Weeks passed, quickly turning into several months, and the snow covering the streets of Montfermeil-Sur-Mer began to turn to slush, and finally to melt, resulting in more slips and falls than usual. No calls came from the Montfermeil-Sur-Mer Children's Refuge, and no word of what to do with Darcy. So on she stayed in Javert's care, and the girl eventually came to consider Javert's small apartment home. Although she still slept in the living room, the armchair had been traded in for a sofa, long enough so she could stretch out. Each morning, Javert left as soon as the sun rose after preparing himself breakfast, and as soon as she was old enough, Darcy rose a few hours later for school.

Word eventually got out that Javert had acquired a child somewhere down the road, but no one was certain who the child was, and Darcy wisely kept it to herself. Had any of her school friends found out, it was more than likely she would have soon found herself quite lonely. So the only soul who knew was Abbey, and Darcy made her swear on pain of death that she wouldn't tell a soul. The pact was kept quiet well, and the two girls became fast friends over the years, walking to and from school together and often doing homework in the evenings while Javert was away.

It had been six years since Darcy's mother's arrest, and the girl hadn't heard from or seen of her since. She inquired often as to her mother's whereabouts, but Javert never had an answer for her. The truth was that shortly after the incident with the guard, Darcy's mother had attacked another officer who was attempting to do the same thing in her cell, and was promptly removed the premises and put into a prison for women fifty miles away in another city, limiting her chances of ever seeing her daughter again.

Darcy, now fourteen, had lived with Javert for seven years, and had all but forgotten she had ever lived anywhere but with Javert. She had long since abandoned the formal term "Monsieur" she had formerly addressed him with and taken up the term "Papa."

The first time she addressed him as such, it took Javert off guard, and partially rattled, had dismissed her to her room. But the name began to grow on him, and soon the man began to consider himself as such. In the apartment after hours, Darcy saw a much more subdued, warmer Javert than anyone ever would when he was on duty. She was completely unaware of the severe, frigid exterior he carried with him while patrolling, and he very well preferred to keep it that way.

Winter came again. Darcy still occasionally inquired of her mother, and one particular day, Javert caught word that Corinne Beauviard was back in Montfermeil-Sur-Mer. Gears began to tick in his brain as he considered showing Darcy the truth at last about her mother. Rather than clinging onto the childish fantasy that her mother was an angelic, pure woman who had just struck on some misfortune, she would be free to see the truth of her mother's profession. However, it would be a cruel realization, and Javert had spent much of the time in which Darcy had occupied his home attempting to protect her from the evils that were so rampant in the world. For the time being, he dismissed the idea.

One particular evening, just after sunset as Javert was preparing to head home for the night, a group of brightly painted woman, many of them inebriated, rounded a corner, as loud and raucious as a bunch of schoolboys. Javert scowled at them all. The prostitutes these days were becoming more and more brazen around law enforcement, unafraid of arrest. At one point a few men came through a doorway and proceeded to circle the four or five women, whistling rudely and making comments. One of the men may have pinched one of the ladies, and she shrieked with laughter and took a playful swing at him. He caught her around the middle and dumped her in the street in a snowdrift, and now the high-pitched laughter turned into an angry cry, and, hauling herself up, struck the man across the face. Javert sighed and, as it was his duty to intervene on such things, started crossing to the group unnoticed. By the time he reached them, two men had the woman by the arms and the third was dumping snow down her dress, which wasn't hard considering the neckline. She was crying now and swearing horribly. The other prostitutes had fled moments ago on sight of Javert making his way across the street.

"Gentleman, that's enough." Javert said coolly. "You may let her go."

The three men looked up, thunderstruck and promptly released the hissing woman. She took one last swing at one of them only to have her wrist caught in the iron grip of Javert.

"And that will be quite enough from you as well.." he said coldly. "Gentleman, you are henceforth dismissed." He said boredly and, the woman's wrist still in his hand, proceeded toward the jail.

"I will NOT GO BACK THERE!" she bellowed, struggling. "I was there once, I ain't goin' again!"

"You struck a bystander, however guilty he was of harrassing you; and may I remind you that you are the prostitute, not he." Javert said, trudging inexorably on. The girl gave one final yank and Javert pulled her forward to face him.

"Now listen you-" he broke off then. Staring him in the face was none other than Darcy's mother.

"Monsieur L'Inspecteur!" she gasped as she recognized the face underneath the high-brimmed hat. "My daughter..?"

Javert hesitated, something he rarely did. At once he released his captive, casting away her hand like it was something dirty.

"She is well." He said coldly. "Be off."

"Monsieur, PLEASE!" the woman cried. "I must see my daughter!"

Javert sighed and turned. "And you will. I will bring her to you. Tomorrow. 3pm on the bridge. Do not be late." Javert commanded, and turning once more resumed his path toward home.

The woman smiled and turned as well. There was so much to do.