Rosmerta Church had been trying to sort herself out ever since her mother died.

The two of them had never been especially close, only as close as a mother and daughter were expected to be, but Rosmerta’s mother had always been … there. She had always been there to calm Rosmerta’s father down when he got into one of his rages, and she was always there to stop Rosmerta from digging in her heels and making those aforementioned rages worse. She had always known what to do to calm the flames between Rosmerta and Rosmerta's father.

When Diana Church died, the two spiraled out of control.

Rosmerta and her father couldn’t restrain their fire on their own. Rosmerta’s went off and on at strange intervals - first she couldn’t stop fighting and couldn’t cool down, then she couldn’t stand up for herself when she needed to. Rosmerta’s father had tried to drench the fire with drink, but it simply grew bigger and made his temper more violent, something Rosmerta was the main victim of. Hogwarts became Rosmerta’s refuge, her haven. Her father could drink himself into the ground for all she cared, when she was at Hogwarts, she was safe.

But Hogwarts couldn’t last forever.

The inevitable leaving drew closer and closer, and Rosmerta became more and more anxious with each passing day. She had always been clever, but with everything else whirling in her brain, she couldn’t remember anything from her notes. She failed half her N.E.W.T.’s, causing the world to crash down around her.

She would have to go home, figure out what to do with her life.

But home wasn’t an option.

Luckily, her final Hogsmeade trip helped her find exactly what she needed.

-*-*-

Even Rosmerta had thought it was silly at first, but the more she thought about it, the less crazy it sounded. Becoming the Three Broomsticks’ new landlady wasn’t that much of a stretch - it was well within her reach. She knew enough about drinks, for heaven’s sake, she’d watched her father make them for years, and even made them for herself when she started drinking that year. She’d be a barmaid for a while and if she picked it up fast enough, she could be the landlady! She was quick, she always had been. Her friend would agree, wouldn’t she?

“A girl named Church, with an alcoholic father, running a pub? That’s so ironic it’s almost painful.�

Rosmerta had told her best friend, Caitlin Moon, about her idea, and her friend had laughed. Laughed.

“It’s just a surname, nobody has to know it. Besides, I drink, so why can’t I?�

As she was so inclined to do, Rosmerta had been insistent. And her friend had stopped laughing. Her face had darkened.

“Because you always said alcohol ruined your life, and now you’re telling me you want to practically devote the rest of your life to it!�

“It’s not about alcohol, that’s not why I’m doing this.�

“Well then why are you doing this?�

Rosmerta couldn’t handle explaining it, and she couldn’t handle her friend’s rising hysteria. The conversation had to end.

“You wouldn’t understand.�

“Try me.�

Rosmerta realized her friend wasn’t backing down. Apparently the once compliant and shy girl she had befriended two years ago had learnt a couple of things from pushy and streetwise Rosmerta. But Rosmerta was no delicate flower either, and when she decided she wasn’t telling, she wasn’t.

“It’s not your fault you wouldn’t understand, I’m glad you don’t, but you wouldn’t.�

Rosmerta’s friend gave up. And as soon as school ended, she brought her belongings over to the pub and started her new life. It wasn’t all that auspicious, but it was enough.

-*-*-

- Many years later -

The air was bitterly cold, but somehow other people’s happiness seemed to warm it. Rosmerta was still cold, though. Families came in, sometimes with children, drinking butterbeer, talking and laughing. Madam Rosmerta greeted people with a smile that must have looked stiff and a ‘Merry Christmas’ that must have sounded insincere. She kept a cheerful fire crackling in the grate and holiday music playing, but when she heard Baby, It’s Cold Outside for the twentieth time, she just wanted to smash the damn wireless to bits.

Christmas is the one time Rosmerta misses home. Not her father specifically - there was plenty of time during the rest of the year for that - just the feeling of family that arises on Christmas. Her friends were always with their families, so Rosmerta was always on her own. Not that she minded, she constantly told herself. Not that she minded.

Rosmerta is forced to put on her Christmas face quite suddenly when a tiny, dark-haired girl comes over. Her head barely passes the edge of the counter, even while teetering on her tiptoes. Her coat is a little too small, Rosmerta can see as she peers down at the girl, and one of her boots has a hole in the toe.

“May I have two butterbeers, please?� the girl asked shyly.

“Of course.� When the girl kept standing there, Rosmerta waved her back. “I’ll bring it over.�

“Oh, sorry!� The girl darted back to her table, where her mother sat,, waiting.

Rosmerta filled two mugs with butterbeer and wandered rather lackadaisically over to the girl’s table. She put the mugs down and waited for her money.

The girl’s mother dug around in her pockets for a minute, pulled out a couple of sickles, but couldn’t seem to produce more.

“Hestia, sweet, did I give you the money for the butterbeer?� The woman’s cheeks flushed as she spoke.

The girl shook her head. “No, you -�

“Wait.�

Rosmerta isn’t the unnecessarily charitable type. It just wasn’t a trait that was taught to her in her childhood. But she wasn’t about to let this woman struggle, not on Christmas day, not in front of her daughter.

“Wait a second,� Rosmerta repeats. She crouches down on the floor and pretends to be picking something up while she slips a few sickles out of the pocket of her skirt. If there’s one emotion Rosmerta can sympathize with, it’s pride. “Are these yours? I found them under the table.�
“Oh, erm, I think so, yes.� The woman smiled. Rosmerta placed the sickles on the table and the woman handed some back to Rosmerta in payment for the drinks.

“Happy Christmas!� the girl said brightly as Rosmerta left.

“Same to you.�

Rosmerta headed back to the counter, the warm feeling she got from helping already fading away. By the time Rosmerta took her next order, a red currant rum, it had disappeared entirely, and Rosmerta felt cold again.

Rosmerta didn’t have long to dwell. She was soon preoccupied by something else. Usually, patrons who came in on their own were far more interested in their drinks than anything else, but Red Currant Rum, an elderly man with a beard, had been staring at Rosmerta for several minutes. Not in the way that other men do, the way that makes Rosmerta hitch up her top a bit and get as far away from them as possible, but a friendlier look. Warm. And there was something in the man that Rosmerta liked too - she felt like she knew him somehow.

A few minutes later, Red Currant Rum still hadn’t touched his drink. Finally, he took a small sip and sighed. “I’ve been off alcohol for months now - first drink I’ve had since the leaves fell!� He chuckled and took another sip. “I’m savouring this one, it’s all I’m having.�

Rosmerta nodded slowly. “Good for you, sir.�

“Oh, don’t bother with that,� he said wearily, waving her off as he returns to his drink. “You Rosmerta Church?�

Rosmerta could hardly hide her shock, stunned both by the man’s abrupt question and his knowledge of her surname. “I don’t use Church much anymore.�

“Ah, I see. Ashamed of your old dad, then?�

Rosmerta was feeling more and more uneasy, which was usually a difficult thing to do. “You could say that. He had an alcohol problem and didn’t like me much anyway, drunk or sober. I had to do a little bridge-burning.�

“I doubt your dad disliked you. He probably just doesn’t know how to apologize.�

“How would you know?� Rosmerta snapped. He knew nothing, nothing...

“I knew him a while back.� Suddenly the man seemed as eager to change the topic as Rosmerta was. “That was a good thing you did for that woman back there.�

“What, paying for the drinks?�

“Yeah. Most people wouldn’t have done a thing like that.�

Rosmerta mumbled something about Christmas and then fell silent.

“Well, anyway.� The man took a sip of rum for something to do.

After a minute of silence, Rosmerta awkwardly shuffled off to take more orders.

After a while, a little too long, Red Currant Rum left. Then the rest of the bar in turn, until eventually the place was nearly empty. Rosmerta moved along the final few stragglers before shutting up the bar, slowly and deliberately, not wanting to go up to her empty flat. Eventually, there was nothing left to do, so Rosmerta grabbed the jumper she hung up earlier, putting it on to try to shake off that cold feeling before she headed up to bed.

She put her hands in her pockets out of habit and felt both something box-like and a piece of paper.

Rosmerta knew the abrupt writing before she even read the note, but … it couldn’t be him, could it?


Rosie,

Please come home for Christmas tonight - I don’t want you to be alone again.

Love,
Red Currant Rum


But … Rosmerta was utterly baffled. She didn’t know the man, did she? And who called her Rosie anymore? Nobody, not since she was about ten ...

Then she remembered the box. She pulled it out of her pocket, opening the slightly battered white lid in the hopes that it might hold an explanation.

Inside the box were two objects. An old photo, and a silver pendant necklace. The necklace was a little bit tarnished and had clearly been worn before, but it was inlaid with tiny sapphires and was unmistakably beautiful. The blue bore a resemblance, Rosmerta noticed, to the blue in her own eyes - she knew it would look lovely around her neck. But she was quickly distracted by the photo.

For half a second, she thought it was a photo of herself. But Rosmerta had never worn a dress like that, or looked anywhere near that beautiful … then, suddenly, it was clear. Rosmerta had looked at a photo of that same woman, practically daily, since she was nine, hoping, wishing, praying that the woman would come back …

The woman in the photo was her mother. Her mother on her wedding day, wearing the necklace that was now in Rosmerta’s hand. And the man next to her? It was clearly her father as a younger man. But there was another glimmer of recognition, something in his eyes that she hadn’t seen in years … but she had seen it today! The recovering alcoholic with the red currant rum, it couldn’t be! But it was, there was absolutely no mistaking it.

“Dad…�

There was a moment’s pause. Was Rosmerta really going to do this again? Was she going to risk it?

But how much had her father done to try to get Rosmerta to come back? Rosmerta had spoken to enough alcoholics to know how painful the stark return to reality was. He had given up what Rosmerta knew was a blissful oblivion, just for her.

He wanted to see her again.

Rosmerta pulled on her coat, stepped out of the pub, and apparated into the whirling snow.