Yes, Draco, There is a Santa Claus

(Written for Savva, for The Maple Bookshelf's

Christmas Exchange 2012)

By

AnneM

Dear Father Christmas,

I am four years old. My name is Draco Malfoy. My mother is writing this for me because I cannot yet read and write. I hope you don't mind. All I want for Christmas this year is everything I on my list, which I will enclose. Mostly, it's all sweets and toys. You may decide how many of each, but keep in mind that I've been a very good boy this year. Therefore, I deserve it.

Until next year,

Yours faithfully,

Draco Malfoy

Age 4 ½

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Dear Father Christmas,

My mother told me to write to you again this year. She said that I'm still young enough to believe, but old enough to write to you myself – whatever that means. I wanted you to know what I wanted for Christmas anyway, so I was going to write even before she made me.

Here is my list –

1.) I want a broom. Mother thinks I'm too young, but Father says he was seven when he had his first broom. I'm seven and a half, so I should have gotten a broom last year. Keep that in mind.

2.) I want a toy train set. Not one of those pitiful Muggle ones, but a magical train set that looks real and really runs. I saw one in Diagon Alley. It looked like the Hogwarts Express. I'll be going to Hogwarts soon. I'll be in Slytherin house, in case you were wondering. Enough said.

3.) I want loads and loads of sweet. Chocolate frogs, Bertie's all flavor beans, as well treacle and Turkish delight.

4.) I want ten gold pieces. One for every year I've been born, plus one extra. Mother laughed when I told her I wanted this, but Father smiled and said I was a true Malfoy. He said, "That's my boy." I love it when I make my parents happy.

5.) That's my next wish… I want you to make my parents happy. Something terrible is about to happen, I just know it. I can't tell you what, but it makes my mother cry sometimes and my father yell.

6.) Anything else you might want to give me would be welcomed as well.

Thank you,

Yours truly,

Draco Malfoy

Age 7 ½

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To: Father Christmas

I admit you've always been rather good to me, of which I'm thankful. You seem an all right chap, in fact. Most of my friends don't believe in you. We all made fun of Theo Nott for saying you were real. I regret that, because I still believe in you as well. I hope you don't hold that against me.

I only want one thing for Christmas this year. Just one. I hope you'll indulge me, as you always have in the past. I want my mother and father safe from 'you know who'. He's coming back very soon, although most people don't know that yet. I heard my father tell my mother that it was true. She cried. Have I mentioned how much I hate it when my mother cries?

Please, don't let 'you know who' spoil my Christmas this year.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

Age 8 ½

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Father Christmas,

I've just decided that I hate Christmas. I hate everything about it. I hate the cold. I hate the smell of pine needles. I hate decorations. I hate ribbons and bows. Mostly, I hate that my mother and father seem to fight all the time. My mother is crying right now, as I write this to you, and you know why, yet you can't help me because you aren't real.

I yelled at Father today. I told him to stop making my mother sad. I told him that its ten days before Christmas, and that he shouldn't make her sad this time of year.

He told me that it didn't matter if it was close to Christmas. He said he had to do what he had to do… whatever that means. He told me that Christmas was nothing but a load of sentimental nonsense. He told me that you weren't real.

I already figured that out. I mean, what's the use of believing in you, if you aren't going to give me what I want? Christmas time is the worst time of the year.

Everything seems so hopeless,

Draco Malfoy

Age 9 1/2

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Father Christmas,

Please don't take this letter as a sign that I still believe in you, because I don't. I'm only writing to you because its tradition and we Malfoy's are nothing without our traditions. But that doesn't mean I believe in you. I haven't for years, because you haven't seen fit to give me my Christmas wish for years.

Still, I don't suppose it would hurt to ask you give me something this year, even though you aren't real, and I probably won't get it.

You see, everything is so scary right now. I don't know what to think or believe. Do you recall that time I asked you to make sure 'you know who' didn't come back? Well, he did, and you didn't, and after that, I knew you were only pretend.

If you were real, you would let my father out of Azkaban. If you were real, you would take away the task the Dark Lord has given me. Please. I don't want to kill anyone.

Oh, and please punish Harry Potter for being a self-righteous prig.

Regards,

Draco Malfoy

Age 16 ½

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To that fat man in the red suit,

I hate you. I hate everything about you. I hate everything you represent. I hate Christmas. I hate everyone who doesn't hate Christmas. I hate when people smile and say 'Happy Christmas' with their fake smiles and joyful 'ho ho hoing'!

I hate that my wishes no longer come true. I hate that my mother and father have suffered so much. I hate Voldemort and I'm not afraid to write that down, either.

If you were real, you would grant me one wish… just one. Please, make sure Harry Potter kills Voldemort and that he never comes near my family again.

Draco Malfoy

Age 17 ½

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Dear Father Christmas,

Well, it's been a long time, hasn't it? Too long or not long enough. Now, don't go thinking that I still believe in you, for I don't and haven't since I was a very small child. Still, I wanted to write to you, even if only one last time.

Voldemort is finally gone. I know you didn't have anything to do with that. Harry Potter killed him. I still hate Harry Potter, but I'm glad he killed him. So glad. Harry Potter said hello to me on the street the other day. He smiled, lifted his hand, and said, "Hello, Malfoy". Why? Why would he waste his time saying hello to me? Surely, he still hates me as much as I still hate him. True, we aren't children any longer, and we should probably 'forgive and forget', but I'm not ready to do either, and I find it hard to believe that he is as well.

But he did say hello to me. I didn't say it back. I merely nodded my head in response. That's all he deserves. A nod of the head. After all, I still hate him.

Weaslebee was with him and he nodded to me after I nodded to Potter. He's such a wanker. He couldn't even find an original way to say hello to me. He had to steal my head nod. Whatever. I hate him more than I hate Potter, if that's possible. I heard he's been accepted to play professional Quidditch. If I cared a bit more about the ginger-headed vermin, I might be jealous. But, I don't and I'm not. Not one whit.

I wonder where their curly-headed friend was? You know the one. Hermione Granger. She wasn't with them. I haven't seen her in years. I still think about her sometimes. I have nightmares that involve that girl, actually. Nightmares where I remember her screaming in agony on the floor of the drawing room at The Manor. I think I hate her most of all. How dare she appear in my nightmares? And my dreams. And my daydreams.

Well, this is enough of a letter for this year. It will probably be my last.

Draco Malfoy

Age 25 ½

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Snow was falling down from a somnolent gray sky. Along with the snow came a sudden drop of temperature. Christmas was nearly here. Hermione Granger looked out the window of her new office at all the swirling, whispering snow and smiled. She didn't mind the gray sky, or the snow, or the cold. She loved this time of year. She loved everything about it. She loved the smell of evergreen. She loved gingerbread and biscuits. She loved presents (both giving and receiving.) She loved the feeling of happiness and hopefulness that came with this time of year. Christmas represented everything good, clean and right. It filled her with hope that someday she would finally be happy.

Shifting away from the window, she moved to the desk of her new office and began shuffling papers and quills around. Today was an important day. It wasn't important because it was only nine days until Christmas. It was important because her dream finally came true. Therefore, she felt as if today might be the most important day of her life. Of course, she had many 'most important days of her life' throughout her life, but today was still special, nonetheless. For at only twenty-six years old, she had just been named 'Editor and Chief' of The Daily Prophet.

When she started working here, two years ago, her main goal was to discredit the paper by disabusing all of the lies it had spread over the years regarding Harry Potter and their friends. The paper was nothing but a gossip rag at the time, and Hermione wanted to turn it back into the respectable newspaper that it had once been. And now she had a chance to do just that! She started as a copy-editor, moved on to writer, and starting today, she was the youngest (and first female) editor the paper had ever had.

She was so proud she couldn't contain the smile on her face. Just thinking about her new job made her feel as if she was receiving the best ever early Christmas present she could ever imagine receiving! A few of her associates were helping her to move into her large, new office and she felt she had to be dignified for appearance sake, so between barking out orders… "Put that plant by the window" and "place that picture over the file cabinet", she kept her bubbling joy to herself. But now, she was quite alone in her new large office, so she smiled while her legs danced a merry, little jig under her desk.

She was so happy she felt as if she might burst!

There was a small knock on the door and Terry Boot, her new assistant editor, came in before she could tell him to do so. In his hands was a cardboard box, which he was juggling vicariously even as he closed the door of her office with one foot. "This is heavy, where do you want it?"

She rose from her seat. "What is it? I thought the last of my boxes were brought in a while ago."

"This is the box of letters that you wanted." He placed it on the floor by her desk. Dust flew up in the air from the top.

She waved her hand in front of her face. "Where did you find it?"

"In the basement archives, hence the dust and grime," he said with a smile. Bending at the waist, he lifted the lid and placed his hands inside. "Look at all these old letters. Why, some of them were written before we were born." He threw a stack of various size envelopes on her desk. "What did you want with these?"

She picked up one, opened it, and said, "Well, it's almost Christmas, and I want to write my first editorial about the hope and joy that Christmastime can bring. Do you recall a story from a long time ago, about a Muggle little girl named Virginia who wrote the editor of 'The New York Suns' newspaper to ask if there was a Santa Claus?"

"I vaguely remember it. Refresh my memory, and then tell me how this is pertinent to us." He smiled and sat on the edge of her desk.

She flipped open one old, yellowed envelope, and while she quickly perused the words written thereon, she explained, "Back in September of 1891, a little girl named Virginia O'Hanlon wrote to The Sun's editor and asked if there was a Santa Claus, better known to us as Father Christmas. She said that all her little friends were telling her there was no Santa, but her father told her to write to The Sun, and if they said there was one, there was, because a newspaper couldn't lie."

Terry snorted. "Oh really? A newspaper can't lie?"

Hermione placed the letter she had opened down on her desk and smiled. "I know; it was a different time, different place. But see, my father told me this story when I was young, and it left an indelible impression on me. To me, newspapers were supposed to tell the truth. That's partly why I came to work here… to turn this lying rag back into a truthful source of news and events. And I feel I've that my first editorial as the new editor is my chance to do that."

"Since it's December, and almost Christmas, I wanted my first act of editor to be a celebration of not only my new job, but of the fact that THIS paper will now be a source of goodwill and that whatever is written here within will be believable. What better way to make my point but to reprint The Sun's original story – with its letter from Virginia and it's response from the editor, Francis Pharcellus Church – as well as my take on it."

"I have a copy of the article framed. I was going to put it up on my wall." She reached into another box and pulled out a frame with an article, then handed it to her new assistant editor.

Taking the framed article in his hands, he sat on the edge of her desk and read aloud:

DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.' Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?

VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except what they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, and no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world, which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Handing the framed article back to Hermione, Terry bent down, reached inside the box, and lifted out several other old letters. "And that's where these come in, I presume?"

"Exactly. These are old letters written to 'Father Christmas' and I thought I might find a letter from 'my own' Virginia, and then I could fashion a response to it, to accompany the reprint of the original article in The Sun."

Terry smiled and claimed, "You're brilliant, Miss Editor. Bloody Brilliant."

Draco Malfoy walked along the cobbled street of Diagon Alley and stared at the swirling snow falling all around him. Tilting his head skyward, he saw the gray sky and the dark clouds and shivered. Pulling his coat tighter around him, he continued onward to his destination, all the while thinking about how much he hated Christmastime.

He hated cold weather, snow, greenery, the smell of pine, bright ostentatious decorations. Mostly, he hated the traditions and silly trappings that went along with the season – such as believing in Father Christmas. Draco grunted as he thought of the million of parents who lied to their children every year – telling them that all would be right in their contained little worlds – if only the believed. What rubbish!

Whenever he thought of the ruse of 'Father Christmas'… and his counterparts of St. Nick, Santa Claus, etc, etc, etc… he felt literally ill to his stomach. No, that wasn't it. He felt a pain, right in the middle of his chest. Bringing his hand up to his chest absentmindedly, he rubbed it over his coat, above his heart. He always got the same empty, hollow, cold feeling in the middle of his chest, where his heart should be, whenever he thought of Christmas and everything to do with it.

When he was younger, he would get that feeling of dread and pain when his father would stay out all night doing misdeeds with the other Death Eaters, leaving Draco and his mother alone and worried at home.

He would get it when his mother would lock herself in her room and cry, worrying about her husband, her sister and her son.

He got it the year he was given the task to kill their Headmaster back when he was in school. Actually, that feeling persisted most of that year, but it was more intense at Christmas.

He had it in spades the year the Dark Lord took over his home… the year his father was a broken, ruinous shell of a man, the year his mother was afraid of her own shadow, the year his crazy, stupid aunt tortured a little mudblood on their best Persian rug in the drawling room.

The feeling didn't even lift the year St. Potter killed the evil creature Voldemort, even though they were all free. Perhaps it was because his father was sent to Prison, his mother sentenced to house arrest, and all of them (Draco included) was vilified daily in that farce of a paper, The Daily Prophet.

The feeling intensified when he would pass people like Harry Potter on the street, and of course, at Christmastime.

Pulling his collar up higher, sticking his hands in his coat pocket, he trekked forward to his destination. He was on his way to a meeting at the former rag, The Daily Prophet – but which he liked to call his new business venture since he bought the former piece of filth.

Yes, he was on his way to see a woman about an article that he wanted her to write regarding Christmas. Since he owned the paper now, and was the reason the woman was now in charge, he was certain that she would do as he wished. He wanted an article or editorial written disabusing the notion that Christmas was a time for happiness. He wanted an article that would denounce all things Christmas. Nevertheless, mostly, he wanted an article written that would condemn the hoax of Father Christmas.

"Do you need any help looking through the old letters to Father Christmas, Hermione?" Terry asked with a warm smile.

Hermione hardly heard his question. She had already pursued a handful of letters and thought she had found the perfect one to use for her article. Of course, she might have to change a line here or there and the boy's name to protect him from discovery. The fact that she found THIS letter from THIS person at THIS time of year gave her pause.

Looking up, she noticed Terry was still waiting for his answer. "You go on with whatever plans you have for tonight. It's late, and I'll probably be here most of the night. I think I've found the perfect letter to use in my article. In other words, I think I found my 'Virginia'."

He nodded. "Just don't forget about your meeting with the new owner of the paper. He should be here any moment."

Looking down at her watch, she gasped. "You're right. I want to make a good impression, after all, if he hadn't bought the paper six months ago, and fired the former Editor and Assistant Editor, you and I wouldn't have our current jobs, would we?"

"Whoever it is, just give him our thanks and wish him a Happy Christmas from me," Terry said as he left her office.

Hermione moved all the letters, save for one, from her desk, sliding them back into the box at her feet. Whoever this mystery man was, she would have to give him her undying gratitude. She was stuck as a lowly reporter for two years when suddenly the paper was sold last summer. Then, two weeks ago, the editor and his upper staff all fired, and she received a missive from the new owner naming her the new editor-in-chief. He gave her the promotion sight-unseen! She could only assume that he had been a fan of her articles, or perhaps he gave it to her because of her connection to Harry Potter and the fall of Voldemort. Whatever the case, she was grateful.

Most importantly, it was going to be a Happy Christmas this year!

Moreover, she wanted him to be pleased with her first article as well. Picking up the letter from a young Draco Malfoy, age 9 1/2, she already began fashioning a reply in her mind. She looked back down in the box and saw several other letters written on the same high-end stationery and with the same cursive writing on the front. For some reason, the stationery and the cursive writing on the front of these letters looked familiar. Grabbing these letters as well, she moved them to the top drawer of her desk, (placing them on top of the one she received naming her editor) and she folded the one she intended to use for the article in half, placing it neatly under an inkwell.

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Draco reached the building that housed his newest enterprise, The Daily Prophet and hurried inside out of the cold. He had a meeting and he abhorred being later. Heading toward the lifts, he smiled to himself. Buying this paper and firing all the old, stuffy staff that was at its helm made him happy. They had maligned his parents, him, and all things Malfoy for years, and it made his evil, twisted, little dark heart skip a beat while it did a two-step in celebration of the fact that he could make their Christmases darker by making them unemployed!

After firing the old editor and assistant, he didn't frankly care if the paper went to ruin, except it did cost a lot of money to buy the place. Therefore, he promoted the most unlikely, but perhaps the most honest person, to fill the position. His former foe, Hermione Granger.

She didn't know he was the owner yet, but soon she would. She would find out in about five minutes. Would she go running from the building, screaming in horror? Would she scowl at him with her 'Hermione Granger scowl' and give him a five-minute lecture on the history of the newspaper? Or would she hex him and turn him into a ferret? He almost laughed aloud at the possibilities. One thing was for certain, she would write this article for him or he would fire her as well! He exited the lifts and started toward her office.