Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this story.
A/N: Written for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry's Assignment #10, Task #8 for Muggle Music, "Write about someone writing a Santa a letter or writing a Christmas wish-list." This is also a Severitus story, and some may read a slashy undertone for Dumbledore and Santa. Errors in spelling are on purpose because Harry is a young child in this, and children tend to have spelling errors.
Santa was a busy man. At least that's what everyone said around this time of year. No one really understood, however, the significant role that magic played in all that he did for children around the world during the season of Christmas.
Every wish was heard.
Every deed tallied, good, bad and in between.
Every action recorded.
And so it was on the day before Christmas that the magic of the season noted the letter of a certain dark haired boy who lived in a dusty little cupboard under the stairs. The magic carried the message to the man that many simply called, Santa.
Dear Santa,
Harry's tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth as he wrote the opening words of his letter in thick, red crayon on a scrap of paper that he'd found on the floor. He'd snatched it up before any of the Dursleys had seen the paper and felt triumphant for it. He'd found the broken crayon stuck between a crack in the floorboards and had quickly pocketed it as well.
Currently Harry was lying on his stomach on the mattress in his cupboard under the stairs, kicking his feet behind him as he pondered what to write. He'd been locked in his cupboard again after some offense that Harry couldn't really remember having committed. He knew better than to argue with his uncle over it, though, especially not near the holidays when Uncle Vernon was particularly short-tempered and drank a lot. Uncle Vernon's extra short-fuse around the holidays and his drinking typically meant more bruises for Harry. His uncle had given him a fat lip just the other day when Harry'd asked him a question about Santa Claus. He'd been shoved into his cupboard afterward, none too gently, and left to think about what he'd said.
Harry couldn't, for the life of him, understand what he'd said wrong, but like he hadn't questioned today's banishment to his room under the stairs, he hadn't questioned his uncle then. It was better for Harry to keep his lips firmly shut and his eyes on the floor (in a show of respect) than to incur his uncle's wrath on a good day. These days were anything but good.
His question hadn't been answered by his uncle, and when Harry had asked his aunt about Santa, she'd laughed at him and had told him to get back to his chores.
Harry hadn't bothered to ask Dudley. His cousin probably didn't know the answer anyway, and if he did, he wouldn't share the answer with Harry. Dudley hated Harry and often went out of his way to show Harry just how much he hated him.
Harry sighed and blew his bangs out of his eyes. His hair was getting long again, which meant that he was due for another haircut soon, and with that would come more freakishness when his hair grew back (like it always did). Harry hoped that his aunt wouldn't notice his hair until after the holidays so that his uncle wouldn't be as apt to take a belt to his backside in an attempt to beat the freaky behavior out of him.
Harry hated getting the belt. It hurt, a lot, and Uncle Vernon knew how to make the belt whistle in a way that was menacing, and sting when it came down. Harry absentmindedly rubbed his backside in memory of the last time the belt had been applied to it. He couldn't even remember why Uncle Vernon had done it, just that he'd been guilty of some offense and had to pay for that guilt with pain.
If someone had bothered to answer Harry's question about Santa Claus, he wouldn't be having such a hard time writing the man a letter. He frowned down at the scrap of paper, at the crooked letters of his greeting and wondered if Santa would even bother reading a letter from Harry Potter.
Harry wasn't special in any way. Being a freak did not make him special, it just made him bad and wrong and it meant more punishment for him than for other boys.
He sighed as he fiddled with the broken crayon in his hand. If the Dursleys knew he had this bit of red crayon, he'd be punished for stealing, no matter that it was just a stub and Dudley no longer used it.
Hello.
Harry wrote, squinting in the dim light that filtered in through the edges of the door, and wondered if he was being too informal for Santa Claus. Would Santa mind such an informal greeting, or would it anger him? Was Santa like Uncle Vernon when he was mad?
My name is Harry.
Harry wrote, and he dropped his head onto his forearms, groaning. He sounded so babyish. Santa would probably laugh at what he'd written and then crumple the letter up and burn it.
I'm not sure if i'm alowed to rite to you or not.
Harry re-read the sentence, making sure there were no errors in it. His teacher, Ms. Singleton, always said they should check their work before turning it in and Harry figured that Santa would be the same way. Finding no errors, Harry continued his letter, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, feet kicking idly at the mattress, as he did so.
But no one wood answer me to let me no if it was ok so i thot i would rite 2 u.
Harry inspected his work, and satisfied that it was okay, he got to the crux of his reason for writing Santa in the first place.
Anyway, Harry's eyes narrowed as he wrote, i was wondring if maybe u cud make me gud so my fmly wood luv me. Or if u cant make me gud maybe u cud give me a new fmly. One that wont care that im a freeck. Thank u.
Harry pushed back from the paper and looked it over before nodding to himself and buckling down to write once more.
Sincrly,
Harry potter
p.s. i live in the cupbrd under the stares
Harry didn't want Santa to confuse Dudley for him, because he was the one who needed to be made good, not Dudley. Harry felt a little bad for asking for a new family if Santa couldn't make him good, but he really wanted, more than anything else, to be loved, and the only way he would be loved was if he was good enough for someone to love him.
Harry read his letter again then he kissed it because Becky Millhouse had said that letters were best when they were SWAK, which Harry had learned through Annie Carter, meant sealed with a kiss. He folded his letter up as tight as he could and kissed it again. Two kisses were better than one, right?
Harry tucked the red crayon in between the floorboards of his room and pondered how best to get the letter to Santa. He'd asked Uncle Vernon for the address, but that had met with a glower and a finger in Harry's face as he was scolded for asking stupid questions and wasting his uncle's valuable time.
The light outside his room went out and the familiar tread of feet on the stairs that sent dust raining down on his head signaled that it was bedtime. Harry tucked his letter to Santa under his thin pillow and flopped onto his back. He pulled his blanket up to his chin (it was chilly at night) and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, which meant that Harry would be up early helping to make Christmas dinner. It was something that he helped his aunt with every year, and he enjoyed it, even though he never got to eat any of it.
"Dear Santa," Harry prayed in a whisper. "I'm sorry that I can't send my letter to you on account of I don't know your address and none of the Dursleys will tell me. Even though I know magic isn't real, I really hope that you get my letter because it's important and I need to be good and Ms. Singleton said that Christmas was magic, and that you are magic, and I promise I won't ask for another thing from you for my whole life if you make me good, or give me a family that loves me."
Harry was a little breathless after his prayer to Santa, but he felt better for it. He turned onto his side and fell into a pleasant sleep filled with dreams of eating Christmas dinner with his family and opening Christmas presents around the tree.
He woke the next morning with a smile on his face, though he'd been pulled abruptly from his sound sleep by a loud knock on his door and his aunt's harsh admonishment to get his lazy butt out of bed. She unlocked his door and Harry made haste in leaving his room, hoping that Santa had somehow magically gotten his letter and that this Christmas would be different than all the rest.
Sadly, that was not to be, and Harry found himself in the same predicament he'd been in every year — making Christmas dinner for his family and not getting a single bite of it. Harry focused on being good, thinking that maybe if he had a positive attitude about it that Santa would do the rest.
"What are you smirking about?" Aunt Petunia said, whacking him with a spoon. "Stop daydreaming, those potatoes will not peel themselves."
Harry shook himself from his imaginings. "Sorry, Aunt," he said, and he set to work on peeling the potatoes, only cutting himself once during the process.
He quickly sucked at the blood on his finger and then pressed it against his jeans to stop the bleeding before his aunt could see it. She would only blame him for being reckless and then he'd be punished once he'd finished making dinner.
Once Harry finished the meal preparations with his aunt supervising, his heart sank when he was directed back to his cupboard room and locked in.
Santa had not answered his letter just yet, but Harry still held out hope that the man in red would answer it yet. After all, it was just Christmas Eve and Christmas was still on its way. Maybe Santa was going to grant him his desire on Christmas Day, like a proper Christmas present. Harry really hoped so.
Harry listened as his family ate Christmas dinner and felt a sting of tears, but he brushed them aside, opting to think about how he'd helped make the meal that they were eating and they were enjoying it. Surely that meant he was good, right? Maybe Santa was already answering his letter.
"Dear Santa," Harry said, heart heavy. "I tried my best to be good. If my family can't love me, and if you can't find a family who will love me, maybe you can find just one person who will? That's all I want for Christmas. Please?"
That night, as Harry fell asleep to the sounds of happiness and laughter shared by a family that he'd never really been part of, a special wind blew through Privet Drive carrying Harry's wish straight to Santa. Harry slumbered, oblivious to Santa's workings on his behalf, and dreamed of having someone to hold him when he woke from nightmares and kiss his boo-boos well, like his aunt did for Dudley.
"Albus," Santa said, waking his good friend out of a sound sleep in which he dreamed of wool socks and lemon flavored candies. "Harry Potter has had an unusual Christmas wish, and I mean to grant it."
"What is it the dear boy wished for?" Albus asked through a yawn.
He took the peppermint candy that Santa offered him and popped it into his mouth. Santa took the lemon candy Albus offered him.
"A family who will love him," Santa said.
Albus blinked at his good friend and frowned. "But—"
"Blood wards be damned," Santa said. "A child, especially one as special and instrumental in the fight against darkness as Harry is, needs to know and experience the touch of love beyond that of sacrificial. Harry needs someone who will be there for him after a bad dream, feed and clothe him properly, and let him play. The Dursleys do none of this for the boy."
"What is it that you propose?" Albus asked.
"I seem to recall another little boy who had a similar wish when he was about Harry's age, though at the time I could not give him the desire of his heart," Santa said.
He gave Albus a meaningful look and Albus looked away. He knew the young man of whom Santa was speaking and the reason why Santa could not fulfill young Severus Snape's wish. The blame lie with him alone.
"This time I am not going to let you meddle with the magic of Christmas," Santa said.
"Severus is a changed man," Albus said. "He may not be—"
"He is more than capable of showing love to Lily's child," Santa said, voice soft. "He is capable of a great deal more than he gives himself credit for."
Albus nodded, thoughtful. He knew it to be true. Severus may deny that he harbors only feelings of hatred and self-loathing, but Albus knew otherwise.
"Tonight?" Albus asked.
"Tonight." Santa nodded. "The magic of Christmas is strongest now, and I will need your help."
Eyes twinkling as he thought Santa's proposition over, Albus agreed. He'd always wanted a chance to fix some of his past mistakes, especially where Severus was concerned.
"Yes," Santa said, answering Albus' unasked question. "This is a fulfillment of one of your own greatest Christmas wishes, to make things right for those that you care about."
"Thank you," Albus said, voice somber, even as his eyes shone bright with happiness.
"There is no need to thank me," Santa said. "We have work to do, and the night is not getting any younger."
Laughing, Albus transfigured his sleeping clothes into a set of elegant purple robes and he and Santa set off to grant the wishes of two boys — one grown and one still small — before the night was over.
Christmas magic sparkled in the air like fine crystals of different colors. It swirled and spun and cavorted like a child at play. Had Harry been awake to see it, he would have delighted in it. As it was, Harry slept on as Santa used the magic to carry the boy away from the cupboard under the stairs to the upper bedroom on Spinner's End where it tucked him in and set a brand new teddy bear within arm's reach.
The room was transformed into something that a little boy like Harry would love: a comfortable bed in the shape of a dragon; wallpaper that featured Quidditch, with players and snitches that moved about; a small desk beneath the window; and something little Harry had wanted, but never had after his parents had died — a chest of toys.
Stockings were hung in the living room below, overflowing with all sorts of treats and trinkets that both boy and Potions Master would enjoy upon waking. Albus' magical touch.
A lovely tree, decorated with lights and ornaments, set itself up in a corner of the room, and both Santa and Albus piled presents around it. The living room was transformed into a winter wonderland with the flick of a wand and the thumbing of a nose. The kitchen was filled with Christmas foods.
"Have you taken care of Severus?" Santa asked.
"I have," Albus said, eyes sparkling with mirth and joy. "He'd hex me if he ever found out that I'd altered the past. Thankfully Christmas magic is irreversible and rather untraceable."
"It is for the best," Santa said. "The past influences the future, and both boys will need each other to survive what lies ahead."
"That they will," Albus agreed.
The two surveyed their work and shared a smile. It was good. They knew that, in the morning, the boys would wake, both unaware of the miracle of magic that had brought them together as recently reunited father and son. Christmas morning would dawn for them as the first of many happy Christmases to come.
"Come, let us call it a night," Santa said. "Spend some time with me at the North Pole? It gets lonely."
Shaking his head, but smiling, Albus took his old friend's hand and let his friend's magic whisk him away into the night. It had been many years since he'd spent some time with the wizard that everyone called Santa, and he wanted to rekindle the friendship that he shared with Merlin, if only for a season.