Oh fan fiction, I just can't keep away.
Which brings me to finally posting that piece I mentioned. It ended up being my Advent Calendar Entry because I lost my voice after practicum (I was going to submit a song - The Christmas Song - which would have been really quite nice, but impossible given my sore throat). My point? You might have already read it.
Title: We Wish You A Figgy Christmas
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 750 words.
Notes: Written November 2005. Many thanks to my beta readers, riverlight, hermioneluna and foolieonthehill.
Harry at age six was much like Harry at age eleven. He was brave, mature, but most of all, downtrodden. He did not expect much out of life, and secretly but firmly believed that this was for the best. It was the week before Christmas. Most other children his age who lived in the area looked forward to this time of year. They were aware that there would often be a big feast, presents and Christmas Specials on TV.
Harry, on the other hand, did not think there was anything particularly new, exciting or engaging. It was just a time of year alike any other. Dudley received presents every week, so his receiving more was only slightly unusual. The largest difference in Harry's life was the sweet smelling pine tree residing in the living room. The one which, under absolutely no circumstances, was he allowed to go near.
This day, he was at Mrs. Figg's house. He did not much care for Mrs. Figg. Mrs. Figg smelt odd. She would say nasty things to him if he touched her belongings. She never let him play games. She'd insist that he pet her cat. And worst of all, she read the most boring stories to him. Harry rued the day he had looked up at the stern elderly lady and asked, "D'you think you could read to me, Mrs. Figg?" What ensued had been torture. Worse than torture! It had been historical romance!
When Mrs. Figg had offered to read "Pride and Prejudice" to Harry, he had not been in the least bit perturbed. He had been sure it was about lions. He'd listened, from his cupboard, to the documentary Uncle Dursley had been watching three days before this perilous exchange, and heard David Attenborough state quite clearly that 'pride' was a word which meant 'group of lions'. As to what 'prejudice' was, Harry could only guess, but he figured he would soon find out. How wrong he was.
"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife," Mrs. Figg had begun, and already Harry had felt his ears drop off in sheer terror.
No, Harry wasn't especially fond of Mrs. Figg, and she did not seem overly fond of the young Mr. Potter either. She always had a frown on her face when Harry was around.
She made sure he was sat perfectly still before bringing him a mince pie. Harry scoffed it down in two large bites.
"Do you want me to read to you, as usual?" Mrs. Figg asked, and whilst Harry's eyes widened in abstract horror, he dully nodded his head. The alternative to this exercise was helping dust the shelves, and between getting fluff up his nose or getting bored to death, Harry much preferred the latter.
Mrs. Figg read to Harry until approximately ten minutes before Aunt Petunia was supposed to collect him. Harry didn't know much of what she did read, as most of it made little sense to him. Harry was aware, however, that there was an almost cheerful satisfaction emanating from Mrs. Figg. She appeared to almost be happy. Harry was far from happy. He did not want to go back to the Dursleys, and he did not want to stay here.
Mrs. Figg told him to sit still again and walked out of the room. Harry waited obediently if not a little belligerently. He amused himself by creating swirling patterns in the carpet. She came back after a short time, holding a small box. Harry looked up at her quizzically when she held it out towards him.
"Don't take all day, boy," she said with urgency, but no anger.
Harry was still confused, but he carefully took the small box from her hand. He looked up at her again and she nodded. Harry opened the lid.
Inside the box was a small but ornate pin. The clasp was slightly worn, as was the red enamel, but the gold shone brightly. Harry liked how it felt in his hand.
"That was once my grandfather's," Mrs. Figg said with obviously esteem. "It's thought to give protection to whomever owns it. You make sure you take care of it, young man."
"Thank you, Mrs. Figg," Harry said in surprised gratitude.
"Now, you better put it away in a safe place so your aunt doesn't see it," Mrs. Figg said with a small smile, "Merry Christmas, Harry."
"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Figg."
Unfortunately, I got the note about "Uncle Dursley" a little too late, and have kept him like that because it seems to suit the piece and to be honest I find it cute.