry
P.S.: I'll be the best boy in the world so you'll come see me again next year! Happy Christmas!
**~FIN~**
Author/Artist: LILYEYES
Pairing(s): None
Prompt: Own Prompt: Harry writes a letter to Father Christmas for the first time
Word Count: +/- 3700
Rating: PG
Contains (Highlight to view): *implied child abuse/neglect*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks to my beta! ♥
Summary: Harry has never been allowed to write a letter to Father Christmas.
**~*~**
Dudley pushed Harry out of the backseat of the car as soon as Harry had opened the door. He laughed loudly as Harry fell onto the roadway, the palms of his hands scrapping painfully.
"Get up, boy!" Aunt Petunia hissed at him, opening her window slightly. "Stop mucking around in the street! Mind Mrs. Figg and don't do anything freaky!"
Harry scrambled to the curb as car surged forward, tyres spinning. He could hear his uncle's bellowing laugh even after the car screeched around the corner. Brushing his hands off gingerly, Harry limped up the walkway, his knee stinging as it rubbed against the excessive cloth. The slushy rain soaked through his thin jacket before Harry got to the front door, knocking quietly. He shifted uncomfortably as cold water dripped from his hair and trickled down his back. For a horrifying moment, Harry thought Mrs. Figg had forgotten he was coming, until he heard footsteps inside and the door was thrown open.
“Harry! You’re soaking wet!” Mrs., Figg exclaimed as she stepped back and motioned him inside. “Stand here, while I get you a towel to dry off on.”
Moving carefully, Harry took off his jacket and held it over the small rug, not wanting to drip on the floor. An orange cat with an ugly smooshed-in face eyed Harry from the corner of couch, looking as grumpy as Aunt Petunia before her morning tea. Several other cats were sleeping in a pile in one of the chairs.
"Here you are, dear," Mrs. Figg said, coming from the hallway. "Let me help you dry your hair."
Harry looked up as the dark mass came at his head and ducked, covering his face with his arm. Mrs. Figg stopped for a moment, before slowly wrapping the soft towel around his head and rubbing briskly. His cheeks burned in embarrassment as Harry stood still. He knew Mrs. Figg wouldn't hurt him, even if she was a little batty. She had always been nice to him when he'd stayed with her in the past and usually gave him a hot lunch to eat with pudding, even if it was ancient chocolate cake. Sometimes she even washed his clothes for him, while he took a lovely, warm bath.
"I think you need to get out of these wet things and warm yourself up in the tub, dear-Harry! You're bleeding!"
Harry paused in stripping off his over-sized jumper to look at the palms of his hands, wincing as he saw the dirty scrapes on them. He held them out, trying not to get blood or grim on anything.
"I'm sorry," Harry mumbled at the floor. "I fell getting out of the car."
Mrs. Figg made a humming noise as she draped the towel over his shoulders and took the jumper. "I have some ointment I'll put on after your bath, dear."
Nodding, Harry scrambled out of his shoes, socks, and trousers. Securing the towel around him, Harry hurried to the small bathroom in the hallway which he'd used before. The orange cat followed him into the room and Harry smiled at it as he filled the tub. He slid all the way under the water, loving the feel of being surrounded by warmth. His fingers were wrinkly by the time Harry emerged from the bathroom, the towel wrapped firmly around him and room spotless.
Harry stopped as he heard whispering coming from the sitting room, his heart skipping a beat at the thought the Dursleys were back already. He pulled the towel tighter about him and took several deep breaths. It would have been nice to at least get a sandwich before he had to go back. Harry's stomach rumbled in agreement. The whispering stopped with a whooshing sound.
"Is that you, Harry dear?"
"Yes, ma'am." Harry trudged into the sitting room, only to find no one there but the orange cat who seemed to be following him everywhere.
"Let me see your hand," Mrs. Figg said, appearing from the kitchen with a green jar in her hand.
Harry shifted the grip on the towel and extended his hand, his scraped palm up. Mrs. Figg made a sound as she opened the jar and dipped two fingers into a paste. She spread it first onto Harry's right hand and then his left. By the time it had disappeared into his skin, the scrape, along with bruises from where Dudley slammed the door on his hand, were gone. Harry stared at his hands for a long moment, amazed.
"There are some clean clothes on the couch for you. Change and then we'll eat."
Finding them quickly, Harry dropped the towel before pulling on the gray running pants and green jumper. He smoothed his hand down his front in awe - they fit him perfectly! Harry hurried to hang the towel in the bathroom before joining Mrs. Figg in the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stew waited for him and Harry climbed into the chair he'd used before, his mouth watering as he waited for permission to eat. Mrs. Figg turned from the hob, putting some warm bread on the table, and shooed a cat out of her chair to sit down.
"Go ahead, dear," Mrs. Finn nodded at his bowl. "You look like you haven't eaten anything today."
Not bothering to answer that it had actually been two days since he'd eaten, Harry dipped his spoon into the brown gravy and took a taste. Flavor burst on his tongue and Harry savored it as he tipped a tiny bit more into his mouth. He didn't think he'd tasted anything so good in his life!
"So, your aunt and uncle took Dudley to see Father Christmas?" Mrs. Finn asked, as she put a buttered piece of bread on the small plate in front of him.
"Yeah," Harry muttered, swallowing a carrot and the jealousy making his chest ache.
"You didn't want to go?"
Mrs. Figg's voice sounded sort of strained, but Harry didn't look up. He didn't want to see the look of annoyance he was sure was there.
"Umm, no, ma'am. I'm not allowed."
"Why not?"
Harry took a large bite of stew, hoping Mrs. Finn didn't take it away when she learned the truth. "'Cause Father Christmas doesn't bring presents to kids like me." He looked up for a second to see her scowling. "Freaky things happened around me sometimes."
"Have you ever written a letter to Father Christmas, Harry?" Mrs. Figg's voice sounded funny again. "Maybe he just doesn't know where you are."
Harry felt hope well up in his chest - could his relatives be wrong? "Maybe he couldn't find me in my cupboard, but I'm not allowed-"
Mrs. Figg held up a hand. "You are here this afternoon and could write one, Harry." She leaned closer. "And I know a special, magical way of getting the letter to Father Christmas."
A grin spread over Harry's face as Mrs. Figg winked at him. Magic held a special lure for Harry, even if his aunt and uncle constantly told him it wasn't real. They didn't have dreams of flying motorcycles and brooms or have abnormal things happening around them. Aunt Petunia seemed to particularly hate strange things of any kind, but then again, she'd never told him not to write Father Christmas, only that freaks like Harry didn't get presents. Mrs. Finn gave him a smile in return and gestured at his bowl. Harry ate every bite and the piece of bread covered with butter. He glanced at Mrs. Figg again, wondering why she was acting so different today and not at all batty. With a shrug, Harry finished the bread and the glass of milk set in front of him. He'd learned not to ask questions.
It was a most pleasant afternoon for Harry. Mrs. Figg gave him a strangely thick piece of paper that wanted to curl up and a biro to write his letter to Father Christmas. The orange cat brushed against him and then curled up in his lap as Harry sat in front of the fire. Mrs. Figg brought him a cup of weak tea and a plate of Christmas biscuits to snack on while he considered what to say. Even though he was eight, Harry had never written a letter and he wanted this one to be perfect.
Dear Father Christmas,
My name is Harry and I am eight-years-old. You probably don't have my name anywhere cause you've never brought me any gifts before. My room is the cupboard under the stairs and you might have missed me. I live with my aunt and uncle and cousin Dudley, who you always leave a pile of presents for. Mrs. Figg said it was alright for me to write you a letter.
For Christmas, could I please have a blanket, because it gets cold in my cupboard, and a jacket so I can stay warm walking to school. And a pair of trainers that fit and don't hurt my feet.
Could I please have a book of my very own?
Thank you and Happy Christmas!
Harry
Harry drew a small picture on the bottom of a reindeer and sleigh, before carefully folding the paper up and handing it to Mrs. Figg.
"There's a good boy. Now, go change back into your clothes so your aunt doesn’t get mad at both of us." Mrs. Figg told him as she slipped his letter into her pocket.
Harry changed and had barely sat down again when a car horn blared from the street. Mrs. Figg sighed and pressed a small vial of the paste she'd used earlier into his hand. She slipped a package into his other pocket. Winking at Harry, Mrs. Figg mussed her hair a little, change her shoes for carpet slippers, leaned forward a bit, and threw open the door.
"Oh, Petunia, dear!" Mrs. Figg shuffled out to the car, ignoring the rain, with Mr. Tibbles at her heels. "Did you have fun?"
Harry skirted around her and pulled open the back door of the car. As he climbed in, he saw Dudley ignoring everything but the new GameBoy in his hand and the bag of sweets in his lap. Careful not to squish the sandwich in his pocket, Harry kept his head down as his aunt and uncle exchanged nasty comments about Mrs. Figg in the short drive back to their house. The rain was trying to turned into snow and Harry hurried into the house before it could seep into his ill-fitting trainers and went right to his cupboard, while his family went ahead of him into the sitting room.
Quickly stashing the things Mrs. Figg gave him, Harry headed out back out, as it was almost teatime. He knew what was expected of him and filled the kettle before putting it on the hob, preparing the tea pot for brewing. Climbing up on the counter, Harry retrieved the tea tray and set it on the table. Harry allowed himself a small smile as his fingers expertly built sandwiches, remembering the letter he had written and the kernel of hope taking root in his heart. It was only a few days until Christmas and he swore he'd be the best boy ever.
"Boy! Isn't that tea tray ready yet?" His aunt's voice screeched from behind him, a cuff to his head punctuating her impatience.
"Just waiting for the water, Aunt Petunia." Harry moved out of her way, setting the sandwiches and a plate of Christmas biscuits on the tray, before climbing on the stool to add the now boiling water to the tea pot.
"I'll carry it through," she snapped, reaching up to add more biscuits to the plate. "Into your cupboard!"
Harry scampered ahead of her, sliding into his cupboard. Curling up on his bed, Harry pulled the tattered baby quilt over him, the only thing which actually belonged tohim, and daydreamed about the nice warm blanket Father Christmas would bring him.
**~*~**
Harry curled into the warm around him, his ear pressed against something with a steady beat. He turned his head toward the beat, breathing in an earthy, soothing scent.
"-an actual bloody cupboard! I just can't believe-"
"Shhh! I did tell him they were the worse sort of muggles!"
Trying to force his eyes open, Harry felt himself being carried up the stairs. There was a tingly feeling that washed across his skin, it didn't hurt or feel dangerous, and left behind a warm feeling.
"Underweight, evidence of injury, hairline fracture-bloody hell! How could-"
"Enough, Severus, the room is ready, and we need to get him into bed before the Sleep Charm wears off. We still have those Muggles to speak to."
Harry felt himself lowered onto something soft and reached out to grab the front of the man holding him. "Father Christmas?"
The man stilled for a moment before settling Harry onto the softness. "No, Harry, we are merely Father Christmas' helpers. Go back to sleep and, in the morning, you will have a wonderful surprise." A hand wrapped around Harry's and gently loosened his fingers, tucking it under a thick blanket.
The man stood up, leaning back down to brush Harry's fringe away from his face. "Happy Christmas, Harry."
Unable to keep his eyes open, Harry burrowed into the warmth surrounding him and sighed softly as he fell asleep.
**~*~**
When he opened his eyes to bright sunlight filling his cupboard, Harry panicked, sitting straight up. He looked around the room he found himself in and rubbed his eyes, before he saw his glasses on a small table by his bed. Beside his glasses was an envelope. Harry picked up both carefully, leaving the letter in his lap as he slid on his glasses. The room came into focus as Harry picked up the envelope. He ran his finger over his name, printed in spidery handwriting, on the front. Slowly, Harry opened the letter and pulled out the same kind of think paper Mrs. Figg had used.
Dear Harry,
Thank you for your letter. I was very sorry to discover I had missed you these many years and am hoping, with some help from Christmas magic, I can make it up to you today.
The bedroom you are in, is now yours and no one can come into your room unless you invite them in. The door at next to the window leads to your own bathroom. The cupboard next to your wardrobe has food in it and is where your meals will appear.
Harry, you will never go hungry again.
Your chores are to keep your room clean and do well in school. There will be no more bullying by your cousin, no more screaming by your aunt, and no more hitting by your uncle. Your relatives will leave you alone from now on.
This magic is just for you and is special, as you are. Your relatives can't see it and you must keep it a secret.
I will not forget you again, Harry, and will have my elves check on you through the year.
Happy Christmas, Harry!
Father Christmas
Looking up, Harry saw a small Christmas tree over by a desk, presents piled around it. There was a gray chair and a low wooden table at that end of the room, along with a large window. The wood of the table matched a tall wardrobe and a narrow cabinet beside it. With the note still in his hand, Harry slid out of bed, noticing it was bigger than Dudley's with a thick green blanket covering it. Looking down, he saw he was wearing green and white pajamas that matched his bedding. Ignoring the presents for the moment, Harry opened the extra door to find a small bathroom with everything in it he needed, including a shower.
After using the toilet and washing his hands, Harry hurried back out into his room and straight for the food cupboard. Inside was a plate with eggs, bacon, and a pancake! And there was a glass of milk beside it! Harry reached in with both hands and carried the warm plate over to his table before going back for the milk. He felt like a prince as he quickly ate his Christmas breakfast, half expecting his aunt to pound on the door at any minute, demanding he get back into his cupboard. The clock on his desk showed it was half seven, well past the time Dudley usually got up on Christmas morning, but Harry didn't hear a thing. When he finished, Harry carried the dishes back and put them into the cupboard, knowing he could wash them in his bathroom sink.
Glancing at the presents under the tree, his curiosity won out and Harry tiptoed over to the door. He cautiously turned the handle and eased the door open a crack. Instantly, Harry heard the sound of Dudley's whining and his aunt yelling at him.
"Make Harry fix breakfast, Mummy! I want to open my presents!"
"We do our own cooking from now on, Dudley! And mind what I said about your cousin!"
Harry closed the door silently, a delighted smile on his face as he realized the magic in his room was keeping out the sounds of his relatives. He wrapped his arms around himself and laughed, unable to contain his happiness. While he was still at his relatives, Harry could escape them and, if Father Christmas was to be believed, was safe in his very own room. And he would be able to eat! Harry giggled as he ran to his bed and jumped on it several times, before sliding off and making it neatly. He went to the food cupboard to gather the dirty dishes, wanting to have everything clean before he opened his gifts, only to find them gone. In their place was a mug of hot liquid and a plate of biscuits.
“I love magic,” Harry whispered, sniffing the liquid and finding it was hot chocolate.
Carrying the mug and plate to his table, Harry sat on the floor and finally allowed himself to pick up a present. Slowly, Harry tore a corner and peeled back the gold paper to find a book: The History of Magic and he ran his fingers over the title, convinced he could feel the magic in the book. Setting it carefully on the couch, Harry reached for the next gift and opened it a bit faster than the first, finding a selection of long-sleeved tee shirts. The next held three jumpers in green, red, and black. They were the softest, warmest clothes Harry had ever had and he immediately pulled the green one over his head. The other boxes contained more clothes, including everything from pants and socks to trousers and jeans. Opening boxes with trainers, more books, several different toys and games had Harry overwhelmed by the amount of gifts Father Christmas had given him.
The last present was wrapped in green paper with a red and gold ribbon and Harry opened it slowly, savoring it. The paper fell away to reveal a small wooden box and inside were a stack of pictures. With a shaking hand, Harry reached in and lifted out the top picture showing a red-haired lady and a dark-haired man with glasses. He almost dropped it when both of the people waved at him. Turning it around, Harry saw there was writing on the back:
"Lily and James, 1979".
Turning the photo back around, Harry brought it closer to his face, and studied the faces. The man had the same messy hair that Harry had and wore glasses, too. The lady had beautiful red hair and the same green eyes that Harry did. All of a sudden, Harry realized the people in the picture were his parents. Tears welled up in his eyes.
"Mum and Dad?"
The couple waved frantically and Harry sobbed as he waved back. It was the first picture he'd ever seen of his parents. Reaching back into the box, Harry pulled out the next one, of his mum at his age with a thin, black-haired boy beside her. This picture didn't move and Harry recognized it as a normal photograph. One by one, Harry lifted pictures out of the box, setting them on the floor around him and grouping them by age and whether the moved or not.
Harry never did get dressed that day, spending it going through the box of pictures; alternating between laughing and crying. He kept all the pictures around him as he reached for one of his new books and began to read it. A soft chime alerted him when there was food in his cupboard and Harry loved every bite of the Christmas goose dinner. Finally, he got up and straightened his room, leaving the stacks of pictures on his table. Harry knew there was one last thing he needed to do before he went to bed and he'd already decided the magic cupboard would deliver it for him.
Dear Father Christmas,
Thank you so much for all the wonderful gifts! There were so many, I don't know how to tell you how much I loved everything! First off, I love my new room and all the magical things you brought me, they are amazing. My aunt and uncle told me magic wasn't real, but you have shown me it is. All my clothes fit me and I don't have to use string to hold my pants up now! I started reading my new books and I think maybe I might be magic, too. I even got to eat three times today AND have pudding, too!
The best gift was the box of picture, Father Christmas, because now I know what my parents looked like and their names! They don't look like drunks or anything and wave at me every time I look at their magic pictures. I wish I had a friend like my mum did in all the pictures of when she was little.
Thank you, Father Christmas, for the best Christmas, the best DAY of my life!
Love,
Harry
P.S.: I'll be the best boy in the world so you'll come see me again next year! Happy Christmas!
**~FIN~**