Christmas morning. A lonely bell tolled over a sleepy town near Haworth, echoing across the snowy hills and breaking the wintry silence. Once…twice…thrice…
Ding, dong, ding, dong…
Eight times it sounded.
The morning light was soft and caressing against the stark white of the snow and the eggshell blue of the sky, tempering the sharp colors with buttery yellow light. Shadows flitted, elusive, dancing amongst the crystal glitters given off by icicles. A chill breeze played through the tops of skeletal black trees, long since dead, bereft of their foliage. Smoke curled and spiraled from the chimneys of the snug houses in the little village, all tucked into a valley between the two largest hills.
At the top of one hill was a mansion.
The villagers called it the Lookout. It crowned the hill, tall and forbidding, the very windows glaring down at the plebeians below. No one ever went near it. The owner, one Bartemius Crouch, was a notorious crank who would have put Scrooge to shame.
"Sent his own son to Azkaban!" the villagers were wont to exclaim. "And only because the boy never had the guidance of a father. He'd stop at nothing, mark it. Mind, since his wife died, he must be a little lonely…but a high and lofty snob like him deserves it."
So they shunned him, as he had shunned them. Most of the time it made no difference. But come Christmas, they really let him feel it. Everyone made sure that Barty Crouch received no cards, no cookies, no gifts, and especially no carols sung by the innocents of the town.
This Christmas would be no different, everyone knew.
In the square, life began to stir. The children piled from their houses and congregated together, singing and laughing. A few parents followed, then returned to their houses. The town was the safest place anyone could imagine, except for Hogwarts. And so the children sang, skipping from house to house, the merry tunes drifting along the breeze.
And this is where the story begins.
"Merry Christmas, Master!"
Barty Crouch, Sr., tore his gaze from the window and turned his head slightly. The nervous face of his house-elf Winky met his eyes. "Would Master care for some breakfast, sir?" she continued anxiously.
"Not just yet, Winky," Crouch answered carelessly. "Where is – where is the boy?"
At the mention of Barty Jr., Winky's hopeful face fell somewhat. "Well…" she squeaked, squirming like a child in the corner, "Master Barty is eating breakfast. Winky thinks Master Barty is upset that he has no Christmas gifts. Maybe, Master, he does not need to be cursed today…?"
Winky fell silent at the expression of cold rage on her master's face.
"Yes, Winky, he does need to be subdued," Crouch replied, putting particular emphasis on his term for it. "And perhaps if he submits to that, I shall allow him to spend the day in his room without the Invisibility Cloak. That is my extent of Christmas cheer to an ungrateful boy." Crouch rubbed the side of his face unconsciously, feeling the two long scratch marks that scored the skin there. Barty Jr., nearly free of the effects of the tranquilizing spells set on him every day, had viciously clawed his face the night before.
"Bring him to me when he's finished," Crouch continued absently, returning his attention to the window. "I'll deal with him them."
Winky bowed out of the room, her great brown eyes brimming with tears for her young charge.
Tiresome little creature, Crouch thought vaguely. Always finding something to cry about. Still, indispensable. Without her, I doubt I could care for the boy myself.
Crouch never referred to Barty Jr. as his son. Even though his beloved wife had asked him to take better care of the boy, Crouch couldn't bring himself to do so. Not when the young Death Eater was the cause of the loss of his most treasured possessions. He'd never had any love for Barty Jr., seeing him as a slacker, a good-for-nothing destined for a bad end.
Maybe it was all his own fault, then, for giving up before even trying. Barty Jr. had become a Death Eater, something that Crouch truly loathed beyond anything else. The boy was sentenced to Azkaban by Crouch himself, but his wife, the only thing he loved besides himself, pleaded to set him free. Through use of the Polyjuice Potion, the boy and Crouch's wife had switched places. She had died in Azkaban; the boy lived in secret. Now Crouch was stuck in a mansion haunted by memories, his only company a house-elf, a mad son, and the ghosts in his mind.
He was well and truly alone.
Crouch watched the distant specks of children flit to and fro in the village below. It was something his hard old heart rather liked. Occasionally, the music wafted up toward him, and distant snatches of song pervaded even the cold, dark Lookout. But no one ever came to him. No one ever would. The parents hated him; the children lived in fear of stories told about a soulless man and the empty mansion he resided in.
If he did not bear the burden of the boy, would he have joined in the merriment, associated with the others of the wizarding town?
This was doubtful to even Crouch himself. Once, he had believed himself above the common folk. Part of that mentality remained; a larger part now thought that the life of a pointless man would contaminate the other lives it might touch.
"Master?"
It was Winky again. This time, she had someone in tow. A boy nearing twenty, tow-headed, his huge dark eyes circled heavily with purple shadows and somehow wholly dead. He was breathing heavily in anger, his thin chest rising and falling rapidly. Every so often he licked his lips nervously.
"Father," the boy said, "Father, you wouldn't – not on Christmas – you won't – I'll fight — "
Crouch drew his wand, the lines on his face more pronounced in his fury.
"I told you," he answered calmly, "not to call me that. Imperio!"
The sudden attack took the boy by surprise. Before he could even try to deflect it, a jet of light hit him square in the chest. He thrashed once, then stood limply, his eyes now even more dull and vacant.
"Boy," Crouch told him, "go to your room and stay absolutely quiet. As a Christmas present, you don't have to put the cloak on. Now go." He stared sternly at the cowering house-elf. "And you."
Winky whimpered and grabbed Barty by the wrist, dragging him after her. The bedroom door closed with a muffled thud. Then there was silence.
Crouch sank into an armchair, burying his face in his hands. His precious wife wasn't here for him this time. He was alone.
And then…
"Hark! How the bells, sweet silver bells
All seem to say, 'Throw cares away…'"
Crouch raised his face from his hands with a jerk, straining to listen. He could have sworn he heard a child's voice, unusually close by.
It came again:
"Christmas is here, bringing good cheer
To young and old, meek and the bold…"
Crouch stood and rose from the chair, heading for the door.
"Ding, dong, ding, dong, that is their song,
With joyful ring, all caroling…"
It faded for awhile as Crouch hurried through his house to the door, the music inaudible over the tramp of his footsteps. He had to see this for himself: was he dreaming, or had a child really braved the rumors and the trek to sing for him? And to sing such a song, a tune that both he and his wife had loved passionately, that they had often caroled together in two parts in the cold of winter?
Crouch opened the door.
It was a boy. For a moment, Crouch was sorely tempted to shut the door on him. From the pure soprano voice, he'd assumed it was a girl and wanted it that way. He was irrationally bitter against young boys in general.
The child grinned and continued his song:
"Gaily they ring, while people sing
Songs of good cheer, Christmas is here!
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas!
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas!"
"Merry Christmas, sir!" the boy chirruped.
Crouch scrutinized him. He did not look a thing like Barty Jr. Red-gold hair was trimmed to a decent length, clashing horribly with his ruddy cheeks — indisputable English skin. Bluish eyes beamed from between pale lashes.
Behind the cheer in them, however, lurked the faintest hint of fear and nerves. The child was plucky to brave the unknown of the Lookout.
"Who are you?" Crouch asked abruptly.
The child swallowed. "J-Jimmy Stowe," he faltered at this lukewarm greeting. "I-I live…down at the, um, village…" He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.
"I might have guessed as much," Crouch said coolly. He folded his arms, staring down with emotionless eyes. "Tell me, Jimmy, what brings you up here? A dare? Curiosity?"
Jimmy shifted awkwardly. "Actually, sir…I thought you must be lonely up here, with no one to talk to and all. I mean, I know you don't have family, and no down in the village likes — er, no one down in the village has ever really bothered," he said lamely. "I just thought I might bother. Most everyone likes carols, sir. And sometimes at night, I can see you standing in your window, looking down at us. I live at the edge, you know, so I can see you. It made me realize you might want a little company, and I figured…well, what better time than Christmas?"
Crouch was curiously moved. This little boy had traveled all the way up here to sing, all out of the goodness of his heart?
One seems to hear words of good cheer
From everywhere, filling the air…
"That's – that's very kind of you, Jimmy," Crouch forced out. "You have a very nice voice, by the way. Like – like a bell."
Jimmy grinned again, displaying crooked teeth. "Thanks, sir!" he said. "Me mum says that, too." His brow clouded momentarily.
"What's the matter?"
"Oh," Jimmy said slowly, uncomfortable again, "I just don't think me mum would want me up here. I mean, they all say to stay away from you. But I don't think that's right. Maybe you have to live away up here. So I came."
Crouch nodded. "I do have to live away up here, Jimmy. You're right. Sometimes…yes, I do rather wish I could come down. But…well, I'm afraid that can't happen."
Jimmy peered at him, squinting as light reflected off the snow. "How come, sir? How come you have to be up here?"
Crouch thought about Barty, locked away in his room, and sighed. "We all have our secrets, Jimmy."
Jimmy nodded importantly. "Right, sir. I got it. I've got secrets too. I fancy Jenny Lee." He blushed. "I never told anyone that before, only you, because I don't think you'll tell anyone."
For the first time in a long while, Crouch smiled, touched and amused by the child's frank and good-hearted demeanor. This bit of Christmas spirit was unexpected but welcome to the lonely man.
On, on they send, on without end
Their joyful tone to every home…
"How old are you, Jimmy?"
"Not yet eleven," Jimmy answered ruefully. "I'm not going to Hogwarts yet for another year. Me mum says I'll be in for sure, though, since I accidentally performed a spell on my voice to be louder."
Crouch frowned. Even for this town, ten was a little young to be out alone. He said as much to Jimmy. "Where are your friends?" he added.
Again, that shadow of embarrassment and doubt. "No one wanted to come," he muttered apologetically. "They're either scared or afraid you'd hex us or – or something. I didn't think you would, though. And no one wanted to climb the hill, we've been out everywhere."
He said this last bit with enthusiasm. Crouch raised his brows with amused skepticism. "Everywhere?"
"Well, nearly. All through the village. And we went over the other hill to the next town over." His blue eyes widened with childish innocence. "I just thought I'd bring a little Christmas cheer to this hill too."
O, how they pound, raising the sound
O'er hill and dale, telling their tale…
"I'm very glad you did, Jimmy," Crouch said honestly, feeling a bit of the ice surrounding his heart thaw. "It's done me a great deal of good."
Jimmy smiled. "I thought it would. Everyone likes a good carol now and then, even one coming from the 'Silver Bell.'" He ducked his head, shrugging ruefully. "That's what some people call me, 'cause of my voice."
Crouch also smiled. "It suits you," he said.
Jimmy beamed at him. "You know, everyone says you're an awful old grouch, if you don't mind me saying," he said frankly. "But you're really nice. I wish everyone would forget that they're afraid of you and try to get to know you first."
Crouch's breath hitched in his throat momentarily; then the instant passed, and he was as cool and collected as always. "That would be pleasant," he agreed cautiously. "It's better that not too many people come up here, however, I'm a very busy man."
Jimmy deflated. "Right, I understand," he said in a small voice. "I'll just go, then…?"
"Wait," Crouch said. "Let me conjure you a cup of cocoa." He found his wand and waved it, summoning a steaming mug.
Jimmy accepted it eagerly, then paused, his eyes searching Crouch's face. "You'll not have any for yourself, sir?"
Crouch hesitated, then made another mug appear. For awhile, at least, he could forget his trials and share this simple pleasure with the child.
Hark! How the bells, sweet silver bells
All seem to say, "Throw cares away…"
"This has been real nice, sir," Jimmy said when they finished. "But I should probably head on back home. Mum will be worrying. Can't have that, now, can we?"
Crouch paused, searching Jimmy's face, seeing in him a son's love for his mother and knowing that his mother would give her life for him. "No," he said softly. "We can't have that." He forced a smile. "Good bye, Jimmy. Come back if you can."
"I'll try, sir," Jimmy replied, reluctantly edging backwards. "Take care, sir, you look awfully depressed."
"Thank you, Jimmy," Crouch called after him, "and you too."
"Merry Christmas, sir!" came the faint, jolly cry, echoing back over the hills.
Crouch leaned against the doorframe. "Merry Christmas, Jimmy," he whispered. "And thank you. Thank you for reminding me of the good in the world. Thank you for showing me the pure, uncorrupted heart of a child. Like a bell."
Christmas is here, bringing good cheer
To young and old, meek and the bold…
Later that night, nearly midnight, Crouch made his way to Barty's room. There he stopped, closing his eyes and gathering courage. Then he opened the door and looked in.
The boy lay, fully dressed, across his bed, shadows from a candle flickering across ivory features. It was peaceful, more so than it ever was when he was awake.
Crouch surveyed him for a moment. "I'm sorry, my son," he whispered.
"I'm sorry for everything."
Ding, dong, ding, dong…