Vanilla

Disclaimer: I do not own anything that you recognize as being derived from our beloved Charlie and the Chocolate Factory...but I do have a large supply of candy.

A/N: Simply a rather mad authoress' request for reviews!

It was a late night for Mr. Willy Wonka, his entire day revolved around finding a new flavor for his gobstoppers. The candy maker trudged into his glass elevator with a soft sigh, rubbing his empty stomach. He was swept away in his work with passion fruit tango flavored gobstoppers when he finally realized that he was late for dinner with the Buckets. Just the thought of warm bread and potatoes made the candy-maker's stomach growl. The elevator let out a sharp ping, reaching the candy wonderland that held the Buckets' humble shack. Willy ran his gloved hands over the creases and wrinkles on his usually immaculate violet coat as he stepped out into the expanse of sugar-snow covered hills. He walked upright, almost jauntily, towards the glow of the house, his cane imprinting small dots in the sugar. Before he reached up to rap gently on the door, Willy lifted his hand and swiped one finger over the brim of his impressive hat before putting the finger in his mouth. The sugar that had collected there tasted delightful, his old amore for sweets never dying. The face that Mrs. Bucket wore when she opened the rickety door was not her usual pleasant expression. Instead, the woman's dark eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth formed a thin line.

"It was those gobstoppers," Willy hastily explained, "the flavor...never right, and the candy boat was-"

"Willy," sighed Mrs. Bucket, placing a hand on his shoulder, "its Charlie."

Willy gazed over the woman's knit-clad shoulder to see the family huddled around the small boy in the crimson sweater, holding his hand and sobbing. Willy quickly glided over to the chair and kneeled to come face to face with the boy whose pale cheeks were stained with tears.

"My dear boy," he started, handing Charlie a gold handkerchief, "what...what happened?" Charlie let out a small hiccup through his tears and held up his hand to show angry red marks on his wrists. Willy swallowed hard, his violet eyes growing abnormally large.

"That school of his," growled Grandpa George, "that blasted teacher of his! Such barbaric discipline! I have never seen so much-"

Grandpa George continued to let out a tirade of colorful words, but Willy could guess their meaning. Charlie's school was a small quiet place on the backstreets of the city. Rich kids, poor kids, and middle-class kids alike went to Threetwood Academy for Today's Youth, a tall imposing skeleton of a building with stone-faced intimidating teachers. The worst of all was Mr. Bramwick, whose nasty gapped snarl, and thin spiderlike frame served as a gruesome representation of a horrible man. His favorite punishment was the hot leather strip that he kept warm and toasty over the flames, ready for any unfortunate pupil.

"We pulled him out, there's going to be no more of this," declared Mr. Bucket, placing a gently hand over his child's wrists. Willy let out a sigh and ran his hand over his hat, an old habit of nerves, as he stood up, reaching his full height once more. The quirky candy maker swung his long arms behind his back and gathered his thoughts for a second.

"Well," he quipped looking at the solemn faces around him, "it seems that Charlie, here, needs a tutor and it won't be hard to find someone who will want to work here at the Factory! It'll be a piece of chocolate covered cake!"

Willy Wonka was wrong.

It was a cold winter night and Valentine Halifax had finally made it home, snow dusting her small frame. Her old brown boots made the steps to her flat creak and groan, the wooden boards just as tired as she was. The soft glow of the lights above and the smell of warm bread made Valentine feel just a wee bit better. She smiled as she heard the voices of her father and sister, Poppy, through the frosted glass window. One rumbling baritone and one sweet soprano singing along to an old Yuletide carol reminded Valentine that Christmas was drawing near. Her trembling mitted hand gripped the iron door knocker and she gave it three slow raps. The door flew open to reveal a plump woman with graying blonde hair and warm rosy cheeks.

"Valentine," her mother whispered, "did you get it?"

Valentine's left arm cradled a large white red-striped bag, from which a trail of steam was rising into the air. Inside the bag there was a surprise for Mr. Halifax, a large chocolate birthday cake made from a batter of melted Wonka bars. The Halifax women had been planning it for months, saving every last cent to buy the savory treat.

"Of course Mother," muttered Valentine, looking past her mother's shoulder to see her father, a tall ginger man, sitting contentedly by the small fireplace.

"Come love, lets hustle to the stove before he wakes up from his nap," whispered her mother, sending her daughter an excited glance before gathering her skirts and moving into the back of the one room flat. Valentine removed her cream knit cap and shuffled into the cramped apartment, her pale nose turning pink with new warmth.

"Val," a voice hissed from behind a shaggy Persian rug that separated the flat in two, "come on already".

Valentine cringed at the use of her nick-name as her sister's face appeared behind the rug. Poppy Halifax was indeed lovely, with hair the color of chocolate covered cherries and eyes like glittering emeralds. These eyes were narrowed at the pair before them, a pale manicured hand beckoning the two other women behind the curtain. Valentine shrugged out of her old tattered coat and gingerly tossed it to dry near the fireplace, stepping around the piles of books and teacups to reach the rug.

She glanced at the cover of one book on top of a large pile and her eyes only had a second to read its title, "Jane Eyre", before her mother's plump pink fingers tugged at her arm. Behind the rug, there was a candlelit nook, a rusting iron oven and stove set, a cupboard with an unhinged door, and a small mat in the corner, decorated with a colorful patchwork quilt. On the mat sat Harry Halifax, the youngest member of the Halifax family, his chubby child fingers grasping a small wooden car.

"Harry!" exclaimed Valentine, rushing over to wrap her arms around the toddler, "How was your day, love? Did you help Mummy with the dishes?" The boy nodded his strawberry blond head excitedly, pointing a finger to a pile of shiny yet cracked blue plates and bowls.

"Will you, 'alentine," he asked, thumb in mouth, "will you take me to get a scrum-scrum," the boy struggled with forming the word on his lips, which were pale and chapped.

"You mean a Wonka Scrumdiddlyumptious bar from the shop on the corner?" Valentine asked, ruffling the boy's hair "We'll see, you are getting chocolate cake tonight so..."

"Chocolate cake!" shouted Harry only to have a soft hand cover his mouth. The women of the house didn't tell the boy about Mr. Halifax's surprise cake, for if they did, it would no longer be a surprise. Harry could never keep his mouth shut.

"Oh, look what you've done now," growled Poppy, throwing her crimson curls into a bun, "Father's probably awake!" The tall young woman pushed past her kneeling sister, hurrying to the stove, her cheeks turning pink with frustration.

"Watch your tongue, girl," scolded Valentine's mother, "that's your sister yer talkin' to!"

Valentine simply sighed pulling her hair into a simple braid. She and Poppy weren't on the best of terms, to say the least. The women worked quietly from that moment on, Harry resting on Valentine's hip as they prepared the cake. They added cheap white icing and flimsy blue candles which they lit with their last two matches before they carried their Wonka chocolate cake out of the 'kitchen' towards the fireplace where Mr. Halifax sat still, snoring away next to the fire. Valentine's lips quirked as she watched her father's brass spectacles slip down his beak-like nose, shaking with each loud snore. Her mother gave her a knowing look before she leaned over and gently shook her father's shoulder.

"Wha...," he slurred with remaining sleep, before his mouth curved into a Cheshire grin, fiery ginger hair falling over his forehead.

"Well hello! I must have taken a wink, wait, what's this?" he asked, his brown eyes falling on the cake, whose candles illuminate the faces of the family before him.

"Happy Birthday!" sang Valentine, reaching over to embrace her very surprised father. Her mother and Poppy set the cake on the tiny wooden table near the front door and busied themselves over cutting a slice.

"So, my heart," muttered Mr. Halifax to his daughter who was kneeling at his side, "did you notice anything...different about your sister?"

Valentine's eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head to look at her beautiful sister. She saw nothing out of the norm: same auburn curls, same sharp eyes and nose, same prim posture. Wait, on the eyes there was a faint trim of black and on the cheeks a blush of rouge and her lips were cherry red! Poppy never wore make-up for she believed women should not paint their faces, drink alcohol, or do, ahem, illicit acts until they were married or engaged. Poppy was engaged! But that could be, Valentine thought, for Poppy would have to leave the Halifaxes to live with her husband.

"Alright, up with you two silent sparrows," called her mother, beckoning them over to the small table with a cheery grin. After plates were served, grace was prayed, and cheers were given to , Poppy gracefully stood up from her seat.

"Father, Valentine," she started, giving each a curt nod, "I have something to tell you. Lewis and I have been thinking of this for a while and we would like to get married."

Valentine nearly choked on her apple cider. Poppy was engaged to Lewis? As in Lewis Fitzbert, the poor baker's boy down the street? Valentine let her fork fall to the table with a clatter as she stood and faced her sister, who had the decency to look slightly uncomfortable.

"Not a single word before his moment, not a sign of your affections for Lewis, not a plan for the rest of us..." the girl trailed off in a whisper, her eyebrows tilted in distress. Each of the Halifax girls pitched in with each of their small jobs, Poppy at the newspaper office and Valentine as a secretary at Threetwood Academy. Both jobs along with their father's job as a book peddler barely supported the modest family, and if Poppy were to settle down and marry Lewis, her money earned at the office would go towards supporting her husband and most likely to-be-born child. Valentine's large brown eyes met those of her sister, whose cool green glace was now tear-glazed and pleading. With a huff of surrender, Valentine shuffled around the table to embrace her sister.

"I'm sorry, Poppy, if you're truly in love we'll make by swell, just swell," Valentine muttered into her sisters shoulder. Her eyes darted to her left where she saw her parents talking in hushed voices near the fire along with Harry with a chocolate covered mouth.

"Thank you, Valentine, I'll do everything I can to help, but I do love him, I do," Poppy cooed, running a hand over her sister's blonde braid. Although she felt happy for her sister, who had finally displayed some sort of emotion after being single for the past four years, Valentine thought of how terribly hard it would be to get a new job.

Valentine Halifax was mistaken.

A/N: Should I continue or should I stop right here and forget this story existed? Your opinion will be treasured.

With Love,

Lady Fairfarren