Dec 21st, 1890 — Street Festival

A year ago Ben would have thought the idea of him pretending to be Jolly Old Saint Nicholas rather comical — and in many ways it still was, as many of his friends would likely agree — but since his unfortunate elopement in February, a lot had changed. He'd straightened up and gotten respectable in many ways. He had a house, a regular job with a decent income for the lifestyle he needed, and (at least from an outside perspective) a comfortable marriage with a beautiful and well-bred wife. So the role wasn't as far fetched as it could have been, he supposed. Besides, his "job" while trotting around with his magically induced white beard was just to smile and laugh a lot, and hand out free booze. Those were all things he was good at.

Ben had just reached into his magical Santa-sack and dispersed tiny single-shot bottles of holiday-themed liquor to a crowd of kids who looked like they were just a year or two too young for Hogwarts, which resulted in a chorus of cheers and giggles before they ran off to one of the other attractions. As the group left, they revealed a tiny child standing behind them who was watching with wide eyes — probably captivated by their laughter, if Ben had to guess. He was probably too young for booze — he didn't look like he could unscrew a lid from a bottle just yet — but Ben flashed him a wide smile all the same. He put the gift bag down and sat cross-legged on the ground so he could be on eye level with the kid. Luckily these red velvet trousers were well insulated, so he didn't have to worry about the thin film of snow.

"Hi there. What's your name?" he asked, holding out a welcoming arm towards the boy. At the same time he glanced around for a parent, assuming they'd be the one answering the question.

Dionisia Fisk

  

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Dionisia had never played the role of mother with ease, and that was evident enough even after a year and a half of motherhood. She tried to tell herself that it was because she had never planned to become one, but there was another, sadder truth: Elliott was a bastard, and she'd never wanted a bastard. She loved him—truly—but it was times like these, as they walked through High Street, him tugging on her dress skirt while he giggled and pointed at the holiday decoration around them, that she felt out of her element.

Nobody knew. Nobody had ever known. At worst, people assumed she and Ari had premarital sex in the months before their wedding, but even that seemed like a relief considering the reality. Still, as they waited in line to see Father Christmas alongside the other mothers and fathers with their children, Dionisia felt seen. Finally Elliott's turn to meet the fake-bearded man arrived, and Dionisia stood uncomfortably to the side, her arms crossed over her chest. She stared at the man as her son approached him, something in his voice familiar but not enough to pinpoint.

"Elliott," she replied, just loud enough to be heard.

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Ben would hardly have given the boy's mother a second glance, except that she was so clearly uncomfortable. He assumed it had something to do with him (because Ben was not mature enough to consider that not everything was about him). He looked a little more closely at her and realized that she looked familiar, though he couldn't place her right away. It was safe to assume that he'd spent some time flirting with her, and that was why he knew her face. He'd flirted with half the women in magical England, it seemed, before he'd tried to get on the straight and narrow after his marriage.

An old flirtation was old news, though. He didn't even recall her name, so no reason for him to be awkward about it as well. He waved the boy in and the toddler obligingly waddled towards him, arms out — maybe to reach Ben, or maybe just in case of a fall. He didn't seem like he'd been walking on his own that long.

If this was her kid, that explained why she was being so awkward. Presumably that was a development since they'd last spoken; Ben didn't make a habit of chasing married women, though he did still flirt with them in that pandering, unserious sort of way. So it would have been at least a year ago, maybe two...

Thinking back on that era of his life, it suddenly clicked what their interaction had been. It had been much steamier than a mere flirtation. It had happened basically out of nowhere, too — no relationship to speak of, before or after. Remembering brought an immediate blush to Ben's cheeks, but there wasn't anything to do about it now except weather the interaction. He resisted the urge to look around for Melody, as though she might be able to tell just from watching them that this was a woman he'd once slept with.

"Are you excited for Christmas, Elliott?" he asked, voice slightly hoarse.

  

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She continued staring, in part because it was acceptable to stare at a strange man her son had decided to hug, but also because she felt like she knew him despite his costume and her inability to figure out where she knew him from. He looked back at her, too, and for a moment it seemed as if he'd realized their connection—and yet, he said nothing.

Until he spoke to Elliot. The little boy cooed back a slur of unintelligible replies, a few yeahs! mixed with other, broken words which Dio knew was him simply trying to match the enthusiasm and excitement in their surroundings.

"It's his first real Christmas," she said, because it was obvious enough. He'd been only six months old last December, unable to enjoy much of anything; now he'd stared in awe at the family menorah during Hanukkah, and had tried to pluck bristles off the Christmas tree Ari had agreed to put up at her insistence. "I was not aware that St. Nicholas had come to Hogsmeade this year," she said, eyeing the bag beside him. It was a poor costume, really, but it was enough to fool her toddler. Enough to make it difficult to find his face in her mind.

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Ben wondered idly why she was allowing this interaction to continue, given their history together — it had not and likely would never occur to him that any woman he had slept with would find him forgettable, so he assumed they were at least equally matched in their ability to remember their last interaction. Why send her son over to a man she had a disreputable past with? She couldn't be trying to (re)kindle something with Ben if she had since married and had a child; she had to be, if not happy, at least busy. And he was quite clearly off the market, too — not just due to propriety, but because he was — at least as far as anyone else know — desperately in love with Melody. Hence the whole eloping business.

"Mmhm, visiting courtesy of Jewell Distillery," he answered brightly, because this was his job and he was getting paid to do it. He fished a small bottle of candy-cane whiskey out of his bag and showed it to her by way of explanation. "First Christmas, Elliot, that's very exciting. What sort of presents do you think you'll get?"

He had no idea whether or not the child was old enough to understand him — he did not have much experience with babies since November was smart enough not to give him any unsupervised time with his nephews — but the boy did at least seem to recognize the tone of a question, and responded with another string of baby babble. At least this woman had a cute kid, he thought; otherwise he'd just be stuck here trying to puzzle out what her game was and continuing to hope Melody didn't happen to be looking this way. It wasn't as though she would have known anything, but — Well. She was too smart for her own good, sometimes, and Ben was clearly feeling awkward about this. It wouldn't have taken a genius to have guessed something was up, and anyone who had any knowledge of Ben's character could probably have determined what it was.

"So how old are you, Elliott?" he asked, another question directed towards his mother instead of to him.

  

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Dionisia prided herself on her sharp mind and quick wit, and to be unable to recognize a simple voice after years of recognizing voices and faces of former patients she found herself growing increasingly frustrated. They said ignorance was bliss, but this ignorance—unintentional as it was—was the farthest thing from it. Still, she let a smile fall to her face as he spoke to her, intent on remaining inconspicuous in case he turned out to be someone she was meant to be on friendly terms with.

"Sounds like the perfect place to visit right about now," she said, uncomfortably smiling down as a small group of children no older than eight or nine dashed passed them. It was feigned, of course; there was no way it couldn't be when there were countless children screaming in the streets while their grownups took them to see the decorations. She'd never liked children. Even her own, at some points, when the resentment over her halted career or loveless marriage overcame her.

"He's nearly a year and half. Born in June of last year. Aren't you?" she asked, smiling down Elliot who replied with a series of baby babbles. No, children were more of Ari's forte. "Our family doesn't celebrate Christmas, but I did as a girl. I thought it unfair to deprive him of the joy."

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A year and a half; so this kid certainly hadn't been around when Ben had last seen his mother. He had expected that, since knocking socks with a recent mother wasn't really his style, but it was good to have the mental confirmation all the same. He didn't remember exactly when they'd gotten together, but he'd been married to Melody for nearly a year now, which put it well out of his window. And the six months before they'd eloped, he'd been busy fretting over her upcoming betrothal and trying to procure that dreadful potion for her sake. That had been the summer of 1889 that he'd reconnected with Melody, the same time this kid was being born. And he'd slept with this woman... the previous year? Something like that.

"Doesn't celebrate Christmas?" he echoed, the phrase not really making sense to him. Why would anyone not celebrate Christmas, particularly if they had small children? "Well, I'm glad you got to come see me, then. Maybe I can whip up something a better for a little guy than this," he said, vaguely gesturing to the satchel full of tiny booze bottles. He did think he had something stashed away just in case he'd needed an alternative — in a coat pocket, maybe?

With the toddler still wrapped loosely in one arm, Ben unbuttoned the big red coat and rifled around inside until he located a bar of chocolate. "Here you go, Elliott. Merry Christmas," he said merrily as he bestowed the gift on the child. He glanced at his mother, wondering if this would be the end of the interaction or whether she planned to be more explicit about the reason she'd approached him in the first place. He still believed that she must have recognized him and had some ulterior motive, though he couldn't imagine what.

  

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With the man having accepted her explanation without much prying, she did not feel obligated to mention it any further. Besides, he did not seem aware of who she was, and with her unaware of his identity there was no need to clue him into anything that would allow him to piece a puzzle together that she hadn't solve. She simply nodded and smiled at her son as he grabbed at the chocolate bar, and then—

Elliot smiled back at the man, and something about it set off a bell in Dionisia's head. She had always considered it fortunate that her son looked like her, with his blond hair, and deep brown eyes. He looked nothing like Ari, of course, which was to be expected... but there was something in the way he smiled, perhaps the way the corner of his eyes crinkled, or even the way his lips pulled back that were distinctly un-Dionisia-ish.

But in that moment, he looked very much like the man.

Dio's face went white as the gentleman stared up at her—white as a ghost. Her expression faded into blankness, and there was nothing there save for the slight downward turn of her lips that gave hint to the sudden and very unpleasant realization she was coming to. She glanced at her son once again, then back at the man, as if checking once, then twice, to see if she'd been mistaken. She was sure she wasn't. Then, slowly and then altogether, fear made itself known on her face and her lips parted just slightly, words unable to escape.

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   Reuben Crouch

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Well, it seemed she wasn't leaving. It seemed the weirdness of this entire interaction had really only just begun. Ben didn't even know how to describe the look that had come over her face, much less what to think of it. If this had happened to him somewhere else, under different circumstances, he might have just given an awkward goodbye and walked away, but he could hardly do that now — he had her child under his arm. He couldn't just leave the kid in the middle of the street if he walked off, and she didn't particularly seem up for... parenting... at the moment. Worst of all, he had no idea what had caused her to go white as a sheet, so he wasn't even sure what to say to snap her out of it.

"Uhm," he began, rather awkwardly. "Do you need to sit down?" They were near the edge of Padmore Park and there was a bench in sight, so that was a start, at least — though he still didn't think he could abandon her kid until she came back to her senses, whether he'd deposited the two of them on a bench off the road or not.

  

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After the realization of her child's paternity came the realization that the child's father seemed to have no clue of it. Why should he, though? She had been nothing but discreet; she had defrauded all of Hogsmeade with her tale of a whirlwind romance that naturally concluded in a speedy marriage to Ari, and if anyone suspected anything of her pregnancy it was that she and Ari had shared a bed before they were wed. It was preferable to the alternative—this alternative. And yet, it occurred to her as she opened her mouth to speak, that fighting his assistance or really anything beyond feigning feminine weakness might clue him into her thoughts. And Dionisia knew one thing of men: they did not tend to care about women they had no reason to care about.

So she nodded, letting out a breath before allowing her wrist to come to a rest at her forehead. "Yes," she muttered, shaking her head as if shaking off a dizzy spell (which was not too far from the truth, she had to admit). "It's been a long day. Forgive me, Mr..." she continued, disregarding the façade of a Father Christmas altogether. Elliot seemed to, as evidenced by his newfound interest in the candy he held. She knew the man's face. She remembered that much. She needed the name; it lingered at the edge of her mind but refused to let itself be known to her.

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"Ben Crouch," he answered as he offered her his arm, shifting to hang onto the child by one shoulder as he steered him away from the center of the festival. A part of him didn't really want to give his name, because he felt like it put him at a disadvantage — she knew whatever it was that had made her go ashy faced, and he didn't, and he still didn't know her name. On the other hand, it wasn't like it was a well-kept secret. She could have asked half the people attending today who was behind Santa's beard and they would have supplied his name just as readily.

"It's no trouble, Mrs. &mdash?" he asked as he started to lead her towards the bench. He could at least come away from this interaction with that much, since she didn't appear keen on sharing whatever it was that had just happened. It had to have something to do with him, Ben was convinced, and not just a 'long day.' Was there something about their autumn liaison (it had been autumn, he remembered now, not summer, because he'd been wearing gloves when they'd met and he'd forgotten one in the store and had to throw the one remaining half of the pair away) that he was forgetting? Something important, or dramatic? Surely nothing that could still be relevant now?

  

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Ben Crouch. She wasn't silly enough to envision that her son may have ended up Elliot Crouch, because she hardly recognized the man let alone knew him well enough to consider that marriage to him was ever a prospect, but still. He didn't seem to know that the boy he held onto was his own flesh and blood, no matter whose name he carried and who he called "Papa" at the end of the night. And, Merlin, she wasn't sure what was more terrifying: the thought of Mr. Crouch figuring out that Elliot was his son, or Ari figuring out that Elliot had cuddled up in the arms of his biological father—albeit unknowingly—for a few minutes.

Dionisia knew better than to make assumptions and admissions with0ut contemplating it, to her credit. She knew that Ben Crouch, no matter what had transpired between them those years ago, was now a married man. It was hard to avoid gossip, even if she did her best to.

"Mrs. Fisk," she said quietly, deciding it was best not to stoke the flames any further. He did not need to know. "I thank you for your assistance. I will be well." The words left her mouth methodically, mechanically; there was no tone to them, no true graciousness. She was in defense mode.

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Ben was far from satisfied with just her name and no explanation of what had happened to get her so shaken, but he also recognized that if she didn't want to tell him there was very little he could do to persuade her. He didn't know her, and had very little shared history with her except that one incident in the shop. He could have asked her outright what was going on, but he also didn't particularly want to cause a scene. For one thing, he could not possibly be more conspicuous, wearing a Santa suit in the middle of a Christmas Festival, and so someone was bound to notice and recognize him if something were to happen. Second, he still hadn't entirely gotten over the idea that Melody might be lurking in the background somewhere, watching him and making her own assumptions about what was going on.

"Well, if you're feeling better," he said vaguely, wondering if he should linger until she actually seemed to be recovered or whether he'd fulfilled his obligation by seeing her and the child safely to the bench and getting an assurance that she was fine (however mechanic and not-fine the response seemed).

  

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Dionisia nodded and gave him nothing else. The less information he took away from the conversation, the better. She would have plenty of time to figure out what to do, if that meant doing anything at all. For now, she needed some air and some space.

"Yes, thank you. I should get Elliot home," she said, giving the man a smile that did not meet her eyes. Permission to leave.

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