Disclaimer: Honestly, do I have to write it every single time? I am not the owner of Harry Potter. She's currently probably not living in continental Europe, which is where I live.

This might or might not be expanded, I don't know yet, so it's a One-Shot for now.


Harry was writing a letter.

He knew Father Christmas likely wouldn't get it, and even if, then it wouldn't change anything.

Still, there was always the small chance it would work.

He remembered the last time he had brought home a perfect test, in Maths. He liked Maths. He'd been beaten bloody with the belt for scoring better than "perfect little Diddykins".

He snorted. Perfect little Diddykins indeed. He couldn't even spell his own name half the time!

Of course, Harry had to make mistakes as well, when he did anything. He'd learnt that lesson very early. The first time he had done anything better than Dudley, Uncle

Vernon had broken his arm. He'd been three at the time, there had been a game for four people minimum, and Dudley only had had two other kids invited and had wanted to play the game.

Harry had won, easily.

He was sitting in Mrs. Figgs kitchen, writing a letter.

"Mrs. Figg?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"You will sent this to Father Christmas, right?"

"Yes, yes I will, Harry. Anything else?"

"How do you spell 'charitable'?"


Mrs. Figg had wondered why on earth the boy wouldn't want to write a letter to St. Nick at home, and then give it to his Aunt and Uncle.

Or, well, she thought with a grim smile, she would have wondered if Harry's clothing hadn't been any indicator.

She'd written reports to Dumbledore, of course.

He'd never answered a single one of them, leaving Mrs. Figg wondering whether he even bothered to read them. She hadn't talked to Albus personally since she had gotten here. Squibs weren't very... well, most of the time, no one bothered to even look at them, so she'd been grateful to be given this house and an easy job. She had needed a place to stay after her family had kicked her out.

Still, she was worried about Harry. Yet, she so hoped nothing was wrong, because if it was, then she'd likely lose all this.

She put that thought on line. She would help the boy. No child should be treated badly. A small voice in her head argued that she didn't know that it was bad, and until she knew, well, there was no point bothering anyone, was there?

When her eyes fell on the letter and she read it, her fears were confirmed.

Dear Father Christmas,
I know a bad boy such as me shouldn't write to you. Half the time, I don't manage to complete my chores. It's just too much, weeding the garden, mowing it, painting the fence, washing the car, cooking and cleaning the house, and everything else that might have to be done, except for the stuff to do with money. Aunt Petunia doesn't trust me with money.
For Christmas, I wish I could be taken away from my relatives, to someone who loves me and cares for me and where you aren't punished with the belt and no food for days and where I can sleep in a room, on a proper bed, not in a cupboard under the stairs, like Dudley does. Dudley has two bedrooms.
I know you likely won't be able to do that, and I likely don't deserve it, either, but if that isn't possible, could you make sure I get some food from the Dursleys for Christmas and no beating 'cause I'm a freak? Please, just make sure they feel charitable.
Yours sincerely, Harry