A/N: A few overall notes to start us off with:

One, in terms of timeline, this fic is set on Christmas Eve/Day of 1823, after Valjean has escaped the Orion and is in the midst of rescuing Cosette from the Thenardiérs. I have fudged other canon elements of the timeline ever so slightly to make the story work; generally speaking, it shouldn't be noticeable.

Re: shipping - I am a Valvert shipper, hands-down, but A Christmas Carol isn't a very romantically-oriented story. As of right now, I do not foresee this turning into slash, but if the Muse speaks... well, we'll see. Tags will be updated if/when necessary, across the board, for all content. Otherwise, feel free to read this with shipping goggles on if you like, or not.

Finally, I've been thinking about writing this for a long time, but am only just now getting around to it. I hope you enjoy, and without further ado, here is my little Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Yule/Festivus/etc. gift to you all.

Stave One: The Ghosts

Christmas Eve in Paris was bitterly cold, arriving on the tails of a snowstorm that had whited out the skies three days prior. The drifts lay heavy along the gutters, though in the street, the snow was sinking slowly into grey sludge with the passing of each carriage. Last-minute shoppers hurried down the boulevard, faces bent against the wind. Behind the leaded windows, brightly colored toys lay nestled in enchanting displays, while wreaths of fir and holly hung on every door. The police depot on the corner was made no exception, and the officers bid one another a "Merry Christmas" as they went their separate ways for the night.

Inside the depot, offices that were customarily quiet, even somber, were overflowing with good cheer. A tree was set in the lobby, and somewhere around three o'clock, a decanter of spiced wine had found its way over to the clerk; after a few glasses, the very air itself felt more boisterous. In the whole building, only one door remained shut and unwelcoming. And yet, such a power emanated from that room that even in the midst of the celebrations, those who did pass it by faltered and lowered their voices. This office belonged to none other than one M. Javert, and he was far from prepared to divest himself of his work, no matter how festive the occasion.

Upon the particular Christmas Eve during which our story takes place, M. Javert was absorbed in a most taxing and particular assignment - namely, the pursuit and capture of the once-convict, Jean Valjean. As any who read the papers could have recounted after his sensational flight from Montreuil-sur-Mer, Valjean was wanted on a number of charges, which ranged from breaking parole to robbery to fraudulence; Javert was determined to see him back behind bars as soon as was possible. However, progress on the case was slow, for Paris was notorious for its many sinkholes in which it was possible to disappear, and Valjean had made a fine job of it.

Javert was in the midst of re-reading the latest reports for what must have been the hundredth time when he was interrupted by a knock at the door. Glancing up, Javert observed the entrance of M. Chabouillet, Secretary of the Prefecture. Javert dipped his head perfunctorily and returned to his reading.

"Evening, Monsieur Javert," Chabouillet said, an easy smile on his face.

"Mmm," came the grunted response.

Chabouillet, standing in the open doorway, crossed his arms. "Still working, I see?"

Turning the page, Javert replied, "Valjean is hardly likely to turn himself in. If I am to find him, then the work must be done."

"You never know," Chabouillet chuckled. "After that spectacle he made in Arras...!"

There was no answering mirth in Javert's smile when he said, "I will not chance the security of Paris on spectacle, Monsieur."

"No, I suppose not," the Secretary conceded. Even so, the amusement had not left his eyes when he asked, "And what of your plans for tomorrow?"

For a moment, Javert paused, the report in his hand stilling. "Tomorrow?" he repeated.

"Yes, tomorrow, Christmas Day."

Javert returned to reading, his disinterest plain. "I expect I shall be here."

"You most certainly shall not."

At that, Javert looked up again, going so far as to lay the report down on his desk.

Chabouillet shook his head. "The depot shall be closed tomorrow, Javert. Folks intend to spend the holiday with their families, and there's no sense in paying for the coal to heat an empty building."

This news seemed to startle Javert momentarily. "You mean to close the entire building? And what if someone should be in need of the police?"

Waving this away, Chabouillet scoffed. "Need the police? On Christmas Day? Javert, France shall not fall to pieces overnight, and it is good for the men to take a day off now and again."

Javert's eyes flicked over the pile of paperwork before him as he considered this. Then, his resignation apparent, he responded, "Very well. I shall just have to take this home."

"Javert..." There was a faint warning to Chabouillet's voice, and Javert seemed to sense as much.

"Monsieur?"

"You are to take the day off, as well."

Javert froze for a second, his brow creased, before the protestation began. "I - I beg your pardon, Monsieur?"

Chabouillet nodded definitively. "Oh yes," he said. "I insist. You're overworking yourself, and I cannot have my finest officer collapsing. Take the holiday, Javert. Enjoy yourself."

Javert was inclined to argue, but with a deep breath, he collected himself. "If the Secretary insists..."

"I do," Chabouillet told him. "It will be good for you."

"In that case, I will need to finish this tonight," Javert muttered. "But there's no pattern to these reports, none at all - !"

"Javert," Chabouillet interrupted, "you do know that Christmas Eve is a holiday in its own right, do you not?" Before Javert could think to respond, the Secretary continued. "Your work ethic is admirable, officer, so please do not think I mock it. You have been an asset to us ever since you were transferred from Montreuil. A day off is meant to be a reward, not a punishment."

Sighing, Javert rubbed at his forehead. "The only reward I seek is justice, Monsieur."

"You'll be rewarded a great deal more than that," remarked Chabouillet. "I see promotion in your future, Javert, perhaps even to Inspector. In the meantime, content yourself with this. If you think of it, you might stop by my apartments tomorrow. It is tradition that my wife and I host a Christmas party, and the men from the station are always invited."

Standing, Javert began to stack his papers together. "The invitation is noted, Monsieur, but I doubt I shall go. It is not my custom to make merry."

Chabouillet shrugged. "As you wish, then. Have a good night, Javert, and a restful Christmas!" The Secretary turned to go, acknowledging Javert's "Good evening," with a gesture of his hand. As he strolled down the hall, disappearing from view, he went so far as to whistle a few bars of what might have been Good King Wenceslas.

Javert, alone in his office, considered the stack of reports. He was tempted to take them home with him, but Chabouillet had expressly commanded that he did not, and he did not think he could conscience disobeying a direct order. The matter of Jean Valjean weighed heavily on his mind, however, and he knew it would continue to do so.

Pressing his lips together, Javert donned his heavy greatcoat and gloves against the winter chill, and stepped into the hall himself. As he made his way out of the station, a few officers hailed him with invitations, but Javert ignored the lot of them.

The night was quiet, and every exhalation made a cloud of glittering white particles blossom in the air. Hunkering into his woolen coat, Javert cut an imposing figure as he strode down the street. A frugal man by nature, and disinclined to treat any part of his forced repose as a vacation, Javert did not stop to catch a fiacre at the corner but continued walking.

He almost regretted this decision a few minutes later when a young man in a red coat caught him by the arm.

"Good evening, Monsieur," said the youth. "My fellows and I are raising funds for the poor this holiday season - would you like to make a donation?"

"I am not interested," Javert replied coolly, removing his arm from the young man's grip and going to continue down the road.

Not to be so easily deterred, the youth, who was quite blond, followed. "There are many this time of year who go without food or warmth - it is the duty of those more fortunate to lend them some aid."

At this, Javert did stop, for the business of Jean Valjean was on his mind still, and so he took it upon himself, by his thinking, to enlighten the persistent lad.

"Any good and honest man may find work if he be so inclined," Javert pronounced, looking his pursuer in the eye. "Those who go without surely do so only because of some laziness and immorality on their part. For those, prison will suit, and then they shall have both food and their fill of work."

Having made his point, the officer turned back toward his path, but for the third time, the young man called out.

"Prisons and workhouses - these hardly furnish men with the necessities, Monsieur, let alone with the Christmas spirit. Why, many would rather die than go to either."

Javert barked a laugh. "So much the better, then. France will be a happier kingdom indeed when all her miscreants lie buried or in chains. By all means, continue with your paltry efforts, but expect nothing to come of it."

The youth seethed, but he eyed Javert's stature and bearing, and seemed to think better of arguing further. Instead, he turned his own way down the street, doubtless on his way to petition other passersby.

Pleased with himself, Javert followed the twisting streets of the city as they became darker and narrower until such a point as he reached a tenement house three stories in height. It was built of a yellow brick, and on a grander building its windows might have been termed Palladian. The interior was dimly lit by a single wall sconce, but this was sufficient to find the staircase and ascend the first flight, whereupon Javert turned down the left wing toward his apartment. His was the third door on the right-hand side, and he paused outside of it to locate his key.

It was in the moment between drawing the key from his pocket and inserting it into the keyhole that Javert noticed a curious thing occur. There in the hallway, the door knob took on the visage of a man. So plain was it that Javert could make out even the blue coat he wore, the red piping, and the King's fleur de lys on his chest. In his surprise, Javert took a step back, and the man's eyes seemed to follow him as he did so. Then, the moment passed, and the knob was merely a knob again.

Javert found himself unnerved; he was hardly given to flights of fancy, and yet what he had observed was impossible. He credited the strange apparition to the quality of the light and his own distracted state, and quite firmly opened the door into his quarters.

Inside, the room was dark and cold. On most evenings, Javert would first have removed his coat, but the incident at the door had shaken him more than he cared to admit, and so instead, Javert first lit a candle, followed by the fire. Only when the room was well-illuminated did he content himself to remove his outermost layers. He hesitated a moment, and then locked the front door. He hesitated a moment more, and then double locked it.

Javert's apartment was a simple affair. The main room contained the hearth, a single armchair, and a dining table. There were shelves opposite the window, but they were empty except for a few books. The second room was the bedchamber, and its contents totaled a bed, a mechanical clock abandoned by the previous renter, and a chest of drawers. With some degree of suspicion, Javert pushed open the bedroom door and peered inside, raising the candle with one hand, but the room was empty. If someone were playing tricks on him, the only available culprit was himself.

With a shake of his head, Javert returned to the hearth and prepared a simple dinner; the remainder of the previous evening's mutton had stayed fresh in the freezing temperatures, and so was easily reheated over the small fire. Cold, and inclined to stick closer to the firelight, Javert did not remove himself to the table but rather sat in the armchair to eat. He could not have later described precisely what happened, but as he sat with his wooden bowl and tin utensils, some luminous glow - the fire? the waning moon? - seemed to give his dishes the luster of fine silver. A meaningless circumstance, certainly, he reasoned, and yet something in it brought a trace of anxiety to his heart.

Javert was in the midst of chiding himself for such foolishness, and writing it off as the results of Chabouillet's imposed idleness, when a third most terrible thing took place.

There was, next to the door, an old bell. Once, doubtless, drawing on its cord would have communicated something to someone, but its purpose was long-since forgotten, the building having changed hands several times since its installation. As such, the bell-pull was never used, and indeed, Javert had never thought anything of it. This most astonishing of nights, the bell pull slowly began to dip down, as if tugged by an invisible hand.

From the corner of his eye, Javert noticed the motion, and sat stock-still. Gradually, the cord began to pull itself faster, and the bell began to ring, quietly at first, and then more loudly. Growing more alarmed by the minute, Javert stood, only to notice the distant sound of a second chime, this one unmistakably belonging to the clock in the bedroom.

Javert took hold of the iron poker that sat next to the hearth, positioning himself behind the armchair. Precisely what this was intended to accomplish, he did not know, but the ghostly bells frightened him in a way he had not known for many years' time. When at last the incessant tolling began to slow, the sound was replaced by another, more insidious noise from down the hall: the clanking of chains.

This sound Javert was intimately familiar with, and what it foretold for him spelled out nothing but ill. With bated breath, he waited, and the scraping, rattling, dragging chains grew ever closer. When it came to pass that he could hear even the sounds of heavy footfalls, his pose grew readier, his grip on the poker firmer. Then the sounds stopped, and it seemed that whoever was thusly enchained must be standing just outside the door.

The whole world drew to a halt in the ensuing silence. Javert glanced around and then took a cautious step toward the door. Even before he had quite completed this small motion, the door was opening - nevermind that it was locked! - and the pitiful fire sprang up with a vengeance before guttering out completely.

Into the room hobbled three men, alike in stature and uniform, and all of them carrying what could only have been an immense weight in shackles. Each was possessed of a blue tailcoat emblazoned with red, cream trousers, and tall boots. They wore also the tall hats which identified them as gendarmes. Javert knew none of them, but with a thrill of horror, he recognized the middlemost man as being the one whose face had appeared earlier in the door knob. The three men also shared the trait of appearing translucent, such that Javert could see through them to the open door beyond.

The middle man - or perhaps more properly Ghost, whom Javert now noted bore the look of a brigadier - stepped forward.

Javert held his ground and the poker, and though he had been rendered briefly speechless, he now found his voice.

"Who are you?" he asked. "What do you want of me?"

The Ghost observed him with a dispassionate air. "Of the second - much. And of the first, who I was in life is of less import than what I - what we - did, and why we have come to you this night."

"Speak, then," Javert answered back, his voice steadier than he felt. "What have you done, that you think it concerns me?"

"Concern you, it does," replied the Ghost, "as you shall see. But first, may we sit down?"

Javert gestured around him. "I have not the chairs."

"Very well, then," said the Ghost. "We will stand. The story we have to tell you begins on a night much like tonight, eight years ago. The man named Jean Valjean is known to you, is he not?"

At that, Javert's attention was piqued in a way it had not been hitherto. "Certainly."

"Eight years ago, Monseigneur the Bishop Bienvenu offered him shelter for the night," began the Ghost. "And even as the man slept, Valjean stole the Bishop's silver."

"Ha," Javert interjected. "That doesn't surprise me in the least."

"Hush," commanded the Ghost of the brigadier. "Listen. He stole it because he had no money nor any means of work, while prison had taught him naught but hate. And he did not get far before he was caught, by us."

"Well done," Javert remarked.

"You are not listening," the Ghost seemed to sigh. "Then again, this was never meant to be easy. Pay attention, officer. We caught him, beat him, and dragged him back to the Bishop in chains. The Bishop, for his part, insisted that he had given Valjean the silver as a gift, and then gave him another two candlesticks to boot."

Javert shook his head. "Foolish of him. Generosity only encourages such behavior. What is your purpose in telling me this? If the Bishop claims the silver was a gift, then I can hardly add another count of robbery to the list of charges."

At this, a second Ghost, this one standing toward the right, spoke up. "You misunderstand him, Monsieur. Our story is not yet finished."

"Quite," continued the first Ghost. "At the Bishop's word, we let Valjean go. We thought nothing more of it, then, but nor did we learn anything by our experience. Years passed, and there were many who we arrested - others who were poor, and starving, and desperate. And one by one, death claimed each of us."

Javert frowned. "Speak, then, of that - what of your condition, here? Why do honorable members of the gendarmerie wear such shackles?"

At that, the three Ghosts laughed, a dark and sinister laugh. The third Ghost, who as of yet had spoken nothing, stepped forward.

"We forged them ourselves, by our deeds. You wear just such a chain yourself, Monsieur," he said.

Javert felt himself go cold, and he glanced down at himself, for though he could scarcely believe what he was seeing, the words he was hearing echoed undeniably in his ears. While he was relieved to see nothing tangible fettering him in place, the Ghost's next words quickly extinguished any solace he found in that fact.

"Only, as you yet live, yours has had time to grow even longer and more terrible than ours." The Ghost's voice then grew deeper in warning. "Continue as you have, and you may impress the Devil himself with the length of it."

Javert was not a man easily frightened, but the course of the evening had taken its toll, and these words offered nothing in the way of comfort. It was, then, the natural result that he trembled where he stood, his hands shaking where they yet gripped the fire poker.

"But... Messieurs," Javert managed, "I do not understand! I have striven to lead an upright life - I do not doubt that you did the same! What, then, is the crime that has left you so punished?"

"Indifference," said the first Ghost. "Self-righteousness."

"Cruelty," added the second.

"We had no compassion for the less fortunate," the third Ghost explained. "We blamed them for their troubles, beat them, imprisoned them, and left them to starve."

"And thus," the first Ghost concluded, "as we had no mercy upon others, so none has been shown to us."

"Nonsense," Javert argued with an uncertain laugh. "Cruelty? It is not cruelty to punish those wrongdoers who flaunt our laws, it is duty!"

"Duty?!" the three shrieked in unison.

"Speak not that word," implored the first. "Our duty was benevolence, our duty was charity, and we had none of it! Now we are cursed, without rest, to wander the earth forever. Careful, Monsieur, lest you endure the same fate!"

"It cannot be," Javert murmured. "It cannot be! Messieurs, please - surely there is a chance by which I might correct this?"

"There is a chance," confirmed the second Ghost. "One chance, and one only; tonight, you shall be haunted by three more Spirits."

Javert's eyes widened.

"Three more?" he asked faintly. "I think I have had quite enough of Spirits."

"Three more," the Ghost confirmed. "And you must listen to Them and see what They will show you. The first shall arrive at the stroke of one o'clock - the next on the hour after, and then the last the hour after that. Know, too, that if you cannot learn what they mean to show you, then your afterlife is forfeit to torment."

Having spoken their piece, the three Ghosts turned as one to the window and walked toward it. When they reached the wall, they kept on walking, and passed right through it into the night. Javert watched open-mouthed until they had disappeared entirely, and then he spun around.

The room looked no different than it had when he had returned home for the night; the door was closed, and double-bolted; there was a small fire in the grate; the remains of his supper sat on the armchair. Shaking more violently now that he was alone, Javert examined the poker clasped fast in his hands. His knuckles were white from gripping it, and it took some effort on his part to relinquish it to its place next to the hearth.

Once more, Javert surveyed the room. He saw nothing supernatural or out of place, nothing which suggested he had just been visited by a trio of Ghosts. For an instant, he considered that he might be mad. Then he decided that if indeed it was madness claiming him, it was a problem which could wait until morning.

Having made this resolution, Javert allowed the window a last, lingering glance, and then he retired to his bedchamber, where he did not even bother to undress before collapsing into bed. In an instant, he was asleep.