Christmas Day started early for Harry Potter at number four, Privet Drive, with a rat-a-tat on the door of his cupboard under the stairs, jolting him from sleep and signaling the beginning of a morning of non-stop work.
–Get up and get dressed,†he heard his Aunt Petunia order shrilly. –There’s a lot to do this morning.â€
–I’m getting up,†Harry answered sleepily. He stretched his legs out straight, making his feet go beyond the end of the bed, which had been a suitable length for him when he was younger but now was becoming too short. Sometimes he wondered what would happen when he grew even taller. He rolled over onto his back and reached his arm out in the dark to feel for the hanging string which was the pull cord of the bare light bulb on the wall of his cupboard, squinting as the bright light suddenly flooded his narrow space, and then began to look for his clothes.
Once dressed, he pushed open the door of the cupboard slowly, in case anyone was passing by in the hall, although he knew that his Uncle Vernon and Cousin Dudley were probably still in bed. His aunt had arisen particularly early this morning because of all the holiday meal preparations that needed to be done, and Harry had to be her assistant. Outside, the black night had not yet released its winter hold on England; it could as easily have been midnight as the six-thirty o’clock hour that the kitchen clock showed.
–You can start by peeling the potatoes and the parsnips,†his aunt ordered Harry as he stumbled into the kitchen, –and then wash the Brussels sprouts and trim off their ends.†Harry located the vegetables in the refrigerator, took a peeler from the drawer of kitchen utensils, and set to work. At the age of ten years he was already adept at basic kitchen skills because his aunt required him to help whenever she was busy in the kitchen. Dudley, of course, never helped.
On the end of the countertop were a Christmas cake covered with holly-trimmed white icing, a Christmas pudding, and a mince pie. A lot of food, Harry thought, for a family of only four people, even given that two of them were voracious eaters. He was thankful that at least Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon’s sister, was not visiting them this Christmas. She was cruising in the Mediterranean with a cousin of hers, a woman whom Harry had never met but to whom he was extremely grateful for keeping Aunt Marge occupied. Aunt Marge was an odious woman who never missed an opportunity to criticize and insult Harry, and even his late parents, when she visited in Little Whinging. In her absence Harry was hoping that Christmas would be fairly calm.
After preparing the vegetables for Christmas dinner and storing them in plastic containers, Harry slipped out of the kitchen to sneak a quick peek at the Christmas tree. He knew from experience that a large pile of wrapped gifts would have appeared under the tree overnight, but that only one of them would be for him, an insignificant trinket such as a wire coat hanger or a second-hand pair of socks, while almost all the rest would be for Dudley. That was how it was every year.
Sure enough, the packages were piled high under the tree, which reached to the ceiling and was covered with glass ornaments, silvery garlands, and colorful little foil-wrapped chocolate Father Christmases, bells, and animals, which Harry knew would not remain long on the tree after Dudley spotted them.
But there was no reason to linger at the tree, looking longingly at packages all intended for someone else, and furthermore, Harry was beginning to hear noises coming from upstairs, sounds of someone stirring. It was probably Dudley, Harry thought, investigating the contents of the stocking hanging at the foot of his bed. That activity would occupy Dudley for a little while before he came downstairs to check out the packages under the tree. Harry himself did not hang a stocking at the foot of his bed on Christmas Eve. The Dursleys had never encouraged him to do so, but once, when Harry was little and still believed in Father Christmas, he had hung a sock on one of the nails that Uncle Vernon had hammered into the wall of his cupboard for him to hang his clothes on, hoping that Father Christmas would put toys in it as he always did for Dudley. Needless to say, when Harry had awakened the next morning, the sock had been still empty, and he had thought that perhaps it was because the sock had not been, strictly speaking, at the end of his bed, or perhaps because the cupboard was not a real bedroom.
With a final glance at the tree and the presents, Harry went back to the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia was adding the final ingredients to what would become the stuffing for the goose.
–You need to lay the table for breakfast,†she snapped as Harry appeared, –and cut the stollen into slices.†The stollen was a sweet bread studded with almonds and red and green candied cherries, which Aunt Petunia always baked for Christmas breakfast.
By seven-thirty o’clock, both Dudley and Uncle Vernon had come downstairs, Dudley chortling happily over the numerous small gifts that he had found in his stocking, and Uncle Vernon exclaiming over the delicious aroma of the food that his wife and Harry were cooking. The Dursleys were all in a happy mood, even Aunt Petunia, for all her busy tasks, and the Christmas breakfast was, to Harry’s relief, a peaceful one without any critical remarks directed at him, although Dudley tried to taunt him by bringing some of the best stocking toys to the table and playing with them on the tablecloth, to emphasize the fact that he had them and Harry didn’t. Harry just ignored him. There was no point in rising to the bait. Nothing would change. Other children had gifts, but he, Harry, did not.
After breakfast, as the sky was becoming light, they all moved into the lounge and turned on the Christmas tree lights. Dudley immediately dove into the pile of gifts, opening package after package and leaving a vast litter of torn wrapping paper that slowly engulfed most of the carpet. There were a few gifts for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia which they had purchased for each other, and one for each of them from Dudley, which he had purchased with money they had given to him.
Harry had no money, and no one had given him any money, so he had not purchased gifts for anyone, nor had he felt any desire to do so. But there was one very small, soft gift under the tree for him. Dudley had tossed the little package aside during his headlong foray into the pile of his own gifts, and Aunt Petunia had picked it up and handed it to Harry, saying, –Here’s your present, Harry.†The package proved to contain a single well-worn white handkerchief with a hem that had come partially unstitched and a tiny hole in one corner.
In summary, the morning was exactly as Harry had expected. Dudley telephoned his friend Piers and bragged about the gifts he had received, and then, judging from the conversation that Harry could hear, Piers bragged about his own. Uncle Vernon turned on the television to hear the Queen’s Christmas speech, and Aunt Petunia went out into the kitchen, Harry in tow, to clean up the breakfast things and start getting the goose ready for roasting. Although they had all had a generous breakfast at eight o’clock in the morning, a sumptuous dinner would be on the table at one o’clock in the afternoon, and while Dudley played with his new self-propelled model tank, Harry worked steadily in the kitchen.
When I’m old enough to get a job, I could work as a cook, Harry thought, but the idea gave him no pleasure. He laid the table in the dining room with the best china, the best water goblets, the best silverware, cloth napkins, and a Christmas cracker at each place. From time to time he gazed briefly out of the dining room window as he worked, looking forward to the later part of the afternoon, when he would be able to go outdoors.
By one o’clock the feast was on the table: roast goose with stuffing, roasted potatoes, gravy, parsnips, Brussels sprouts, bacon and sausages, cranberry sauce, warm rolls and butter, and the puddings on the sideboard, to be served with hard sauce and flaming brandy. The Dursleys and Harry sat down at the table for their second big meal of the day and ceremoniously popped open their Christmas crackers to see what trinkets were inside. Harry got a blue tissue paper crown, which he carefully unfolded and placed on his head, and a tiny plastic figure of a dog. The dog was his second gift of the day, and he would put it in his cupboard with his little collection of tiny plastic animals from Christmas crackers of previous years. When he was younger, he used to play with them on his bed whenever he was banished to his cupboard. He had outgrown that now, but he would still keep this tiny dog with the others. After turning the dog over in his hands a few times, he put it in his pocket. It was best not to leave it out where Dudley could see it.
Everyone else donned their paper crowns also, and Uncle Vernon had just started to carve the goose when that operation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the ringing doorbell.
–Are we expecting someone, Petunia?†Uncle Vernon asked, holding the carving knife and fork motionless in mid-air.
–Gracious, no,†she replied, –and who would be so rude as to come visiting on Christmas at the dinner hour, without even telephoning first?â€
–You didn’t ask your friend to come over, did you?†Uncle Vernon asked Dudley.
–Not me, Dad,†Dudley answered, shaking his head vigorously while never taking his eyes off the goose.
–Go see who it is, Vernon,†Petunia said, –and if it’s not urgent, just send them away.â€
* * * * *
Seated in her car parked at the edge of a street near the city center of Little Whinging, Laura Prentiss turned to pick up her list of gift-delivery destinations from the seat next to her. On the passenger seat were also a large but empty sack made of red flannel and a red Father-Christmas-style hat trimmed in white fur. In the back seat were clear plastic bags, each holding three wrapped Christmas gifts for a child living in straitened circumstances who might not otherwise receive much, if anything, for Christmas.
Laura was a driver and delivery person for the Christmas Project, a cooperative venture of several churches in the area to provide gifts for needy children whose names were submitted by teachers, neighbors, pastors, relatives, their parents’ employers, and so on. At each stop she emptied the packages from the appropriate plastic bag or bags into the red flannel sack, donned her Father Christmas hat, and knocked on the door of the house. She was wearing a festive plaid skirt of red and green and a bright red jacket adorned with a sprig of holly. There was no point in pretending to be Father Christmas; many of the children were too old to believe in him, and Laura was not the right gender anyway.
Laura had just finished a delivery to a row house in this street where two children lived with their mother and father. That house had sported no Christmas decoration save a large red bow on the front door; Laura had seen no Christmas tree in the house during her brief visit, and if there had been any gifts in the household, they had not been in evidence. The children, dressed plainly but not appearing undernourished, had been shy at first but had quickly warmed up at the sight of the contents of the sack, and the parents had smiled broadly and expressed their heartfelt thanks to the churches for the kindness to their children. –Happy Christmas†had been said heartily all around, and Laura had returned to her car.
Now she looked on her list for her final destination of the day. Number four, Privet Drive. Only one recipient was listed for this address, a ten-year-old boy named Harry Potter. Privet Drive was away from the city center, probably a newer neighborhood of better homes, but Laura knew that even in such homes there could be want, for example, in cases of unemployment.
Laura checked her wristwatch as she turned into Privet Drive. The time was one p.m. and Laura was glad that this was the last of her twelve stops because she wanted to complete them all before the dinner hour. Privet Drive was, as she had suspected, a street of nicer, detached houses in good repair with tended gardens, but she know from experience that outward appearances could be deceiving. She had once visited such a house that proved to have almost no furniture in it.
After parking in front of number four, Laura reached into the back seat and lifted up her final plastic sack of gifts and emptied the three brightly wrapped packages into the red flannel sack. She had no idea what the packages contained—other workers selected and wrapped the gifts—but she was certain that they would gladden the heart of Harry Potter, whatever they were. She adjusted the Father Christmas hat on her head and checked the angle in the mirror, studied the list once more to be certain of the name, and then shouldered the bag, walked up the path to the front door, rang the doorbell, and waited.
Soon she heard footsteps from inside the house, and the door was opened by a beefy man with a large mustache and a reddish face.
The man opened the door only partway, perhaps because he did not want to let the cold air in, but he looked Laura up and down, her festive garb and her red sack, and growled, –Who are you? What do you want?†It was not unusual for families to be initially suspicious of their unexpected visitor, but Laura sensed something more than that here, a feeling of hostility and protectiveness rolled together.
–I am Laura Prentiss, from the Little Whinging Christmas Project. I have a special delivery for Harry Potter. Does he live here?â€
In the background she could hear a woman’s voice calling, –Who is it, Vernon?â€
–Yes, he lives here, if it’s any of your business,†Vernon answered, not stepping back or opening the door any farther.
–May I come inside? I have something for Harry,†Laura continued, choosing to ignore for the moment her unfriendly reception and to keep her eyes on the goal of delivering the packages to the child who lived here.
Vernon stepped back slowly, as if reluctant, and allowed Laura to enter.
–Come on in,†he said ungraciously. –I don’t want to let all the warm air out.â€
Once in the lounge, Laura glanced around her. Something was wrong. This house did not look as she had expected. The discrepancy had begun even before she rang the bell, when she had seen the lush, elaborately decorated wreath on the front door. Now she beheld a tall, well-filled-out Christmas tree covered with ornaments and surrounded by a sea of unwrapped toys nestled amid heaps of torn holiday wrapping paper and scattered ribbons. A movement off to one side attracted her attention, and she glanced left to see a wide doorway festooned with looped metallic garlands, and beyond it a dining table covered with food in fine china dishes.
A thin blonde woman entered from the adjoining room.
–What’s going on, Vernon? Who is this?â€
Laura explained again that she had come from the Little Whinging Christmas Project to deliver some Christmas gifts to Harry Potter, and she opened her red flannel sack and began to lift out the three packages by way of illustrating her remarks. Out of the corner of her eye she saw two other figures come into the lounge also. They were boys, a large, blond, well-dressed boy and a shorter, slighter, dark-haired boy dressed shabbily in worn, faded garments that were much too big for him. This latter boy must be her intended recipient, Laura thought, but this situation was unprecedented in her experience: two children in the house, but only one being gifted by the Christmas Project.
–Are you Harry?†she asked the shabby child.
–Yes,†he said simply, his eyes wide.
–Are you just visiting here?†Maybe that was the explanation why this shabby child was located in the midst of such creature comforts.
–No,†he answered. –I live here with my aunt and uncle and my cousin Dudley.â€
Laura’s confusion was only deepening, and she shook her head slightly.
–Perhaps there is some mistake We deliver toys on Christmas to children who don’t have gifts otherwise, but there seem to be many gifts here.†Still, she wondered about the boy’s clothes, the one incongruent note in this prosperous holiday scene.
The blond boy, Dudley, stepped forward, placing himself between the visitor and the mountain of toys on the floor, and folded his arms over his chest.
–These toys are all mine,†he announced emphasizing the last words and shooting a sideways look at Harry as if to say Stay away.
The beefy man, Vernon, began to speak again, and Laura turned her head toward him, the red sack hanging limply in her hand and the tassel of the Father Christmas hat bumping foolishly against her face.
–You can see that we don’t need any of your do-gooder attentions. I am perfectly capable of providing everything my family requires. What we don’t need is strangers invading our home on Christmas and interrupting our Christmas dinner. So you may as well pack up these presents and take them back where they came from. Harry doesn’t want anything from you.â€
His voice became increasingly forceful as he spoke, and he glared at Laura with a belligerent expression.
The blond boy looked dismayed at these words of his father He dropped his arms to his sides and exclaimed, –No, Dad. Tell her to leave them here.â€
Looking at the mass of toys on the floor, Laura had the distinct impression that Dudley wanted the Christmas Project gifts for himself also. There was no point in her leaving the gifts, she thought, if Harry would not get them.
The woman, who had been silent during this exchange, said to her son in a coaxing voice, –Dudley, you heard your father. This woman is leaving right now and taking her gifts with her. This has all been a silly mistake.†The woman smiled, but Laura noticed that the woman was twisting her hands together as she spoke.
–Where did you get our name anyway?†Vernon demanded. –Who sent you here?â€
Laura’s only desire was to end this disastrous scene by departing as quickly as possible, knowing that there was no hope of salvaging the goal of this visit, but she lingered a moment, replacing the three packages in her flannel sack as she answered Vernon’s question.
–The names of the children to whom we bring gifts are suggested by a variety of individuals and organizations. I do not know the particular person or organization who referred your child.†This was her stock answer when families occasionally asked this question.
–You mean you’re not going to tell?†Vernon blustered. –Well, let me tell you something. This boy is no flesh and blood of mine. I give him food and clothing and a roof over his head out of the goodness of my heart, but he doesn’t deserve anything more than that. If his good-for-nothing parents wanted him to have baubles and gewgaws, they should have stayed alive instead of dumping him on us.â€
Laura straightened up, her sack refilled, and said simply, –I’m very sorry for interrupting your Christmas Day. Please let me offer my sincere apology. We have apparently made a mistake. Good-bye.â€
She turned to the front door without waiting for a reply, but not without noticing the stricken look on the face of the boy in the shabby clothes, and let herself out.
Walking down the front path to her car, Laura felt herself trembling all over. She had never had such a negative reception at any other Christmas visit. But, for that matter, she had never encountered a familial situation like this one before, with deprivation and indulgence in the same household simultaneously. There were deep problems in this family, she suspected, troubles that a simple sack of Christmas gifts could not alleviate. She would return the gifts to the Christmas Project and report her inability to deliver them, but there was nothing more she could do. She hoped the teakettle was hot at the Christmas Project headquarters.
* * * * *
As soon as the front door clicked closed behind the woman from the Christmas Project, Uncle Vernon turned on Harry.
–You put her up to this. Not satisfied with all we do for you. Complaining about how we don’t give you enough! Thinking you’re going to sneak around to get stuff for yourself.â€
Harry had been staring at the closed front door, but Uncle Vernon’s rantings snapped him back to the moment. Harry was angry, angry about the Christmas gifts, the only real ones he’d ever been offered, snatched away the instant they’d arrived, and angry about Uncle Vernon’s unjust accusations. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides and declared, –I never told anybody anything. I didn’t know she was coming.â€
–Well, she came,†Uncle Vernon retorted, –and spoiled our Christmas, all because of you.â€
He advanced a step toward Harry, who retreated a step backward.
–Our dinner is getting cold. It will be ruined,†Aunt Petunia complained, and Dudley joined in by setting up a wail on general principles.
–That’s it,†Uncle Vernon declared. –You’ve upset my wife and my son. I’ve had enough. No dinner for you. Into your cupboard, and don’t come out until we say so.â€
Harry turned around without another word and marched down the hall to the cupboard under the stairs. He should have known, he thought. It had been too good to be true. Aunt Marge might as well have been there.
He was thankful that he had had a large breakfast, he thought to himself as he pulled the door closed behind him. He would not eat again until the family had gone to bed at night and he could sneak out quietly for leftovers. At least Aunt Petunia would have to clean up the remains of the feast all by herself. As he sat on his bed, he heard a burst of laughter coming from the dining room. Obviously the Dursleys’ deep disappointment over the ruining of their Christmas Day was wearing off rapidly.
Harry was glad that he had brought his little plastic dog with him. He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, along with the ragged white handkerchief. He spread the handkerchief out on his bed and then reached under the bed where he kept a small brown pasteboard box that held the little animals he had saved from Christmases gone by. He laid the tiny dog and the animals from the box on the white cotton square, pretending that it was snow. Now his old plastic animals had a new companion and the tiny plastic dog had half a dozen friends to play with.
Harry wondered what had been in the three packages brought by the woman in the red jacket. How could they have known what he would like? It didn’t matter anyway; he would have enjoyed anything, at least until Dudley took them away from him and broke them.
He wondered who had referred his name. His teacher at school? The parent of one of his classmates? Maybe his old babysitter, Mrs. Figg? He would probably never know. One thing was for certain—that lady wouldn’t be back next year, or ever again.
Harry turned back to the tiny animals—two dogs, two cats, a mouse, a deer, and something that looked like a bear; at least, that’s what he had decided to call it.
He stood the little brown pasteboard box on end at one side of the white square. That would be the fine house the animals all lived in, where they were all friends. They lived far away from Privet Drive, he pretended, in a place where it always snowed at Christmas, and everything was shared, both the work and the rewards, and nobody ever fought, and everyone was happy.
Tiny Animals by Oregonian
Story Notes:
In the absence of a Christmas story challenge on the Beta Forums for 2014, this story is written to Prompt Three, "The Unexpected Guest", of the 2013 Great Hall Challenge: Let The Yule Tide Roll. A Thank You to my beta reader, Elaine/Islastorm of Gryffindor.