Closing the door after the child, Arabella Figg returned into her living room, slowly unfolding Harry’s letter. ‘Let’s see what he wishes for; maybe I’ll be able to do something for him,’ she mused, before she read what Harry had written in small, untidy letters, and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘I have to speak with Dumbledore about this. He finally has to help the child.’

After a few minutes of pondering what to do, Mrs. Figg headed to the fireplace and floo-called Dumbledore, who stepped over into her living room a minute later.

“Albus, you can’t leave the poor child at the Dursleys. They keep him in a cupboard, and they don’t love him at all. Look what he wrote to Father Christmas, and Petunia threw his letter into the rubbish bin when he showed it to her.”

Dumbledore reached for the letter, while he listened to the old lady’s excited talking with a twinkle in his eyes. “Well, I suppose that I could play Father Christmas and do something for his bad sight. I’ll have to ask Poppy about the matter though,” he finally said, pensively stroking his long beard. “Concerning the breathing problems in his cupboard,” he thoughtfully glanced at the letter, “I can imagine that he has a dust allergy or something. Are you sure that he is living in a cupboard, Arabella?”

“Yes Albus, he lives in the cupboard under the stairs,” Mrs. Figg explained firmly. “I’m sure about that.”

“Maybe I should have a word with Petunia, but first I’d like to speak with Harry. I’ll come here as Father Christmas on Christmas morning. Do you think he’ll be able to visit you on Christmas morning?”

“Albus, I don’t know. I asked Harry to come back tomorrow right after school, so that I could inform him if I managed to forward his letter to Father Christmas. I’ll ask him then. If I may floo-call you again tomorrow?”

“Yes, of course, Arabella. In the meantime, I’ll speak with Poppy and ask her how we’ll be able to help Harry. Unfortunately, I’m not very adept at Healing spells, but Poppy doesn’t really look like Father Christmas I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Arabella, but I have to return to Hogwarts immediately. I appreciate that you’re looking out for little Harry. Thank you very much.” With that, Dumbledore turned to the fireplace and floo-ed back to Hogwarts.

HP HARRY HP

The thought, ‘I have to run faster; otherwise Aunt Petunia will tell Father Christmas that I wasn’t good and didn’t make dinner,’ still lingered in his mind when Harry woke up in the morning, shivering violently in the cold. He squeezed himself out of the garden shed, before he dashed through the snow to the back door, seeing in relief that his aunt was in the kitchen making breakfast.

“What do you think you’re doing, running away overnight without making dinner or breakfast, you ungrateful little urchin?” Petunia hissed at the child in an extremely upset voice when she let him into the kitchen, apparently not noticing that Harry was violently shivering from the cold.

Harry didn’t even bother to listen to her angry babbling but hurried to his cupboard to put fresh and warm clothes on, before he left the house, glad that he wasn’t late for school.

It was only when he was sitting in his class, enjoying the warmth of the classroom, that he noticed his throat and head getting incredibly sore. ‘I probably caught a cold,’ he thought, slightly shivering, ‘but I have to hide it from the teachers. Otherwise, they’ll call Aunt Petunia, and she’ll be very angry and already lock me in my cupboard, where I’ll have to stay all over Christmas. I have to go to Mrs. Figg today in any case to see if she found a way to send my letter to Father Christmas.’

Nevertheless, during the first afternoon class, his teacher noticed that his cheeks were deeply flushed and sweat was building on his forehead, recalling that he hadn’t eaten anything for lunch. She crouched in front of Harry, giving him a piercing look. “Harry, are you feeling all right?” she queried softly, gently extending a cool hand to feel his forehead.

“I’m fine,” Harry whispered, flinching away from the cold touch.

“Are you sure, Harry?” the teacher enquired in a soft voice. “You feel a bit warm to the touch, and you don’t look well. Please tell me if you begin to feel worse. All right?”

“All right,” Harry replied in a small voice, averting his eyes to the floor. ‘Thank God it’s the last day before the beginning of the holidays,’ he mused, although he normally preferred going to school to staying in his cupboard or being forced to do chores all day long. During the last two hours of classes, he did his best not to let the teacher notice that he was feeling worse by the hour. He tried as hard as possible to concentrate on his work, feverishly pushing the thought of his letter to Father Christmas to the back of his mind.

Realizing that Mrs. Jones was watching him in obvious concern, he hurried to get out of the classroom as fast as he could once the last class was over. He slowly dragged himself through the snow, heading straight to Mrs. Figg’s house instead of returning home to leave his school bag in his cupboard first. By the time he reached the old lady’s house, he felt utmost ill and was hardly able to keep himself upright anymore.

HP HEALER POMFREY HP

Harry rang the bell, glad that Mrs. Figg opened the door much faster than the evening before.

“Hello Harry,” the old lady greeted him gently, ushering him into the house.

Harry slowly followed her into the living room, where he let himself sink on the sofa in front of the fireplace, unconsciously sighing in relief as he sat down.

“Harry, are you all right?” Mrs. Figg asked in surprise, giving him a piercing look.

“I’m fine,” Harry replied a bit too quickly, causing the old lady to sit next to him on the sofa and carefully place a hand on his forehead.

“You’re not fine, Harry. You’re feverish.”

“It’s just a cold, and I feel fine,” Harry protested when Mrs. Figg fetched a thermometer and proceeded to take his temperature.

“38.8 (101.8),” she read from the display. “Does your throat or anything else hurt, Harry?” she asked softly, causing Harry to sigh inwardly.

“My throat and my head are sore, but it’s all right,” he replied in a small voice, hating that he hadn’t been able to hide his ailment from the old lady.

“Well, I’ll give you something that’ll make you feel better,” Mrs. Figg promised and went to fetch a phial of Pepper Up potion. “Harry, this is cold medicine, which works very well; however, it’ll make steam come out of your ears, just to let you know in advance. Here, drink it all, please.”

Harry hesitantly gulped down the strange liquid, noticing that in spite of the fact that it tasted horrible it seemed to work instantly. Within seconds, he felt much better and threw the old lady a grateful smile. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Figg. I didn’t know that medicine works so well. The Dursleys never give me medicine when I’m sick, because it’s too expensive,” he explained to the woman.

Mrs. Figg shook her head in annoyance. “In that case, Harry,” she said firmly, “I want you to come to me whenever you feel sick. I’ll always try to help you, and of course I won’t tell the Dursleys anything about what we do or talk about. By the way, I had the chance to speak with Father Christmas.”

Harry let out an excited gasp. “And did you give him my letter?” he queried hopefully.

“Yes, I gave him your letter, and he told me that he’d like to see you here on Christmas morning. Do you think your aunt will let you come here on Christmas day?”

Harry sadly shook his head. “No, Mrs. Figg. In the afternoon of Christmas Eve, I have to cook the Dursleys’ meals for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, and afterwards, Aunt Petunia always locks me into my cupboard, so that I won’t be in the way and disturb them when they’re having Christmas.”

Mrs. Figg tried not to let her anger show in her face when she replied, “All right, Harry, can you come here in the morning of Christmas Eve then? I’ll try to convince Father Christmas to come a day earlier to you this year.”

“I hope Aunt Petunia will let me go,” Harry replied with a hopeful expression on his face. “When is Christmas Eve?” he queried hesitantly.

“Today is Friday, and Christmas Eve is on Sunday,” Mrs. Figg informed him gently.

‘Will Father Christmas really come to me this year?’ he mused in absolute delight, before he thanked the old lady profusely.

“Very well, Harry. I’ll contact Father Christmas once more and ask him. I think you should go home and go to bed though. You still don’t look too well.”

“All right, Mrs. Figg. Thank you so much for everything,” Harry countered gratefully and returned to the Dursleys, knowing that it was already time to cook dinner anyway.

HP HEALER POMFREY HP

“Where have you been all afternoon?” Petunia screeched at his sight. “Go out and shovel the snow, and hurry up since you have to cook dinner before Vernon comes home.”

Harry wordlessly obeyed and spent the next hour shovelling the snow that was covering the footpath and the drive, noticing that he was still feeling terrible. ‘Only two nights and then I’ll be able to meet Father Christmas,’ he mused, while he worked hard to free the path from the huge load of snow.