santa?

im absolutely serious please believe me

“Papa, is Santa real?” Three year old Wang Mu asks as Quirrell hears Voldemort putting his phone down to cater to their adopted daughter.

“Of course he is, sweetie, now, you gotta get to bed, it's late…” Quirrell smiled as he waited patiently for his husband to pick up the phone again after he coaxed their daughter, always so unwilling to be tucked into bed, to “please, Wang Mu, listeeeen, just sleeeeeep”.

One minute, then five… Quirrell tapped his foot on the cold marble floor of the airport lobby, the taxi that was supposed to come so long ago still not arriving.

Ten minutes turned into fifteen, which turned into thirty, until the ex-Dark Lord’s voice came back to him.“Wang Mu wouldn't sleep until now,” Voldemort whispered to the phone in an exhausted tone that never appeared when he fought battles against armies, but now appeared after a battle with an overexcited three year old. “I’ll have to go now too, it's getting late. Don’t miss Christmas, Squirrel. Night.”

“Night.”

Quirrell slipped his dying phone into one of the many bags, all red and filled with either presents for his family or winter cloaks to thick to wear indoors. He tugged absentmindedly at the red sweater his Mum made him that was so ugly, but still so comfy and warm that he just couldn't not wear it.

Hours seemed to pass when Quirrell’s bags gave a weak “buzz” and he knew that his phone was finally dead. Just as Quirrell stressed over just how to wish his family a “merry Christmas!” on time without his phone with him, a lone taxi drove into sight of the airport lobby. Quirrell rushed to yank open the taxi door, his luggage and bags flying behind him in an almost comical fashion. After stuttering his address hurriedly, he sank back into the leather seat.

Maybe, maybe he'd make it back home in time, he thought, biting into his lip as the lights ran past them. Maybe he would make it home in time to set the presents under the tree. Maybe he’d--

“Yer bill, ser,” the taxi driver huffed.

“Y-ye-ye-yes,” Quirrell stuttered as he dug into his pockets for the exact change, his free hand gathering all the bags and luggage as he did so. Stuffing the change into the driver's hand (“K-k-keep t-the extra!”) and slamming the door shut in a hurry, he fumbled with his keys for a moment before he opened the door and--

“Santa! Papa, it’s Santa!” it was Wang Mu, sitting under that stunning (yet oddly green) Christmas tree and pointing straight at none other than Quirrell himself.

“B-b-but I-I-I’m D-Dad n-not S--”

“You're right, Wang Mu, it is Santa,” Voldemort walked out, beaming at Quirrell before mouthing the words “play along”.

Quirrell smiled back, confused for half a second before he realised. The sweater. The bags.

“S-so, Wang Mu,” Quirrell said in his gruffest voice as he knelt down to look at Wang Mu. “Do you want your present?”

Wang Mu’s eyes widened in glee. “Presents! Presents!”

“W-well here it is!” Quirrell pulled out a teddy bear plush larger than Wang Mu herself, and handed it to the overexcited child.

Wang Mu laughed as she tugged at the bear’s ears. “He’s so hairy,” she gigged. “I’ll call him Harry…” She looked over to Voldemort. “Isn’t that a good name, Papa?”

“Reaaally? Harry? I guess so,” Voldemort said begrudgingly, smiling a bit at his innocent daughter who surely wasn't doing this on purpose.

And it was then when Quirrell’s watch flashed and beeped, and Christmas Day landed on them, just like the soft tufts of snow outside their fairy-light ridden window landed onto the cold pavement below.

And it was then when Quirrell stood up to look at his daughter and husband beaming together at Harry, that Azkaban was just a faraway dream, that this--his family--was the best Christmas present he could ever receive.

And that was better than perfect, it was okay.

Okay is wonderful, after all.

***

Somewhere, far, far, far from the Muggle suburbs where the ex-Dark Lord and the fake Santa were smiling at each other gaily, Harry Potter woke up a minute before the clock struck twelve.

“My… scar?” he exclaimed, a hand placed over the jagged scar etched into his skin. Taking one look at the clock on his bedside table, he shrugged. “He’s dead, and it is Christmas,” Harry told himself. “What could Voldemort be up to on such a day? Watching children receive presents?” Sniggering, he ignored the brief but blazing pain and went back to sleep.

the end.

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