Harry resolutely suppressed the tears that threatened to overflow as he prepared for Christmas. If the sight of an eight year old silently masking his misery wasn't a clue that something wasn't normal; the knowledge that he was doing all the preparations for a celebration he'd be forbidden from participating in anyway would have been.

But Harry had never been normal.

Stupid, worthless, waste-of-space Freak!

A silent sob made Harry's breath hitch, but no other sound escaped as he pre-cut the rest of the vegetables and stored the jello-bowl in the fridge for Christmas dessert – something Dudley'd demanded to complement the already staggering array of pies and cakes that made the counter groan under their weight – an amount that wouldn't even survive the weekend when faced with the massive appetites of the obese father and son.

And despite the fact that Harry had prepared the meal, decorated the house, hung the stockings, put up the lights (of course, he did this in the middle of the night, since the neighbors might become suspicious if faced with his freakishness during the daylight), and cooked every last one of those pies and cakes and tarts… he wouldn't be allowed to see, touch, taste, or enjoy any of it.

Because Harry would be spending his Christmas, like every other one except for his first – when, if he concentrated hard enough, he remembered echoes of laughter and flashes of red and tinsel – in his cupboard; vent and door shut and locked.

No, all Harry could hope for, Christmas-wise, was that his Uncle would forgo his usual punishment; and leave Harry to his misery in peace. While his relatives laughed and opened gifts and sang carols; and Harry's heart would harden just that much more.

Seven years Harry had lived under the 'tender loving care' of his relatives: Uncle Vernon (large, body-mass and mustache of a walrus; and the disconcerting ability to change colors at will); Aunt Petunia (his mother's sister; neck like a giraffe, voice like a banshee); and Dudley (also known as Dinky Diddydums, Dudleykins, Duddy Wuddy, beached whale, or assorted variations of the above).

Seven years since his parents had died in a car crash; leaving their one year old son with a lightning shaped scar on his forehead and memories of flashing green lights. Seven years where Harry was abused, neglected, beaten and belittled, downtrodden, starved, and loathed.

Seven years of ignored or pain-filled birthdays, and seven-going-on-eight consecutive Christmases spent in backbreaking labor and soul-crushing depression.

Harry brought his mind back to the present and away from his maudlin thoughts as he placed the forty-pound foil-wrapped turkey in the pan of water and slipped it into the oven – even though his arms shook from the strain. But he managed it – knowing that his aunt was now watching from around the corner – and shut the oven door before turning it on to a low heat. That way the meat would get slowly and evenly cooked throughout the night, and would be ready just before Christmas dinner.

Harry then bagged the vegetables that were to be steamed tomorrow and put them in the fridge; put saran wrap over all the pies and cakes to preserve them; and double-checked the pantry to make sure that there were at least eight cans of jellied cranberries inside (oddly enough, Aunt Petunia had a fondness for them and could eat two cans all on her own on a good day).

Luckily, Aunt Marge and her evil Satan-spawn mutts weren't coming this year, otherwise Harry'd have to cook nearly double what he already had; as well as run down to the supermarket for their year's supply of wine and brandy.

Speaking of Aunts…

"Freak!" Aunt Petunia shrieked, and Harry did his best not to wince at the way her voice nearly shattered his eardrums. "Wipe the counters and table, sweep and mop the floor, and clean all the windows! Then it's into the cupboard for you, and I don't want to hear a single peep from you until the New Year!"

"Yes Ma'am. But please Ma'am, may I please have something to eat?" Harry whispered, keeping his head bowed and submissive.

Aunt Petunia sniffed in disgust before snapping, "I'll think about it! Now get to work!"

The hope of food for the first time in three days slightly uplifting his spirits; Harry was quick to move through all the chores, though he made sure to be thorough.

Kitchen now sparkly clean, Harry walked into the living room where Aunt Petunia was watching Christmas Specials on the telly. The brief but loud sounds of shooting lasers and "Go go go go go!" signified that Dudley was upstairs on his computer (that he got for his sixth birthday).

"I'm all finished Aunt Petunia." Harry called out meekly.

Aunt Petunia was quick to mute the telly before going into the kitchen to inspect it. To her great surprise and displeasure, she could find nothing to critique. Harry watched with bated breath, before breathing a sigh of relief when she just scowled and nodded reluctantly.

"Hmph! Now get to your cupboard!" She huffed and moved to walk past her green-eyed nephew.

But a sudden, unexpected, and completely unwelcome touch to her elbow stopped her. "But Aunt Petunia… you said… could I please have something to eat?"

Petunia hissed and wrenched her arm from the Freak's grasp, scratching her elbow convulsively as though to rub off some infectious disease. "You don't deserve any food! Now get in your cupboard!"

Now, normally Harry would have scurried there as fast as sneezing; but this time his stomach overrode his mind and common sense. "Please Aunt Petunia… I haven't eaten for almost four days… I did good, didn't I?"

And immediately, Harry realized he'd screwed up; even before his Aunt grabbed him by the ear so violently that her claw-like nails ripped through the cartilage and met in the middle.

"No," She hissed with so much hate and venom that Harry automatically shut down inside. "You're not good, you're an evil, money-grabbing, bastard Freak-degenerate; and I wish that I'd drowned you the night I found you on my doorstep. You don't deserve birthdays, Christmases, gifts, love, friends, or even a fucking bed. You're an unwanted burden and I curse the day that your bitch-mother spawned you."

As she said all this, she was dragging Harry to his cupboard, taking vindictive pleasure from the silent tears in her nephew's eyes. She flung him violently into the cramped space, uncaring for the blood that leaked from the torn ear or the broken cry as his head came into contact with the doorjamb. "Now get in there and stay in there. I don't want to hear a single noise from this cupboard until Vernon gets home." She nearly smirked at the outright terror in those viridian orbs. "He'll deal with your blatant disrespect, your belief that you're better than you really are, and your outright arguing with me."

Petunia mentally searched for the perfect parting shot, before inwardly cackling as she found it. She gripped the cupboard door and smirked down at her bleeding, crying, terrified nephew. "Oh, and Merry Christmas."

And she slammed the door.

Alastor, or better known as Mad-Eye Moody to friends and enemies alike, trudged into his living room before collapsing into his favorite armchair. He grunted in relief before removing his clawed leg and hoisting his mangled stump up onto the footrest, glad for the reprieve. He grumbled under his breath as he summoned some muscle cream and began messaging it into warped skin.

He'd hoped to spend the day relaxing for the first time in nearly ten years; but some Death-Eater-wannabe's had decided to spread some Christmas cheer. Moody had apprehended them, of course, but as there were about ten to one it still took him a fair bit of time. And, of course, the rest of the Aurors show up after they're all trussed up like Christmas turkeys.

Just because they're taking the day off, doesn't mean that the lily-livered scum are too.

CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

And, leaving his notorious catchphrase ringing in their ears, Alastor flooed home; leaving them with the clean-up. Thankfully, they weren't so green to argue with him. Although he might have gotten some pleasure from hexing them into St. Mungos on Christmas Eve.

Cursing Newbies; now there's a stress-reliever.

Moody capped the vial of salve and relaxed into his chair, letting forth a loud and gusting sigh of relaxation and comfort. Despite all appearances to the contrary, however, Moody was not a Scrooge.

His house was simply yet tastefully decorated in reds and greens; a small three-foot tree stood in the corner with a slightly-rusty yet still beautiful star on top, and silver and gold tinsel clung to the pine needles; a stocking was hung by the fireplace, monogrammed Tristan, which was his middle name; and he'd even baked some cookies.

All of these were mementoes and traditions left over from his parents, who'd been killed early on in the first war.

Not many remembered Ariana and Xavin Moody; the Hufflepuff and Slytherin couple who married right out of Hogwarts and later gave birth to Alastor Tristan (Slytherin), Melanin Fiora (Ravenclaw), and Brandon Nicholas (Gryffindor).

Of all of them, Alastor was the only one to survive the first war; the rest slaughtered during a Christmas gathering that Alastor had skimped out on, claiming too much paperwork in the Auror office.

Oh how he wished he had been there. Things may have been so different…

But Moody had learned, long ago, that what-ifs and wishful thinking get one nowhere, and it was best to let ghosts remain in the past where they belonged.

The sparse decorations around him – the stocking, the ever-lasting tree, the star, even the plate the cookies rested upon – were among the few items he'd been able to save from the charred remains of their house.

And, rather than letting the experience mold him into a bitter and cruel old man, who hated the holidays and avoided them at all cost; he allowed it to be the only time of year that he could lay back and reminisce – smile, laugh, and cry as he remembered his family and the time they had together, the love his Hufflepuff father installed in each of them, and a strong sense of family that transcended blood.

The chiming of his floo had Moody starting from his thoughts and his wand pointed at the fireplace in point two seconds flat.

Even recognizing the face in the grate, Moody did not relax an iota.

"What's the secret of your father's bloodline that you told me five years ago; while in a secret room in the Hog's Head?" He barked out, both sharp eyes trained firmly upon the eerie floating head.

The head rolled its eyes and smirked. "Same old Tristan… All right all right!" He snorted as Mood shifted his grip on his wand threateningly. "I'm descended from an ancient line of staff-makers whose founding head created Merlin's staff; and it was in the Leaky Cauldron, you old dog, not the Hog's Head. Nice try though."

"Had to be sure." Alastor grumbled as he slipped his wand in his holster and pressed the brick to allow his friend through. "Constant Vigi-"

"Yeah yeah, constant vigilance, we all know." The man stepped through, banishing the ash from his robes with an errant flick of his hand and smirking at his friend. "I think you're just hoping that I'll slip up someday and you'll finally have a legitimate reason to hex me."

Chavez Lavada Legati, or Legs – as Alastor called him, given his profession and last name – was a powerful and formidable man whose respect and influence had not dulled with age. He stood at a respectable six foot even, and had a wiry, compact frame that spoke of hidden strength and power. His skin was a perfect, flawless honey-brown; while his hair was purest black - seeming to absorb any light and trapping it within; so that the black of his hair seemed to glow with its own inner dark fire.

Both his shoulder-length hair that was kept tied back with a thong, and his subtly pointed ears, were slight hints towards the Fae blood from his mother's side; the Clairvouxs.

The Clairvouxs were a very old, very mysterious family who guarded their secrets more close and fiercely than their heirs. Most notable of these secrets, though, was that they were a family of seers. Even those who knew that much still didn't know what specific type of seers they were – as there were many different kinds – and Moody was honored to be one of the only who knew about Chavez's specific gift.

It was this jealously guarded blood that was the reason behind Chavez's unique eyes; and the reason that Alastor's friend constantly wore a glamor.

The right eye was a pure silver, no whites or pupils, the entire orb a single ball of molten silver. The left eye's iris was unblemished gold, nearly blinding in its purity and intensity. The black that bled from the pupil and took over the whites served to bring the gold into starker clarity; giving the illusion of burnished wisdom and timeless earth.

Even now, his friend was wearing a glamor, and Alastor knew he wouldn't take it off until he'd asked his own question. Moody was suddenly fixed with the glamored blue eyes of Chavez – that didn't diminish from the power of his gaze – and settled back as he waited.

"What specific type of blood-trait do I have?"

Moody smirked at the guarded question. If he were anyone other than who he was; no information that wasn't already widely known could be gleaned from that question.

"You're a Level Three Seer, possessing an inner eye that allows you to 'sense' things, pertaining to specific dates and times but not the circumstances involved. Oh, and you only get a bloody inconvenient twenty-four hour notice."

Chavez flushed lightly as his friend parroted the exact words he'd once used when describing his talent to the grizzled Auror – or rather, when he was in a particular snit about his gift. After verbally berating him for belittling a precious and important gift; Moody gave him a black eye "for being insufferably annoying" before buying him a round at the Poisoned Apple Pub.

Moody's wizened face broke out in a wide grin before transfiguring a log into a comfortable armchair. Chavez plopped ungracefully into it with a grateful sigh as he allowed the multiple glamors to fall from his skin; relaxing for probably the first time all day.

"Merlin, it's been a long day." Chavez moaned, and Moody grunted back as he summoned some mead and began to heat it over the fire.

"Tell me about it. Did you get some of mine today?"

While Moody's job was to put Death Eaters and criminals into the hospital, it was Chavez's to fix them up and sent them back into protective custody at the Ministry (though they all knew it was to protect them from Alastor, not the general public).

Chavez worked as an Certified Wizard Healer, part time, at the Saint Mungos London branch. It was a sort of side-hobby, and a diversion to keep others from digging too deeply into his family's history.

"Was yours the pile up of DE's that had all their arms and legs fused together like some morbid, sick Rubix Cube?" After seeing Moody's twisted, self-satisfied smirk, Chavez snorted. "Yeah, of course we did. Half the time was spent figuring out whose limbs were whose; a fourth taking them all apart; and the rest re-subduing them as they figured it would be easier to escape from the hospital than Ministry custody."

If anything, Moody's smirk became even wider, remembering the rather inventive and nasty hexes all St. Mungos healers were partial to. "Poor sods." His voice rang with insincerity.

Chavez just snorted, blowing the steam from his now-hot mead before taking a sip. He sighed in pleasure and relaxed nearly boneless into his seat. He didn't get to visit as often as he would like; and more often than not, when he did visit, it was because something was about to happen.

Same so with this time.

And Alastor seemed to intuitively know this.

"What is it this time Legs?" Moody gruffly asked, not ever one to pussyfoot around a subject; preferring to get right to the heart of the matter – where the conversation would eventually end up anyways.

Chavez sighed before taking another steadying sip of the hot beverage. "I'll be available tomorrow." He said out of the blue, causing Alastor to stare at him in shock and confusion. "I'll be available all day tomorrow… and I've recently purchased some new woods. New, rare, and not normally what I stock up on."

His eerie eyes met the horrified and comprehending gaze of his oldest friend. "I do not know why, or even who they are meant for; all I know is that they'll be needing them desperately… and they'll be needing them tomorrow."

Working part time at St. Mungos was just a passing hobby of the Legati Heir. It was also a diversion. In truth, Chavez was one of the few staff- and foci-Masters left in existence – with the ability to form and mold woods, precious stones, and magical ingredients to his will. He was also the only one in his family to inherit the Seer-blood as well; allowing him to see the magical core of a wizard/witch/creature, and make a foci completely compatible with just them.

With other Staff, Wand, or Foci makers, they had to create their conduits blindly; playing in their labs day in and day out, hoping that this foci would be chosen, be compatible, with a young magical child. That's why, anytime you walked into a wand-shop (Ollivanders, Gregorovitch), there were hundreds, sometimes thousands, of unclaimed wands.

But Chavez, as he could see the magical core and make the foci, was extremely sought after in high-up pureblood circles. He was exclusively available on request or demand; as he did not own a shop, and only operated out of his mansion's basement.

Only those who knew how to reach him could, and that way was only by owl sent to Emrys. Very few knew Merlin's original name; and as they were the line who created his staff, they saw the name fitting. Not to mention, there were no other known descendants of the Merlin line, and none who went by Emrys. Therefore, no danger of the letter getting into the wrong hands.

Upon receiving the letter, Chavez would arrange to meet secretly and in disguise with the child and parents. After scanning the child, Chavez would tell the parents the price of the Foci – going by the rarity and price of the ingredients.

After money had exchanged hands and the Foci was finished, it was sent via owl to the family; and there would be no further contact until the next child was ready for school.

It was confidential, sneaky, and completely essential. There were those out there who were less than savory or morally sound, and would do anything to have a man of Chavez's talents under their thumbs. And there were none out there who would suspect the mysterious Emrys to be the kind, but rather plain St. Mungos healer – whether he was from the Clairvoux and Legati lines or not.

It was Chavez's skill with wood, magic, and healing that had given Moody his clawed leg and his roving eye. Where all others had failed or simply given up, Chavez had succeeded; forming a bond of eternal friendship between him and the grizzled Auror.

But, as mentioned earlier, Chavez's talents didn't end there. He could sense things; and ignoring them always turned out to your detriment.

And, given what his friend had just said, Alastor was able to surmise that someone – though they did not know who – would show up tomorrow, on Christmas Day, and desperately need Chavez to make them either limbs or a Foci. And though he sincerely hoped that it was only the latter; he strongly suspected that it would be the former.

Little did he know that it would be both.

"Do you know where, Legs?" Moody rasped, not doubting his friend for a second; no matter how dearly he might wish to.

Chavez just sighed. "All I know is that they will be here, and that I will need to be available all day tomorrow. Starting tonight, at midnight."

Moody nodded, mind whirring frantically, wondering who would be the one in such desperate need; and how in the name of Merlin's saggy left ball-sack they were going to get past his wards.

But his friend sighing and setting his now-empty cup on the coffee table before standing brought Moody back to the present. "I must go now, my friend. There are several things I feel that I must get in order before tomorrow, and I fear I have very little time left to do so."

Moody cast a quick Tempus, and blinked in shock when it revealed the time to be 10:47pm. Moody nodded before tapping a seemingly random brick three times – opening the floo for outward travel.

He was startled again when his friend placed a firm, urgent hand on his shoulder. He looked up into the suddenly fierce and grave eyes of his best friend. "Legs?"

"They'll need you as well Alastor… more than anything else, they will need you. No matter what I do for them, if they don't have you, it will mean nothing. You cannot forget this, Tristan."

And with those mysterious, haunting, and damned confusing words ringing in his friend's ears; Chavez left in a flash of green flames.

But of course, Moody thought with a sardonic smirk, the Seer couldn't resist one last parting shot.

"Oh, and Merry Christmas."

Harry screamed as the belt came down – for what felt like the thousandth time – on his scarred and unprotected back.

Through the cupboard door, Harry could only listen in growing terror and horror as his Aunt told his Uncle what Harry had done that day. Only she'd played it up so much that it seemed that the only thing Harry didn't do was set the bloody house on fire. She'd even managed to blame Dudley's wrist cramp – from playing too much computer – on him.

So, while Petunia doted on Dudley and got him some ice for his wrist and a large slice of Christmas apple pie; Harry found himself the unwilling focus of his Uncle sadistic and violent temper.

Harry had lost count of how many lashes he'd had after the fifty-seventh. And as it continued, a horrible feeling welled up in his gut. Somehow, Harry just knew that, this time, he wasn't going to survive.

So Harry did what was probably the most stupid thing he'd even done (right after being born).

He ran.

But, in his emaciated and weak state, he only made it from the kitchen to the living room entrance before his Uncle caught up with him. He'd been momentarily shocked that the Freak had run – hadn't he broken him of that years ago? – before it was overcome by towering and irrational rage.

Vernon grabbed the back of Harry's neck violently before lifting him up and shaking him like an errant mutt. "YOU WORTHLESS FREAK!" He roared in the sobbing and choking boy's bloodied face. "You think you can escape a well-deserved punishment? And look at that! LOOK!" He motioned to the blood splatters that were now staining the carpet. "I don't care if you can get that clean, I'LL BE TAKING IT OUT OF YOUR HIDE!"

And with that, he threw his nephew across the living room.

Through the towering pile of presents.

Into the glittering, sparkling Christmas tree.

As though in slow motion, the ornaments shattered, embedding shards into Harry's broken and bloodied back… the tree and presents tipped over… the fire was roaring in the hearth… and then –

WHOOOMPH!

The tree and a good third of the presents landed in the fire. The suffocating presence of the tree and gifts managed to snuff the fire – but not before it had completely destroyed half the tree and most all of the gifts.

Everyone could only stare in horrified shock.

And Harry knew… he knew, that this was the end.

As though a dam had broken, Dudley started wailing, Aunt Petunia screeching, and Uncle Vernon was bearing down on him with a furious, hateful look on his face.

His heart was beating too fast, he couldn't breathe around the terror in his throat, his head was light and dizzy; and next thing Harry knew was his vision fading out as he fell into blissful unconsciousness.

He awoke bound and gagged, and immediately terrified.

From first glance Harry could tell three things. First, that it was dark outside, meaning Harry'd been unconscious for a long time. Second, that a roaring fire was once again heating the room and turning the darkness of the room into a warm, burnished red and gold. And third, and his Uncle Vernon was sitting right in front of him, sharpening a knife.

"Petunia and Dudley are out buying another tree and some more gifts; as we refuse to allow you to ruin our Christmas. They left the task of punishing you to me, though. And I'll be making sure that you suffer for what you've done… and that we don't have to endure your freakish presence for even one more day. After this, you'll be going in that cupboard; and you'll never come out."

And with those menacing, terrifying words, Uncle Vernon grabbed Harry and shoved him face-first on the carpet before the fireplace. Harry heard the swish of the knife, and he flinched, only to be surprised when nothing happened except for the ropes on his wrists being cut off.

And his confusion wasn't alleviated any when he saw his Uncle pick up the fireproof gloves that he used to adjust the logs in the fireplace with.

Suddenly though, everything became all too clear when Harry was hoisted up to his knees and his Uncle held his arms by the elbows in front of him – and started moving towards the hot, hot fire.

"Nmph! 'O! 'Ooooo!" Harry screamed, muffled, struggling as much as he could; but he knew it was no use. But this… this was too much! He'd had his hand shoved on the burner more times than he could count, true; but this was too much, too hot, too big… and it was getting hotter and hotter and scorching and burning and – "AAAAAAGGGHHH!"

Harry screamed in agony. He thrashed and convulsed and sobbed and begged; but still his Uncle held his arms in the fire. Harry could only watch and feel as his skin turned red, then bubbled and blistered, before turning black and peeling off his flesh – like the potatoes that Harry'd peeled for Christmas dinner just this morning… with these very same hands – revealing his veins and blood that splattered onto the flames only to splutter weakly and evaporate. And then his flesh was becoming black, burnt, overdone; his nerves were screaming and burning with a terrible, all-consuming, blinding pain; before both shriveled up and disintegrated, revealing the stark white of his bones that were, once again, slowly turning black.

Harry's voice had vanished long ago, and he just suffered in unimaginable agony silently, having lost control of his bladder long ago; writhing and twisting and convulsing… but to no use.

Finally, when his bones were black and brittle, his Uncle pulled him from the fireplace and threw him to the ground. With that final, jarring motion, Harry's forearms shattered all over the carpet; Harry gave one last heart-wrenching scream that came out in a rasping gasp; and he passed out.

Alastor laid down in his comfortable bed and stared at the ceiling. He'd spent the past hour thinking and pondering; asking questions that he knew would remain unanswered... at least until tomorrow.

He took out his magical eye and placed it on the bedside table; donning an eyepatch instead to protect the empty socket and allow the over-used eye to rest.

Moody rolled over with a grunt and attempted to sleep; knowing, somehow, deep inside, that he'd need all the rest he could get to face tomorrow.

He had no idea how quickly 'tomorrow' would arrive.

Harry regained consciousness painfully. It took a while for everything to come back to him; but when he shifted with the intent of reaching up to pull the string to turn on his light, it hit him along with pure blinding agony.

Harry opened his mouth to scream, only to discover that he was still gagged; but this time with what felt like a massive rolled up ball of paper; tied around his head tightly with some smooth, silky material.

That, combined with the fact that the vent on his cupboard door was firmly locked shut – trapping in the horrible, cloying, rotting scent of blood and sweat and urine – meant that no noise escaped the small storage room – although that did nothing to stop Harry's frantic, panicked, and terror-filled muffled sobs and screams.

It was all too much – the hatred, fear, pain; the hopelessness and neglect and abuse. The way that his whole body screamed in pain; although centered on his arms, where everything below his elbows was completely burned off.

He couldn't stand it anymore; he couldn't be here any longer. He had to escape, anywhere, he didn't care.

His mind heard his wish. And as there was no where for the boy to escape to, it began to shut down; drawing the consciousness of the boy within and protecting it from the cruelty of the outside world.

As Harry's eyes dimmed and his cries tapered off; and as he gradually sunk deeper into himself; strange images flashed through his mind's eye.

A redheaded woman with gem-like eyes; and a man with unruly black hair wearing an odd red suit that seemed oddly familiar…

Gradually, sound filtered through, overlapping a song that he remembered from a dream of a dream…

Silent Night… Holy Night…

"Really Lily? You're saying that, every Christmas, Muggles find some creepy overweight guy and dress him up in a red costume; then bring their children to sit on his lap and tell him whatever their greedy little hearts desire?"

"James Charlus Potter…!"

"Er… yes, of course dear, I completely agree; it sound's perfectly wonderful and cheery and… and Christmas-y. Yeah."

"Hmph."

"Pwongs!"

"I still cannot believe that that was his first word… James you get that tongue back in your mouth right now!"

All is calm… All is bright…

"Hey there scamp! How you doing?"

"Wed!"

"Yeah, I know… your mother made me put this atrocious costume on; ridiculous, right? I think she's trying to hint that I've had one too many cauldron cakes this week…"

"James! I'm doing no such thing!"

"Ah-ha! See Prongslet, methinks the lady doth protesteth to muchetheth… Bleah, too many 'eths'…"

"Potter! If you don't stop corrupting my little angel I'll… I'll…"

"Ha! Blessed silence at last! Mark this day Prongslet, for it shall go down in Marauder history!"

"POTTER!"

"Agh! Run Prongslet! Remember, Marauder Rule Number 72 (though it should be Number 1…) always beware of red-heads wielding spatulas! But don't worry, my son, for I shall protect you!"

"Wun Pwongs! Wun Pwongs!"

Round yon Virgin Mother and Child… Holy Infant so tender and mild…

The Christmas lullaby tapered off as the infant in the cradle drifted in-between wakefulness and blessed sleep.

A gentle, feather-light kiss was bestowed to his brow before the red-haired angel departed; closing the door behind her but leaving a small crack; a small beam of light chasing away the shadows and nightmares that might visit one so small.

Briefly, however, the light was snuffed out as someone blocked it, slipping into the room and shutting the door behind them.

With silent footsteps they crept to the child's cradle, looking over the edge into drowsy emerald eyes.

"Pwongs…" the child mumbled, and James smiled softly before gently running his hand over the raven locks oh-so-similar to his own.

"Hey Prongslet… just wanted to say goodnight… Sleep well, tomorrow will be your very first Christmas. And, though I don't think you'll remember it, we want to make it the best."

James' featured softened tenderly as his son yawned cutely – cupids-bow lips opening wide – before rolling over and burrowing into the warmth of his stuffed wolves, Mooey and Padoo (he couldn't pronounce the 'f', and James and Remus had nearly wet themselves laughing at Sirius' flabbergasted expression).

"Goodnight Prongslet… remember, son, I will always, always protect you… no matter what happens."

"Mmmm…"

Although the child, nearly five months of age, couldn't really comprehend everything his father had told him; he knew some things.

That these warm and comfortable feelings were safety and laughter and happiness… that his Pwongs loved him, more than anything. And he would always be safe with his Pwongs.

Always.

Sleep in heavenly peace…

Harry wanted that. He wanted a protector; someone big and powerful and strong, that could take care of him and keep him safe from a world that just sat complacently by as his uncle beat him to death.

Someone that could love him… that wouldn't mind a Freak like him… that maybe had a bit of Freak in them too…

It was his deepest, most desperate wish; that he'd never expressed or acknowledged, even to himself.

Except for now.

And luckily, this time, magic heard him, and decided to grant his wish.

And, as the grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight – the sound barely filtering through the locked cupboard door and Harry's fogged brain – a gentle golden glow surrounded the rapidly fading child.

When the glow faded, Harry was gone, leaving an empty cupboard and a whisper upon a lingering breeze:

"Sleep tight… and Merry Christmas Prongslet."

Sleep in heavenly peace…

Alastor was out of his bed and halfway down the hall, wand in hand, before the first toll of his ward-alarms had gone off.

Nobody should even get past the first layer of charms and curses to even trip his wards in the first place! After that bloody fool who dared sneak into his home was well and truly apprehended, he was going to shove a whole bloody vial of Veritaserum, if he had to, down their throat to see how in Merlin bloody-blazes they got into his house. Nevermind if it was illegal or not.

But a glimpse of the wall-clock in the hallway made his steps falter. It was 12:00am exactly. Midnight. Christmas Day.

Bloody Hell.

Suddenly his steps held more urgency, nearly panic. He didn't lower his wand though; after all – CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

And, as Alastor Tristan Moody slammed open the living room doors and took in the too-still, small form on his carpeted floor; he couldn't help the errant, sardonic, maudlin thought that flickered across his mind:

'Merry-bloody-Christmas indeed…'

A/N: I was thinking, 'Hey! I'll just write up a quick one shot for Christmas, since it's my favorite time of year and I'm feeling particularly festive.' But nooooo… a plot bunny hits me with all the force and subtlety of a flaming purple rhinoceros, and a whole new fic is born. I've got a lot of great ideas and twists to this fic, and I hope that everyone likes it. This is probably the only fic that I've written that has Harry getting out of the Dursleys in the first chapter, so this will mainly be focusing on his future and recovery; with some major twists and revelations. Please let me know if you like the concept; and if I don't update again:

MERRY CHRISTMAS!