Written for the QLFC Season 6, Round 4

Team: Wigtown Wanderers

Position: Seeker

Position Prompt:

Word Count:

Beta(s): DinoDina, CUtopia

Chapter 22: The Joys of Christmas

Christmas would, inevitably, be a scene in the Dursley household. Harry hadn't quite realised that it was unusual – or quite so unusual – as it was until he began attending school and whispers from his classmates proved otherwise.

"How was your break?" was answered by "It was fun" and "I got heaps of presents" or "Our whole family came over for dinner and everyone played games together". It was only then, when Harry listened in silence to the boys and girls around him, that he understood just how different the Dursleys really were.

It wasn't fun, but maybe then that was simply how Harry saw it. But then, Dudley never seemed to have all that much fun either. He was never happy with his presents. He was never content with what he received, and he always made a mess of the boxes and wrapping paper, tatters strewn about the living room and half unwrapped gifts just as readily. Aunt Petunia was the one who seemed to become excited, but even her bumbling joy and gushing energy faded before Dudley's demands.

"I didn't want this one. I wanted the green one."

"It's ugly. I'm not wearing it."

"But I wanted two of these ones, not just one. What's the point of having only one?"

Uncle Vernon always sat in his bloated armchair, munching his way through a plate of mince pies and sipping on cup after cup of coffee. While Aunt Petunia gushed, fussing and bustling around Dudley to pick up after him and scoot abandoned presents aside before he could crush them in his carelessness, Vernon watched with bored detachment and only the occasional nod of approval when Dudley beamed with satisfaction for one particular gift or another.

Harry watched too. He watched as wrapping paper was shredded and presents were tossed aside, all but forgotten. He watched as Dudley dived under the tree again and again to extract more bundled gifts for himself. He listened in silence as Dudley exploded into anger and resentment when he didn't receive one particular gift he'd asked for from the long, long list of those he'd ordered, and listened too as Aunt Petunia promised in twitters and apologies that she wasn't sure how 'Santa' had missed that one and that she would be sure to get it for him just as soon as the shops opened the next day. Uncle Vernon nodded his approval. Again. Always.

It was never fun. Not for Harry. Not when he was turfed into the kitchen by his aunt and directed to scrubbing the breakfast bowls with his elbows dipped in hot water and suds splashing coldly upon his shirt. Not when he was sent to his cupboard so that Dudley could play his video games in peace. It was never fun –

Not until Dudley was given a puppy.

Harry didn't like dogs. Not at all. They were loud, always barking, and those barks chased him when he fled just as the dogs themselves did. They slobbered, and that slobber always ended up coating his shirt when the dog inevitably got a hold of him at the end of such chases. They were persistent, and driven, and surly, and Harry didn't like them.

Or at least he thought he didn't. Hindsight had him realising that his experience with dogs, or with one dog in particular, left much to be desired. The puppy was very, very different to Aunt Marge's bulldog.

"I got a puppy!" Dudley bellowed as soon as he bowled into the living room on Christmas morning. Harry, in the kitchen with kettle in hand for his Uncle Vernon, froze mid pour. Eyes widening, he glanced over his shoulder towards the living room doorway, to the room where Dudley was yelping and shrieking with delight like a kid far younger than his nine years of age. He could just see his aunt's back where she stood in the doorway, shoulders rigid but speaking her excitement in response to Dudley's.

Vernon's cup clattered, and it was only then, when Harry glanced back to his hands and saw how much his fingers shook, that he realised he was scared. A dog. Dudley had been given a dog for Christmas. Dogs were… were scary. And loud. And chased him. And… and he didn't want it around. Not now. Not ever.

Fingers trembling so much that he almost couldn't finish pouring his uncle's coffee, Harry settled the kettle down with a struggle. He didn't want to go into the living room. He didn't want to see the puppy, because then the puppy would see him, and he knew that dogs hated him. They always seemed to; it was as though they knew that he didn't like them so they instinctively disliked him in return.

But if he didn't go… Harry had delayed in attending to his uncle's demands few enough times in recent years, but those few times were enough that he wouldn't do so again. He didn't like it when Vernon shouted. His shouts, the way his cheeks flushed first red then a mottled purple, always bespoke a fierce scolding, the potential for a cuff to the head, and the inevitable locking in his cupboard.

Harry didn't want that. Not even the threat of a puppy was enough to deter him from his chores.

Picking up Vernon's cup in both hands, Harry shuffled into the living room. He sidled past where his aunt still stood in the doorway, glancing up at her only briefly to see her face pinched and her attempt at a smile so poor that Harry wondered if it fooled anyone. She didn't seem to notice him, her attention entirely focused upon where Dudley sat across the room in the midst of his presents. His presents and his puppy.

Harry paused alongside his aunt. His heart was thundering so loudly that he could barely hear Dudley's words as he spoke to Harry's uncle, overloudly declaring how the puppy was 'his and his only' and that he would train it to be the best dog ever, because it was his so of course it would be. He didn't hear what Vernon said in reply, because he had eyes only for the dog that would in all likelihood be his latest terror.

Not that it looked like it. Not that it looked intimidating at all. Harry watched the puppy as it wriggled in Dudley's lap, tail wagging incessantly and head rocking back against Dudley's chest with tongue lolling out loosely. It beamed up at Dudley as though it thought him the best thing in the world, despite that Dudley held it awkwardly enough that it must have been painful. Harry knew how to hold an animal; he'd spent enough time with Mrs. Figg and her cats to know that much. The puppy shouldn't have been comfortable, and yet…

It looked happy. And excitable. And not in the least bit scary, unlike Marge's dog that bulldozed through the house and hounded on Harry's heels like a hellhound. This puppy was different. It was a lot smaller, and a lot less slobbery, and it – it definitely looked like it smiled through the flopping laps of its tongue at Dudley's fingers when he readjusted his hold.

Not scary. It wasn't scary, Harry realised, though his hands still shook around Vernon's coffee cup a little. It didn't look… No, it didn't look scary at all. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be…

"Boy, what's keeping you?" Vernon abruptly barked, and the communal attention of the room, Harry, Dudley, the puppy and all, glanced towards him. He was frowning, hand extended towards Harry, and beckoning him with a curt flap of his fingers. "Come on, boy. It'll be cold by the time you get it here."

Harry hastened to his uncle's side, palmed off the cup, and turned to scurry back to the kitchen. It was a relief to get back to the safety of the tiled floors and humming appliances and yet even so… Even with that safety, Harry couldn't help but pause in the doorway alongside his aunt and glance back over his shoulder towards Dudley and the puppy. He couldn't help but smile just a little as he noticed the puppy peering after him, ears pricked attentively, tongue still flopping, and tail wagging in constant, erratic spasms.

It was almost like… It could have been Harry's imagination, but it was almost like it seemed happy to see him. Tucking his chin, Harry allowed his own smile to widen before hurrying back to the kitchen.

It wasn't as bad as Harry had expected it to be, that puppy. Not as bad at all. Not when that puppy took to following him into the kitchen in the days following. Not when it sat attentively and respectfully as he held a scrap above its nose. Not when it sat at his feet as often as it did Dudley's, and then more so after Dudley became tired of its company and irritated that it didn't appear to be training itself in quite the way he wanted it to.

That puppy wasn't bad at all. Which was a terrible thing, Harry realised, because it made it so much worse, ultimately, inevitably, when Dudley got tired of it, it was taken away. That was, Harry discovered, the way of things in the Dursley household; Christmas was never really fun.