LETTERS TO SANTA
Chapter 1
Pulling a monstrous tree behind him, Hagrid shuffled into the Great Hall, his coat lightly frosted with sparkling snowflakes. Christmastime had come! Ever since he was a young, albeit very tall, boy, he enjoyed seeing professors decorate the hall each year. Twelve Christmas trees of various sizes flanked the head table and the fireplace. Ornaments gilded with gold filigree and silver trim floated onto the tree, as only Professor Flitwick could charm them. Freshly made tapers were lit and floating high above their heads.
Hagrid glanced at the house tables, which reflected a glistening shine. "Filch has done a good job this year." Filch always polished the wood tables until they sparkled. Flames crackled in the fireplace, happily dancing against the frosty air wafting in from the open door. Snow covered Hogwarts, so much that it looked like a frosted gingerbread castle. Although Hogwarts was a stone castle, the students never worried about catching a chill for the heaters, fireplaces, and comfy linens kept them warm and snug.
"Hi, Hagrid. Do you need a hand?" asked Harry. Ron followed behind, setting his chess game down on the nearest table.
"No, thanks, I think I have it from here. You lads go ahead and have fun. And don't forget about the letters. Deadline by midnight tomorrow!"
Hagrid arranged the last tree along the back wall, bid farewell to Ron and Harry, and then returned to his hut.
"What did Hagrid mean about the letters?" asked Harry, a confused but knowing look on his face.
"Oh you know, Harry, letters to Santa. Basically, you ask for what you want and usually, you receive it. We leave them by the fireplace and the house elves throw a special purple powder called Pixie Dust onto the letter before throwing it into the fire. The letter is then transported directly to Santa's workshop. Neat, huh?" Ron sat up the chess game, muttering a spell for some pieces to piece themselves back together.
"I can put anything into that letter?"
"Well not anything. Santa is not a genie, you know."
The chess game continued without further questions from Harry. He had heard of Santa Claus, but the Dursleys forbade him to write, stating he was just going to get coal anyway. Don't bother.
Early the next morning, Harry went down to the common room with a piece of parchment and his falcon quill. Positioning himself near the roaring fire in a cozy, red armchair, he began to scribble his first letter, unaware of the pile of letters littering the hearth.
