Winter in Diagon Alley never looked so depressing. Being the heart of wizarding England - it was usually bustling with life, moreso when the holiday season came around. But, as the first snowflakes began to fall over the cobbled streets that morning, dead silence was all that greeted it.

She downed her morning potion in a quick gulp.

Grimacing, she pulled back from the window. Fastening her bra, she watched herself transform in the mirror.

It was always the part of the day she least looked forward to. Waking up meant she had to remember. And getting up meant… taking a shot of something far more vile than anything Mrs Abbott kept behind her bar.

But, she was confident. Today she would do better. She knew what she'd done wrong yesterday, she'd reflected, she had apologised and now she was ready to make amends.

She was going to do better.

"Carly, honey… word in the back, please."

Her heart sank. Suppose it sounded too good to be true, afterall. Better get it over with sooner rather than later.

Following Mrs Abbott back into the kitchen, she began as soon as she could.

"Save yourself the effort... I am sacked, aren't I? It wasn't my fault that the old bastard -"

Her words stopped on their own.

Standing before them was an bald, elderly man. His skin looked pale and cold. Despite probably matching herself in height, he hunched so dramatically forward, he may well have been in a permanent bow.

"Carly… this is Ol' Tom," she said expectantly.

She glowered at the misshapen hump emanating out of his back. She vaugely remembered seeing the crooked man hovering around the bar at times - she'd tried not to look for too long.

"'Ello, treacle," he said with a definitive slur in his voice.

"You're going into the basement with Ol' Tom, today."

She looked at the landlady.

"... beg your fucking pardon?"

"The basement," she repeated. "It needs clearing out. I'm afraid that with letting so many of the staff go not long ago… it's fallen quite a bit into disarray. We need everything cleared, cleaning, whatever! Now, Ol' Tom may look old, but he's surprisingly strong for his age!"

Mrs Abbott through open a trap door as wide as it would all packed around the entrance, and she experienced a momentary twist of uneasiness at what lay beyond.

"Now, yer should kno', I don't kno' much about no interior design'," Ol' Tom said as he peered down the hole.

"But you can figure it out… ?" Mrs Abbott asked.

"Hmmm… 'Ave to see, won't we?"

He tread lopsidedly down the stairs. He peered back up the stairs at them.

"How good are ya with levitation magic, Carly?"

She felt eyes descend on her and her stomach twisted unpleasantly. She opened her mouth but was met by a rare bout of shyness.

"I… I can't do it," she said simply.

While Ol' Tom seemed to take this answer at face value, Mrs Abbott did not. Her face scrunched up with confusion.

"I-I'm a squib, I mean!"

The landlady's face changed again.

"I thought you said… you went to Hogwarts?" she asked slowly.

Suddenly, she was unaccountably nervous. She never cared much for the judgement of others, but now there were stakes. How easily could she be seen through? She was genuinely worried what this middle-aged woman would think of her.

There was definitely an air of curiosity in her voice. As she opened her mouth to question further, she turned quickly back down the stairs.

"But I'm a good pair of hands! I don't tire easily!"

She brought an arm up and flexed it for demonstration. Usually it was something impressive to look at - she forgot she wasn't herself right now.

A haunting laugh echoed up from the cavern beneath the pub.

"That's all good by me, that is!" he slurred. "Sometimes the personal touch is wha' it takes, ahaha!"

The mention of the work needing doing seemed to bring Mrs Abbott back and in a second, her face flashed back to its usual happy-go-lucky air. She was next down the stairs and, being thankful to still be employed, and not seeing any way out of it, she followed.

Ol' Tom put his hands on his hips and stared into the clutter. Mrs Abbott had unsold how much there was to do. Some stacks of rubbish reached her eyeline. She half-expected Ol' Tom to turn on his heel and leave, and was beginning to regret not making that choice herself with every second.

"Now then, now then..." he walked around the space again. " All seems doable enough. Gotta sort all these boxes and crates out… We'll haul 'em all up the stairs and get you to sor' em later, Ally. Cut 'em down some. Barrels next. Then we 'ave a better look at room we'll tear up the floors, see what's salvageable, see what's been got by the rot."

He kicked at the splintered wood from the ladder and raised his eyebrow.

"Gonna need a new set of stairs. Couple bags of nails… whitewash… paint. Clay tile and some river stone. Lime... If yer plannin' on not lettin' it get like this again, yer gonna want to think of a window down 'ere too."

"But… you can do it?"

He gave her a long, cartoonishly look of consideration.

"Oh, aye. We're goin' to need a list…. A long one. Tomorrow, we can see about gettin' the orders filled and how much flatter we can make that purse of yours."

"But how much do you think it will all cost?"

For the first time since she'd met him, his mood seemed to drop.

"Don't suppose ah know, yet. But a good amount can be fer' free. Not countin' mine and Carly's labour, 'suppose."

"Well… that's a better answer than I was expecting."

Mrs Abbott brought an old clipboard away from the wall, blew away the dust, and handed him a quill. They bent over the parchment together as Ol' Tom started writing.

"Right, well then," she started up again, "I really have to get back behind the bar, so… I'll leave you two to it, shall I?"

She chose to stay quiet. There were a lot she wanted to say. She wanted to beg for another chance at the bar. She wanted to plead to not be locked down here with Nosferatu. She wanted to scream to the Elder Gods in frustration that she'd even landed herself in such a shitty situation.

When she couldn't say any of those, she stayed silent. Mrs Abbott began back up the staircase and Ol' Tom took to the piles of mess.

"Cara."

She flashed a look up at her employer, who had stopped her ascent up half way up the stairs.

"Whenever I'm not in, you answer to Ol' Tom. Bit like a ladder, like that. Me at the top, being the owner of course, then Ol' Tom, just because he's worked longer, then you and Hannah at the bottom. Oh - she does a bit of work here during the summer! Just moving glasses. I'd say by next time she has a shift, you'll be her superior, ohhhh… Merlin's Beard she's gonna hate me for that."

She looked around, hoping to find the point of this conversation somewhere in the room.

"But… he's fine," she reiterated. "Really! I know how he seems, but… You can trust Ol' Tom with your life."

"Says the lady who's locking me in the basement with him…"

Her constant enthusiasm seemed to finally bubble out and Mrs Abbott left the room looking far less confident than she had come in.

Pulling will-power from only Merlin-Knows-Where, she brought herself to Ol' Tom's side.

Mostly to Ol' Tom's side.

…

Vaugely near Ol' Tom's vicinity.

"Lots to do…" he mumbled. "Some of this we can get done today… some will take time. Yanno, ah just need help with the big bulk of it, though, ah can handle the finer things me' self. Oh, ah tell you what…"

Bending in a way that didn't look healthy or natural, Ol' Tom produced a purse and tossed it to her.

"Think ah'll send you off ahead to grab bits and pieces while I get an' 'ead started on this!"

She sucked her teeth thoughtfully for a moment. It was more reasonable of a request than asking her to use magic, but still a little too close to comfort for her. At least it was presently, anyway.

She threw the purse back and shook her head, trying to feign confusion.

"Wouldn't know what I'm looking for… And wouldn't wanna waste our budget on the wrong things."

He bounced the purse in his hand. She gave him a long look, and his expression didn't lapse.

"No..." he said finally, nodding to her. "No, ah suppose you 'd not. Best play it safe."

He nodded and tucked the purse away. She sighed. He folded his scribbled material list and placed it in his pocket.

"I'll need some hours. You just get a ahead start fer us, will ya?"

She gave her a neighbourly nod and mercifully, Ol' Tom left her company to.

And she was alone.

It was more obvious that it was snowing, down here. There was a breeze seeping in, making the small fires in the lanterns fight to remain steady.

Pathetically, she kicked a hole through one of the rotted storage crates.

Fancy piece of life, she'd landed herself in. Working with her hands… doing manual labour… Probably the single most degrading, ill-suited job she could have found for herself. If the others knew what she was doing to survive… never mind hiding out, she'd walk willingly into the first killing curse sent her way. And answering to a cripple, just to add an extra level of shame to her predicament.

She did suppose, however, that being down here made it easy to pretend she wasn't herself. Surrounded by such an alien environment and given a task so unbefitting of herself - annoyingly, that actually sounded like exactly the sort of escapism she'd been in need of. She wasn't herself, after all. She was Cara Harkness. And apparently… Cara Harkness worked manual labour.

Grasping at any thread of positivity she could find, she put herself to work clearing out the old building.

It quickly became apparent exactly how much junk had accrued in the place. Mrs Abbott was lying if she said they was mess was simple from lack of upkeep - it was covered in rotted storage boxes, which in turn were full of smashed or damaged glasses, then she found a set of rotted and bent brooms, half a dozen sacks of horse feed, an assortment of room blankets that were thick with mould, and plenty of awkward, cumbersome, and definitely some cursed items. It was the home of a hoarder or, more so, a lazy person. Perhaps once it was indeed in better condition, but now it was a pig's sti.

Moving with disgust, she found a door which led to a second, smaller room. This room, which she decided used to be a stock-taking office, had its own share of debris - moth balls, shattered and moulded inkwells, eaten furniture and a surprising amount of empty beer bottles. Thankfully there was less disgusting mess in the office, only a little mould, the odd Vole nests and a few scraps of chewed parchment.

She began by stamping apart the rotten crates bit by bit and throwing the loose planks into a large dustbin she'd found. That made her move through a large chunk of the mess in good time. About a third of the basement was taken up with storage boxes containing nothing but empty bottles or damaged glasses. Shut that could have easily been thrown away at any point before it got this bad, but she digressed.

Though the work was easy and more than a little therapeutic, she actually started to work herself up quite a healthy sweat. Never enough she got too warm - the winter breeze made sure of that - but enough to make her remember she'd barely been active at all this past month. Even if she wasn't using polyjuice potion, she doubted the faint outline of a six-pack she was normally proud of would still be there if she looked for it. That was all she needed on top of everything. Getting fat.

By noon, the dustbin was piled high. Filth covered her from head to toe, and for all the broken up debris coating the floor - they might well have gotten a similar result by releasing a small dragon in here. She thought with amusement - she even knew who to contact to get access to one…

"Ahh! Flew through that, didn' you!"

Ol Tom sang her praise as he returned down the staircase, levitating behind him a package of important looking equipment. He said he'd be away for hours - clearly she'd gotten a lot more invested in her work than she'd intended.

"Yeah," she put her hands on her hips. "Most of it was just the crates."

"Aye, that's what it looks like, ahhh! But, have a look at that!"

He stomped a few times on a section of discoloured floor in front of them.

"You know what that is?"

She shrugged lazily, her mind still a million miles away.

"Rot, my treacle! Yer still up fer some work?"

"Sure."

"'Ow are ya on yer knees?"

"Beg your fucking pardon?"

"Well - ! We gotta get these floorboards up somehow!"

"One Guinness for Ol' Tom and one glass of Ramiel Pure for Carly!"

The cash register ker-lunked and Mrs Abbott presented them both with two drinks.

"Thank you, my love!" Ol' Tom cooed, settling himself into a bar stool.

The scene of more free alcohol and Mrs Abbott's welcoming face were enticing, but she hesitated. She and Ol'Tom had been working for hours - she could feel the pit stains in her clothes. Not to mention - she was uncomfortably close to transforming back. She'd been using for that long, she'd developed a bit of a body clock for it.

"I was gonna go shower."

Mrs Abbott gave a wave of dismissal.

"Ohhh, we don't mind, do we? Take a load off, you've earned it!"

She was tired and dirty, but an exception could be made if wine was involved. And Ramiel Pure? Practically a once in a lifetime opportunity, the way her pocket was looking.

Giving in, she fastened her bottom down on a bar stool. She found the wine hot on her gums and made sure to swill it around before swallowing. She felt all the effort and strife she'd experienced today get washed away with it.

Ol' Tom took an equally deep swig of his own drink, before he turned to her.

"So, what's yer story then, my treacle?"

"Wellll…." Mrs Abbott sang in her place, "Carly Harky here likes her privacy, she does. Trying to get her to talk about herself is like getting blood from a stone, it is!"

She laughed and mercifully, he took her answer. The old man was a lot less nosey than Mrs Abbott was, she was beginning to notice. It shone a good light on him, and perhaps a less good one on her.

She took another sip of wine, which went down like syrup. If getting this for free was the exchange - she'd be in that basement every single day.

Together, the three of them sat in silent contemplation. The quiet was loud and comforting and only obscured by the gentle howl of the wind outside.

The pub was shut now. The winter breezing through the door was nippy, but the enticing curls of steam still lingering from the kitchen kept things at an even level. The smell of cigarette ash and beer was apparently ingrained in the walls, here. She was beginning to not mind it. Honestly, between the low lighting, flicker of snow at the windows and the pungent, lived in air, it had actually become quite a picturesque scene. No different to that of any other pub she'd been in, but now she'd truly been given the chance to slow down enough to appreciate it. That, or maybe any change of scenery was better than that blasted room.

Everything felt peaceful now - or, as peaceful as things ever felt.

"Only had five in today…" Mrs Abott spoke up, absently, "... I'm really putting everything on it picking up once Christmas really hits... I know it's not going to be what it was, but even a fraction would keep us going. Just enough to stay afloat... And give us all something to bloody do, anyway."

Ol' Tom shifted on his chair.

"Ahh am sure it will, sweet," he said kindly. "Leaky Cauldron is Leaky Cauldron! Ain't no replacement for it! People'll come back just soon as they think it's safe."

She shook her head - a rare, genuine look of concern on her face.

"That's just it… I really don't know if it is safe here, anymore."

He slapped the bar loudly and they both flinched. Mrs Abbott gave a small yelp, while she put all of her effort into not stabbing him.

"Leaky Cauldron is Leaky Cauldron!" he said again, firmer. "An' it will always be safe fer anyone that does right by 'er. Honestly, you wait, they'll be a Christmas crowd in 'ere by weekend, bet me life on it!"

It looked like the landlady had more she wanted to say to that, but kept quiet. Whether that was avoidant of confrontation, or a push not to soil the euphoric mood, she couldn't tell.

Her attention then turned to her.

"You have any plans for Christmas, Carly?"

She looked away. If there was one thing at the total bottom of her concerns right now, it would be Christmas. She swirled her index finger around the rim of her glass.

"Are you open on Christmas?"

They both nodded.

"Indeed, we are."

"Then you tell me. I don't have anywhere else to be."

Mrs Abbotts face twisted with eyes of concern.

"Ohhh, that's a shame!"

And then she caught herself.

"Oh… sorry - that was rude."

She eased her off with a dismissive wave.

"You're fine."

Beside them, Ol' Tom nodded deeply.

"Am last of my lot, as well…" he said slowly. "Ah'll be 'ere, as well. The Abbotts 'ave been a great family to me, since me' wife passed. Ain't anywhere else ah'd rather be than the beatin' 'eart of england."

She frowned, a cruel snigger on her lips.

"You had a wife?"

And then, surprisingly, caught herself as well.

"Sorry… that was rude."

The words felt strange coming out, and yet… almost natural.

"Ronnie Cavendish," he continued as if he hadn't heard. "Absolute angel, she was... Right up until t'end. Died fightin' them Death Eaters during last war. Went down fightin' as always, bless 'er."

She looked to her side, over at the crippled man. Earlier, she found her eyes not wanting to linger on him too long, as though doing so would make her catch his deformities. But now when she looked, she looked hard. His eyes shone, not quite with tears, but there was something there.

She shrank into herself a little.

"Ohh, Tom…" Mrs Abbott coed.

She tried leaning herself across the bar at him, but he snatched his hand back suddenly, grinning.

"Get yer hands off me woman, I'm alright!" he laughed merrily.

But his joy was false. She'd seen that before. She'd done that before. She recognised the face you put on for others. Hiding insecurities behind confidence. Knowing how bad it really is, but pretending the opposite. Faking it till you made it. It was only for a glimmer - but she recognised this man on a deeper level of perception.

She took an important swig of her drink - hoping it'd somehow give her the resolve she so often sort these days. Despite this, her mouth was dry and her lips stuck together when she opened them next.

Quiet, as though anything louder would break the fragile scene, she opened up.

"My Mum is dead…" she said. "She went… she… the same way…"

The eyes at the bar sank to her, but she didn't meet them. It didn't matter how shitty she felt about her own life - nothing knocked her sick more than sympathy.

"Not the Death Eaters?" Mrs Abbott asked.

She took another swig of her drink and, to her disappointment, finished it.

"... yeah."

The barlady let out a long, important sigh.

"Merlin's Beard, no wonder you were so cautious about them… I don't blame you at all, now!"

There was something in her tone that annoyed her. Insincerity. There was only a flicker of it, but it was there. The change of energy as she tried to keep the conversation going and the mood up.

Trivialising her pain just to keep the ball rolling.

She had found recently that everybody always says they're there for you when you have issues, but Merlin forbid you actually confide in them with your suffering. Then, you drag down every conversation you're part of and pollute everyone's energy. You're no fun to be around anymore, and then, they're regretting their choices. They only offer to make themselves feel better - they don't actually expect their promise to be taken up on. And when you do, you're the one in the wrong. As soon as your problems crop into conversation, you're the one that's ruined things.

It wasn't present in Ol' Tom. Mrs Abbott herself had even sounded upset earlier, talking about the bar. But nobody wants to hear your problems. Like there was some unsaid stigma against being the one to turn the tide of the conversation. Everyone insists it's okay to talk about what's bother you, but then they'll condemn the ones that do it. A quick brushing over under the guise of caring.

It turns out, being depressed made you depressing the be around, who'd have thought?

It didn't bother her. She didn't blame Mrs Abbott for it. She was used to it. She blamed everyone. She didn't feel scorned by offering a bit of herself, only to have it pushed back. She didn't feel much about anything.

On that note, she didn't feel much like another drink.

"See you guys tomorrow. Thanks for the drink."

"Oh - goodnight, deary!"

"Until the morn', my treacle!"

Their voices were so cheery, they had no idea what they'd just done. Ignorance was only a bliss to those that practised it. To everyone else it was a sentencing.

She entered her dark bedroom. Just in the nick of time, too. In the mirror, she watched. She liked to watch. Her body began to shift and transformed back into her true self, hurting less this time. She didn't look great.

And she fell backwards onto the bed. Her head was swimming, and she knew not all of it was emotion. She'd built up a pretty good alcohol tolerance level - apparently Ramiel Pure didn't much care about that.

She stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling as the sound of the wind outside consumed her.

Keeping far from newspapers and calendars had made it easy. In that respect, being so cut off from the outside world had been a mercy. But now she'd focused on it, there was little else that she could do. The grim truth that this wouldn't be her first Christmas without her mother.

But it would be her first Christmas without her mother.

A/N Hope you guys are enjoying this so far! I just really wanted to focus on a smaller scale story for a little. Reminder this is a side story to my Living series, though it's not required reading for either! Chuck us a review if you like the way the story is heading or if you have any constructive critism.

Peace!