Disclaimer: Harry Potter isn't mine.
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A Letter To Santa
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Harry is five years old, when he finds himself sitting in his chair, in his Year one class, staring down at the letter outline, which sits almost innocently on his desk, in confusion. It is a letter example for them, he knows, to write to Santa or the man otherwise known as Nicholas, but he doesn't know why, exactly, that he has one.
He isn't supposed to write to Santa, after all. Aunt Petunia says, quite fiercely and surely, that orphans aren't supposed to ask for more things than they get, so he tries hard not to.
The teacher turns to frown at him, though, noticing his lack of work, and so, blinking nervously, he picks up his pen and begins to write.
He doesn't want to get into any more trouble than he is already in.
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Later that same day, he watches as his Aunt Petunia posts Dudley's recently written letter to Santa, with a happy indulgent smile on her face, and sees the familiar woman behind them in the post office, smile, too.
She has a child with her, Harry notices, a young girl, shorter than him, with blond hair and blue eyes, who is an orphan, too, Harry knows. Only her parents died recently, though in a car crash, like his.
The girl still smiles a small watery smile at his Aunt Petunia, however, and waves her own letter to Santa at them.
Harry frowns at that, and wonders, as he is pulled away, why exactly she gets to write to Santa, if he does not?
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He gets home, still thinking and pondering, and sits in the icy snowy garden, while Dudley helps decorate the Christmas tree inside, with his mum and dad.
Harry can hear them, loudly and happily, talking about presents, and St Nicholas, and being good all year, and wonders why Santa doesn't seem to realise that Dudley is the naughty one, and not him, if orphans are allowed to write letters and get presents, before he decides, suddenly, with a vast childlike understanding, that maybe Santa simply honestly doesn't know.
Just like with his Aunt Petunia apparently not knowing about orphan's being allowed to send letters, he thinks, excitement flaring and building in his chest. Maybe she actually doesn't know that St Nicholas doesn't just know these things, either!
He bites his lower lip, bouncing in his seat on the step, as he stares at the the front door.
Should he ask to be taken to the post office, then? He wonders, before decided not to, as he hears the happy laughter from inside. He will simply leave it out on Christmas Eve, and wait for a reply! He thinks.
He gets out his letter, and the pen he took from school, and ends up writing an extra two paragraphs as he explains about his Aunts clear mistake, his cousin being the naughty one, and explains how hard he truly works, how hard he tries, and how he even doesn't complain that he has to keep such a small space to sleep in, so as not to cause more problems, or messes, in the house.
He apologises, too, at the end, for asking for a present at all, but says he'll cherish it, always, if he is just allowed one.
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Christmas morning comes around very slowly for Harry, and he wonders, with butterflies in his belly, if Santa has wrote a reply to him immediately, as the man sat comfortably in his Aunt's living room the night before, or if he will write to him at a later date.
He realises, when he ponders on it, that it will be the latter, as dejected as it makes him feel, as the man would have been very busy travelling the world.
It is only afterwards, when he gets liberated from his cupboard, that he sees his letter, still hidden very well under the tree, unopened, he realises that Santa didn't see it, at all!
Or maybe he left it on purpose? A part of Harry says, listening as his Uncle Vernon snorts at something, behind him.
Heart dropping at the thought, and possible truth, he picks up the letter and hides it in his baggy pants, before slowly and quietly leaving his happy cousin and Aunt and Uncle, to go outside.
It is only ten minutes later, with tears falling down his red checks, that hope banishes the latter thought, as an owl, brown, strong and smart, nudges him, questioningly, after appearing as if from nowhere and staring at him expectantly.
Maybe, he thinks, snuffling hopefully, wiping his tears away. Maybe this is Santa's owl? Maybe, somehow, the jolly man knows he left something behind? Remembers that he accidentally forgot Harry's letter, and has sent the owl to pick it up? Because why else, he decides, would an owl be out during the day and looking at him so seriously?
Biting his lip, hands shaking, he pulls out his letter and holds it out to the owl, questioningly. And in response, the owl sticks its leg out, and hoots!
Letting out a surprised wet sounding delighted laugh, he ties, with shaking hands, the letter to it.
"Thank you!" He says, heart suddenly free flying, along with the owl, as it takes off.
Santa, Nicholas, didn't leave it behind on purpose, he understands now. It was an accident!
He smiles and goes back inside, into the warmth, and into his cupboard.
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It is January 3rd when Harry gets a reply, as he sits in the garden, yet again, wrapped up in Dudley's old things so as not to get ill, only it is not from Santa, at all, he realises, but from Mrs Clause, who says her name is really actually Perenelle, and that her husband, Nicholas, although was going to write his own reply, at first, has decided to just meet him in person — Him! Harry thinks. In person! — instead, and so she has sent hers off, with Flapjack, their owl.
Flapjack, she says, in fancy looking writing, is a very very intelligent owl — which means clever, she tells him — and knows whenever someone who is kind, honest and fair-hearted, wants to send them a letter, and so, as he is apparently such, to reply if he should ever want to, all he has to do is simply "will it". And in all honesty, he feels desperately relieved at that, as Flapjack flies off not even a second after he drops the envelope on Harry's lap.
Perenelle says, as well, after she hopes that he is well in the second paragraph, that his Aunt Petunia is most definitely wrong, and not just because all children, orphaned or not, rich or not, deserve to have presents, but because she makes him work the way she does. Perenelle adds, too, that it isn't very nice to keep children in cupboards, either, even if the children do make loads of messes — which he doesn't, he thinks — and says that Nicholas will talk to his Aunt about it, when he gets there.
Santa, he thinks again, heart truly pounding, is going to talk to his Aunt! Is going to see him!
Perenelle also writes, near the end of her letter, that the envelope has a special type of magic on it — magic! Santa's magic!— and that Nicholas should appear to help him a minute or so after he touches it.
And Harry isn't all that surprised, though plenty awed and amazed, when he actually does, with a small pop!
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Santa — Nicholas, the older man, tells him, caringly, after he walks into his Aunts garden — is white haired, bright blue eyed and looks very kind, though he isn't fat, nor seemingly jolly, or wearing any red, at all. Though, Harry admits, as he tries to reign in his awe, he wouldn't be very jolly, either, after flying around he world all night. He imagines he would be quite tired, in fact.
He is wearing a brilliant robe, though, Harry notices, with a fluffy white hood, that Harry can't help but touch, as the man lifts him, carefully, off the ground, and asks him if he is well and if he liked Perenelle's letter.
Harry smiles, still amazed, and nods agreeably, babbling on about how great it was, before he pauses, and flushes, embarrassed, because he isn't supposed to talk so much, is he? Or to strangers, at all, he remembers. But Santa isn't exactly a stranger… Right? He thinks.
He bites his lip, debating that fact, as he takes in Nicholas kind face, while the man smiles gently at his own red one, and knocks almost angrily on the door of Number Four.
Harry realises, a little sad and alarmed, that he should probably warn Sa—Nicholas about his Uncle Vernon, if he is angry, as his relative is very big compared to Santa, and Harry had learnt that bigger people often hurt the smaller ones, when anger was involved, didn't they?
Nicholas' smile — expectedly, Harry thinks, because who wants to get hit? — tightens slightly at his words, but he grants Harry a single nod, all the same, and offers him a genuine thanks.
When the door opens, and Aunt Petunia's fake smile is quickly replaced by a twisted pout and a narrowing of her eyes, because "What has the boy done, now?", Nicholas puts him gently down, and tells him to run along to his room for a second, while he asks his Aunt and Uncle some questions.
Harry nods, feeling suddenly queasy with nerves. What if Uncle Vernon hits Santa? He wonders. Or what if Santa believes his Aunts lies about his bad behavior and ends up shouting at him? He gulps a little, but still goes to walk to his cupboard, before his Aunt gripes his shoulder tightly and pulls him to a painful stop him.
"Upstairs you go." She says, with a strange smile, and pushes him towards the stairs.
Harry doesn't really hear what happens next, only that an hour later, Santa has an empty vial and is shaking slightly, and is telling him about how some people shouldn't be allowed children, and therefore, he is to live with them, now, as they have the funds and the means to love him and keep him completely safe, just as he needs.
"Like a mummy and daddy?" Harry asks, wide eyed and completely and utterly elated, if quite disbelieving.
"Just like a mummy and daddy." Is Santa's reply, and Harry can't help it. He decides his present is the best one any child could ever get.
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AN: This is a random idea that popped into my head, after reading a fic which had Nicholas taking in Harry. I hope you liked it :)