...and on christmas

December 18th, 1995

UPON HEARING THE good news, Fred fell back into his chair with his hands over his face, obscuring the fact that he was crying out of relief.

George and Ginny got up, walked swiftly over to their mother, and hugged her.

Ron gave a very shaky laugh and downed the rest of his butterbeer in one take.

"Breakfast!" said Sirius loudly and joyfully, jumping to his feet. "Where's that accursed house-elf? Kreacher! KREACHER!"

But Kreacher did not answer the summons.

"Oh, forget it, then," muttered Sirius, counting the people in front of him. "So it's breakfast for— let's see— seven... Bacon and eggs, I think, and some tea, and toast —"

Mrs. Weasley pulled Harry into a crushing hug and said in a muffled voice, "I don't know what would have happened if it hadn't been for you, Harry. They might not have found Arthur for hours, and then it would have been too late, but thanks to you he's alive. Dumbledore's been able to think up a good cover story for Arthur being where he was."

She released him to turn to Sirius and thank him for looking after her children through the night. Sirius said that he was very pleased to have been able to help, and hoped they would all stay with him as long as Mr. Weasley was in hospital.

"Oh, Sirius, I'm so grateful... They think he'll be there a little while and it would be wonderful to be nearer... Of course, that might mean we're here for Christmas..."

"The more the merrier!" said Sirius with such obvious sincerity that Mrs. Weasley beamed at him, threw on an apron, and began to help with breakfast.

It was settled, then. They wouldn't be staying in the Burrow.

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December 25th, 1995

SIRIUS WORKED TIRELESSLY in the run-up to Christmas Day, cleaning and decorating with everyone's help, so that by the time they all went to bed on Christmas Eve the house was barely recognizable. The tarnished chandeliers were no longer hung with cobwebs but with garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers. Magical snow glittered in heaps over the threadbare carpets. A great Christmas tree, obtained by Mundungus and decorated with live fairies, blocked Sirius' family tree from view. Even the stuffed elf heads on the hall wall wore Christmas hats and beards.

Fred awoke on Christmas morning to find a stack of presents at the foot of his bed and George, already halfway through opening his own pile.

"Hey, look, Tonks got us gifts!"

"Really?"

"Yeah! It's brilliant!" George said, opening a box of unconventional, hard-to-get ingredients for their pranking supplies. "We need this for the Nosebleed Nougat."

They dug into their mount of mostly identical presents and slid on the stairs' railing down. With their wand swished, they popped into the kitchen with a drum roll and dramatic fake snow cracker. "Merry Christmas— whoa, okay, what's going on?"

Mrs. Weasley was a crying, blubbering mess, hiding her face in a knitted jumper.

"Percy sent back his Christmas jumper without a note," Lupin elaborated.

The twins looked at each other then went forward and hugged her, saying, "It's okay, Mummy, Percy's nothing more than a humongous pile of rat droppings."

That didn't work, though.

She cried even harder and Lupin took over, so the twins tiptoed back out of the kitchen until they joined the other children in Harry and Ron's room.

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December 25th, 1995

DAISY HAD THE evening all planned, and everything did go according to it at first.

She did everything perfectly, inducing not even a hint of irritation on Mr. Allen's side —from the dress, the hair, the punctuality, the manners, to the pleasant and agreeable dance partner.

The house tour was once again lovely, though Daisy couldn't talk much due to the building anticipation. Thankfully Vincent did a wonderful job talking in her stead, and Taylor and Lucy's prayer of encouragement from earlier were supplemental.

"Why are you making a big fuss out of this? Why now?"

"Because now, he's in a superb mood," Daisy replied, whispering, "And if I break the news here, he would have some time to compose and calm himself down."

"Is your father scary when he's mad? I've never seen him in a bad mood."

Daisy didn't answer to that.

At eight o'clock on the dot, the Louvres' servants pulled out the ornate chairs in comformity, the guests stepped once to the left like a coreographed marching band, sat, and was pushed forward to sit comfortably in front of the banquet.

And the dinner began.

The girl waited for her father to brought up the topic to his companion, the DeVere and Louvre parents, in agitation.

Her head jerked swiftly when she finally heard him saying, "We're waiting for the acceptance letter from HLS! I've spoken to the dean there —he's a good friend of mine— and my Jane is quite a brilliant girl—"

"Actually—"

She spoke up, and their side of the table fell into a silent hush. Daisy clenched a fistful of her silver dress to remind herself, get a grip! while shuddering. She then dropped the bomb on her father in one single breath, "I've received three acceptance letters, including HLS—"

For a split second there, Mr. Allen beamed like he was the happiest man on Earth.

"—but I'm considering to major in Engineering, here at Cambridge."

A stronger silent ensued.

Vincent was watching the whole scene unfolding with wide eyes, sipping his juice like it was the most delicious and interesting thing on Earth.

Mr. Allen's eyes turned black, like in the movies, and there seemed to be a dark grey cloud casting thunder over his head.

Mrs. DeVere was the first to speak. "E— Engineering, you say? Well, that's—"

"That's... different," Mr. DeVere remarked, "A girl in Engineering, that's quite scarce."

"Wow. I think congratulations are in order."

"Well, aren't your kid a genius, Barry!" Mrs. Louvre exclaimed heartily, "Engineering, my..."

"There goes your Legal Head, Barry."

"He'll find a spot for you somewhere within the company."

"Why?" Mr. DeVere asked out of curiosity, "Why not law?"

"Dad," Vincent coughed.

"It's— It's just—"

"Jane and I will talk about it later."

Not my first and foremost passion.

"Come on, Barry, let the girl talk!"

"Do you have anything more to say, Jane?"

Mr. Allen looked at her so sternly, so full of... hatred and resentment and chilling, freezing cold. He dared Daisy to speak another word, but she cowered under his judgemental gaze and stuttered, "N— No. Nothing else, Mr. DeVere."

"Now," Mr. Allen cut in, beaming with a fake smile, "What is this dish called, my dear Rochelle?"

But she shouldn't cower.

Children shouldn't be afraid of their parents. They should respect and honor them, but they shouldn't... They shouldn't get a bruise for having an opinion and they shouldn't whimper whenever their names were called.

She had given him enough time to repent, hadn't she?

Nearly seventeen years.

"Mrs. Louvre, I believe Vincent said it is fresh truffle roasted lobster with beluga caviar, isn't it?" Daisy interjected. She tried very hard to ignore Mr. Allen, whose face was folded and highly contorted as if he was having a seizure episode. "Mr. DeVere, despite my Father's wish, I am not that inclined to study law. I've been interested in science and its application since childhood, ergo my decision to apply to several universities aside of HLS."

"You said three. One is HLS, one is Cambridge; what's the other one?"

"MIT! Best Engineering university in the world, isn't that impressive?" Vincent answered, to which Mr. Allen finally managed to blabber, "So, you told him?"

"Yes," Daisy gulped before continuing, "He's a good, good friend of mine."

"And what do you think about this, Vincent?" Mr. Allen fished.

"I am very happy for her," Vincent said in a heartbeat. "It's a wise and suiting move."

"Hem," Mr. Allen said, cutting his lobster with such force, the plate clinked.

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December 25th, 1995

CHRISTMAS DAY WENT by quite happily.

There was the matter of Mr. Weasley trying on Muggle stitches with his Trainee Healer, Augustus Pye, which prolonged his stay in St. Mungo's and induced Mrs. Weasley's anger. There was also the matter of the kids' chance encounter with the Longbottoms...

They finally saw the extent of what You-Know-Who's followers could do in order to gain power and information, and they finally knew what had happened to their dear friend, Neville.

But aside from those two, it was a pleasant, festive day.

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December 25th, 1995

"WE SHOULD BE heading home."

Vincent didn't quite know what to make when he saw Mr. Allen gripping his daughter's hand tightly, contrasting with his big, toothy smile. Like Charles Perrault's Little Red Riding Hood and the Big Bad Wolf.

"Oh no, it's still very early, Barry!" Mrs. Louvre squeaked, "Have some more wine, would you?"

"It's getting late, Rochelle. Thank you for lovely invitation," Mr. Allen said, tipping his invisible hat, "Leah, Deacon, Vincent."

"How about we give Jane and Marisol some time to talk first?"

And Vincent didn't quite know why his aunt suddenly acted... suspiciously weird.

Despite strong appeal to keep them in Casa de Louvre, Mr. Allen and Daisy, who only looked at her neighbors with a forlorn smile, retreated back into their very own private residence.

"Okay, Mama, what was that about?" Marisol asked, crossing her arms together while raising her eyebrows. The dance was still going on full swing behind their back.

"My love, I told you to not get involve." Mr. Louvre scolded, patting his wife's shoulder rhythmically.

"Uncle, is something going on?" Vincent asked, feeling a little scared by now. He stashed his hands into his pants' pockets and shifted on his feet.

Mrs. Louvre placed a hand on Marisol's cheek and sighed, "Baby, we think... We think Barry is..."

The sentence took a very long time to finish. The three DeVeres and Marisol huddled closer and closer together... Waiting... Anticipating...

"Abusive."

Mrs. DeVere audibly gasped and looked at her husband with a face scrunched up in so much disdain. Marisol said a soft, disbelieving 'What?' and Vincent could finally connect the dots together. The occasional appearance of bruises, limps, and scratches. The way she just shied away whenever he asked about it. Lucy's concern and apparent contempt towards Mr. Allen. Daisy's irrational fear of telling her Father about her college choices.

"You probably don't remember, my belle, it was years ago..."

"Rochelle..."

"I think they should know, Timothée," Mrs. Louvre said in a low tone, "It was the first anniversary of Audrey's death —Jane's mother. Do you remember the Weasleys?"

Vincent swore he had heard about that name somewhere, someplace, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Marisol was the one who snapped her finger and guessed, "Last house in the neighborhood. You told us that they're some children-eating people and to never associate ourselves with them."

"Oh, that's just some things we invent so you kids wouldn't stay too far from the neighborhood," Mrs. Louvre swatted her hand dismissively, "And they never appeared whenever we invite them over for tea or birthday party or any social convention, except for that day."

Vincent frowned, "Are you saying the Weeslies neighbor appeared in front of you at the first anniversary of Jane's mother's death?"

"Yes! The parents came to our doorstep, many years ago. Lovely people, red haired, a bit pudgy and a bit odd —both of them, if I remember correctly. They came with young Jane on Mr. Weasley's back, all beaten-up and bruised, asking us to call the police for them."

"The police?" Marisol said incredulously, "That bad?"

"Oh, horrifying." Mr. Louvre finally joined in the storytelling. "Her little face was battered. Her nose was broken, there were blood everywhere. She broke a few ribs and bones."

"Did you?" Vincent asked. He could literally feel anger bubbling up his chest, "Call the police? Was it really Mr. Allen's doing?"

"Oh, Vince, they didn't tell us things. We aren't immediate family," Mrs. Louvre admitted sadly, "However, we really think so. And he looked quite angry when he left earlier."

Marisol said, "That's sick, Ma. Shouldn't we do something?"

"Barry is a very influential person," Mr. DeVere said, rubbing his forehead, "I assume he got off any charges back then due to his connections. If he really was abusive."

Without another word, Vincent dashed out of the house and ran as fast as he could, ignoring his family's calls. He jumped over tree roots and bushes and low rise picket fences, towards the Allen Residence. He checked his Rolex watch —it had been no more than twenty minutes. He could still save her.

He reached the dark front door and banged against it. Once, twice, but nobody showed up. He then ran around the house, looking in through every window, trying to find an opening or a sign of life in it.

He heard something crashed, followed by a faint and muffled blood-curling scream.

"JANE!" He hollered, "JANE, IS THAT YOU?!"

"Vincent!"

Lucy ran towards him so fast, they barreled into each other. The boy caught her shoulders and glanced worriedly at her tear-stained face. "She's— She's upstairs. You have to stop him!"

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