This story was written for the Finals of the Fourth Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as Beater 1 for The Wimbourne Wasps.

Name of round: Whose Line is it Anyway?

The Harry Potter books and movies have given us endless amounts of great quotes, and some of these will be the stars of this round. Each prompt is a quote that is widely associated with one particular character, but it's your job to make somebody else say it in your story. You may not change anything about the wording of your given quote as written below, nor can you work around this task by making a new character simply quote the original speaker.

Try and change the context or tone of the original line if you can. Remember that only one other person will be writing the same prompt as you, so standing out and being creative will be important when it comes to judging.

Good luck to the Wasps and the Falcons.

Beater 1: "One can never have enough socks." - Dumbledore

These were the prompts I'm using to block our opponents, the fierce and fabulous Falmouth Falcons:

2. (quote) "We accept the love we think we deserve." - Stephen Chbosky
3. (word) charcoal

Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created; it's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

This is the end. The last story of the Fourth Quidditch Season. Ellen, Xanda, Sophie, I can't imagine getting this far without you. You and the other Wasps have made this competition a joy, even through the hardships and challenges. Thank you for all your support and help! Signing off now. Buzz, buzz!

Extra thanks to paperclippe and njchrispatric for also looking over the story.

PS. Word-count provided by MS Word—

All I Want for Christmas
Words: 2 143

Large, soft snowflakes floated in the air, creating a fluffy cover as they landed on the frozen ground. The air was filled with the melody of a Christmas carol and the spicy scent of mulled wine. Harry's toes were freezing in his trainers, his cheeks felt stiff with the cold, and his mouth was watering with longing for a toffee apple. Dudley's lips were sticky with the sweet toffee of his second apple. Harry could only watch and hope that his cousin might get too full to finish it. If that happened, Aunt Petunia might let Harry have whatever remained. That was, unless Dudley threw it away out of spite. Nevertheless, even though it was unlikely that he would get to taste the toffee apple, Harry was happy.

He was happy that he'd been brought to the Christmas Market. It was great to be out of the house, to be somewhere that wasn't school or Privet Drive. He turned his head this way and that, trying to take in all the sights, smells, and sounds. Here, a cheese vendor, packing in a strange cheese speckled with blue. There, a stall selling handmade wooden toys—shining wood in the shape of planes, animals and little swords. Here, fragrant Christmas trees in every size and shade of green imaginable, waiting to be brought home and decorated. And there, another stall where you could buy warm drinks with fruit cake or gingerbread.

Everyone was so happy. Though tense expressions passed over the adults' faces as they hurried around, trying to get everything done, they were soon transformed into smiles. It was impossible to stay glum when the sounds of jingle bells and children's voices raised in song overlaying the gentle chatter of people browsing the stalls.

"Stay close," said Aunt Petunia, grabbing the back of Harry's jacket, roughly jerking him to her side before he could get a closer look at a man who was forging candelabras, bending glowing red iron into shape. "Don't get in anyone's way! And don't touch anything!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," demurred Harry, pulling at his collar to alleviate the feeling of being choked.

"Listen to your aunt, boy!" grumbled Uncle Vernon.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"Mum!" called Dudley, grabbing his mother's sleeve and tugging at it.

"What is it, sweetums?"

"Look at those stockings!"

At a stall a row over, Christmas stockings unlike any Harry had ever seen before—unlike any he could have imagined—hung among knitted hats, scarves, and mittens. The stockings had wonderful patterns: some were traditionally coloured with simple knitted designs, while others showed vibrant Christmas-themed imagery that looked so real that you could almost believe the figures would begin to move if you watched long enough. The reindeer looked ready to prance, the snowmen looked as though they were about to gallantly take off their hats, and little round Father Christmases looked as if they might burst out into jolly laughter.

"I want one!" said Dudley.

"You already have a nice Christmas stocking, Duddykins."

"But I want one of those!"

"He knows what he wants, our son." Uncle Vernon chuckled, his large black moustache twitching.

Aunt Petunia allowed herself to be dragged over to the stall with the stockings. Harry hurried to keep near to her after a hard look from his uncle reminded him of the rule that had been laid down.

The stockings were even more incredible up close. Harry could have sworn that he actually saw one of the angels wink at him, but he blinked and the angel was still.

"Hello," said an old lady with a head of curly white hair which was barely contained by her knitted hat. "Do you see anything you like? Am I right in assuming that you have your eye on the stockings? If you have the time, I can whip up something special for these two young men." Her gaze slid from Dudley to Harry, and she seemed to grow still for a second before a flush appeared on her cheeks, and a wide smile spread across her face.

Harry knew that look. Every so often, people who weren't ordinary would look at him like that. Once, a short man had bowed to him in the supermarket. The knitting-lady, though, didn't seem like she was about to do anything quite that odd.

"I'll give you a pair at the price of one," she said. "Little boys should have nice Christmas stockings. Mine will last them a lifetime."

"We're only interested in one for Dudley," said Aunt Petunia.

"Oh."

"I want one with a Santa," said Dudley. "That one!" He pointed at a huge stocking that had both a santa and a reindeer on it, embroidered in such fine detail that they looked equal to a painting by a Renaissance master. The upper edge was lined with fluffy white fur, and a golden tassel was attached. Next to it hung another five stockings, equally large and of equally fine make. The first one had one reindeer; the others had two each. Harry stared at them and could have sworn that the reindeer were tossing their crowned heads and stomping their hooves; he could practically hear them snorting.

"Ah!" said the knitting-lady, breaking Harry's concentration. When he looked again, the reindeer were still. "That one is part of a set. I made them with a large family in mind. It would be a shame to break them up. Father Christmas needs his reindeer."

"I want that one!" said Dudley. "I want all of them!"

"Dudley, sweetie, isn't one enough?" cajoled Aunt Petunia.

"I want them!" wailed Dudley, drawing frowns from the people around them. Harry blushed, embarrassed on his cousin's behalf.

"Let him have them," said Uncle Vernon. "They'll look good over the fireplace. There are even six of them. We could add the letters of Dudley's name to them."

"Yes!" said Dudley, knowing that he had gotten his way.

"I suppose they would look nice," said Aunt Petunia. "I've never seen stockings like them."

"Thank you," said the knitting-lady, although her smile had gone stiff. "Don't you want anything for your other… son?"

"I think the stockings for Dudley are enough."

"I see."

Aunt Petunia looked down at Dudley, whose attention was already wavering. He had finished his toffee apple. Only the wooden stick remained, and now his attention was turning towards the decorated gingerbread being sold a couple of stalls over.

The stockings were taken down from their display position by the knitting-lady, then carefully wrapped and put into a large bag.

She did not stop there, though. From some hidden place, she pulled out a pair of deep red socks. "One can never have enough socks," she said. She didn't give them to Aunt Petunia, however. She put them into a small bag and handed it to Harry. "Here you go. You can carry them yourself."

"I can't take them," he murmured.

"Yes, you can. Go ahead."

Once he had the brown paper bag pressed to his chest, Aunt Petunia was reluctant to protest. Harry could see that she wanted to, though; her lips had become thin, and her nose was raised, but she didn't comment.

"Vernon," was all she said, prompting Uncle Vernon to pull out his wallet.

"Keep the change," he said as he handed over a few bills, already moving away. "Come, boy!" he ordered.

"Wait a second," said the knitting-lady. "Come closer."

Harry felt torn, but she smiled warmly at him, and that was more inviting than Uncle Vernon's glower. She leaned down across the stall and spoke in a low voice. "I know the socks in your bag aren't nice stockings like the others, but they are better. They're magical."

Harry gasped. "I saw the ones Dudley is getting move; are they magical too?"

"Only display magic. Nice little charms. The ones I'm giving you are the real thing, oh, yes. Now promise me you'll do as I say."

Harry nodded.

"Hang up one of your socks on Christmas Eve; it doesn't matter where. Think of the best Christmas present you can imagine as you go to sleep, and when you wake up in the morning, the sock will be filled with whatever it was you wished for. You only have to believe it. And once Christmas is over, you'll have both your present and a warm pair of socks."

"Thank you," whispered Harry.

She nodded and smiled, eyes glittering wetly. "Hurry along now. And Happy Christmas."

"Happy Christmas."

"Boy!"

"I'm coming, Uncle Vernon!"

-`ღ´-

The moment they reached the car, Aunt Petunia had taken the bag with Harry's red socks from him, but they had been returned to him later that night because Dudley couldn't use socks that said Harry on them in neat silver letters. When they were returned to Harry, the silver thread was a bit frayed, showing that Aunt Petunia had been unsuccessful in removing them. It didn't matter. The red yarn was soft like a dream, and the socks were never before used, the first new pair of socks Harry had ever had. They were all his.

Harry had no idea how the knitting-lady had known what his name was. He hadn't said it. Neither had his aunt or uncle, but somehow she had known, and that small detail was what had made sure that he was allowed to keep them. He could only be grateful for whatever power had guided the knitting-lady.

Until Christmas, he kept them neatly folded on one of the shelves in the cupboard under the stairs. He looked at them each night, barely daring to hope that they really were magical. But the knitting-lady had known his name, and he had caught the reindeer on Dudley's six stockings moving again, several times. At least, he thought he had. Whenever he looked closer, they were simply very well made images. Perhaps both Dudley's stockings and his socks really were magical.

Late on Christmas Eve, Harry took one of his socks over to the mantle and made to put it up next to one of Dudley's large ones.

"What do you think you're doing?" said Aunt Petunia.

"I'm putting up a Christmas stocking."

"Stop that. Naughty boys like you only get coal in their stockings, if they get anything at all. Stop that nonsense and go to your cupboard."

With a lump in his throat that very much felt like it might be made of coal, Harry followed her order and shut himself inside the cupboard under the stairs. He sat on his cot, holding the soft, red socks in his hand. The letters of his name glittered up at him. Perhaps the socks were enough. He shouldn't be greedy. But no. He had promised that he would hang it. The knitting-lady had told him that it didn't matter where.

Harry carefully pulled at the edge of one of the sock and put his heaviest book on top to keep it in place on one of the shelves that were on height with his cot. He lay looking at it as he fell asleep, holding the other sock in a tight grip. He tried to think of different toys he wanted, of tin soldiers, footballs, radio-controlled airplanes and stuffed animals, but his thoughts kept drifting back to lumps of charcoal. His mind was filled with his aunt's harsh voice declaring that naughty boys only deserved to get coal in their stocking. Tears rose in his eyes. He wished he had a real family. A family who loved him.

-`ღ´-

On Christmas morning, Harry woke up as Dudley thundered down the stairs and ran into the living room.

Excitement unlike any Harry had known in a long time spread through his insides. He bounced up from his cot and grabbed the sock, dodging the heavy book that came down with it. He felt the outside of the sock, and the warm, bubbly mixture in his stomach froze solid. It was empty.

It couldn't be empty.

Aunt Petunia couldn't be right. She just couldn't.

Harry pushed his hand inside, feeling around desperately, and there was something there. It was flat, small, and made of paper. That was why he hadn't felt it from outside, why there had been no added weight to the sock. He pulled it out and saw that it was a photograph.

In front of a sparkling Christmas tree, a man with untidy dark hair and glasses stood with his arms wrapped around a redheaded woman. In her arms was a dark-haired baby. As Harry looked, they smiled and waved. He instantly understood who they were.

"Dad," whispered Harry. "Mum."

The sock hadn't been able to give him what he really wanted, but it had done the second best thing. It had given him proof that no matter what the Dursleys thought of him, he was—and had always been—loved.

The End

A/N 3rd April 2017

We're about as far away from Christmas as we can be. The last one's forgotten and the next one is ages away, and yet I bring you a Christmas themed story. A sad one at that.

I've been listening to the first two chapters of Chamber of Secrets for the last however many weeks as I got to sleep, never progressing further, which means that I have the Dursleys and their lovely ways fresh in mind.

I hope you enjoyed this story - I would love to know what you thought.