Two:

The Last Supper


Hemlock Potter

London; 2002.

Hemlock Potter's favourite place in all of muggle London was a modest bistro stashed away in a narrow street of Queenhithe called L'ultima Cena.

The Last Supper.

Ironic for Hemlock, in more ways than one.

The two owners, an old married couple, had originally haled from the Amalfi coast before the city had surged into a culinary sibling to Bologna. It only had a few benches inside, a wonky table here and there, and the waiters tended to serve everything out of order, the little plaque outside in the window had only a two-star score, but Hemlock didn't care for any of that.

It wasn't like she was going to eat there.

It wasn't like she could eat anywhere.

Hemlock Potter, in all honesty, came for the smell.

The hot-sweet aroma of Minestrone, the smoky whiff of Bottarga, the slightly seared scent of Fiorentina steak, and the vaguely musky fragrance of fresh parmesan. It was a delight for the nose, and, possibly, they sold the best Limoncello Hemlock had ever had.

Now drinking she could do.

And that's where Ron Weasley found her one sunny Sunday afternoon, glass of lemon liquor already in hand and half drained. He sat beside her at the empty table, waving down a waiter for a beer.

"So this is where you've been hiding."

Hemlock downed the last half of her glass before going to pour another one from the jug in the middle of the table.

A woman from across the way got up and left the bistro.

"Just because my face isn't currently splashed across the Daily Prophet for once doesn't mean I'm hiding."

Ron hummed noncommittedly as his beer arrived, waiting for the muggle to get far enough away to not overhear their conversation.

"Hermione hasn't seen you in nearly four months. You haven't been at a Weasley dinner for longer still. Merlin… I haven't seen you since the Yule party at Longbottom's place. Where have you been?"

The man by the kitchen door packed up his laptop, making to leave.

"Around, clearly."

Ron sighed long and hard.

"You know Hermione only meant to help that night, right? Trust me, I know she can be pushy, but it only comes from a good place. She just wants to help."

Hemlock's fingers tightened around the glass.

Calm.

Nice and calm and not smashy.

"I don't need help, Ron. I'm not a bloody House elf in need of liberating or some wounded creature she can advocate to the Wizengamot for. If she wants to feed her white-knight complex she can go find someone else to foot the bill."

The old lady by the kitchen doors left her soup, barely touched, abandoned as she, too, got up and hastily left.

Hemlock watched her go with a frown, bell jingling above her head.

Two women entered before the door could fully shut, taking the table behind Hemlock.

At the time, she thought nothing of it. Muggles came and went all the time, in and out of restaurants, in and out of cities, in and out of life. Mortal and passing.

It was sort of their thing.

"You're being a bit harsh there, mate."

Hemlock chuckled, dull and dry.

"Well maybe Hermione needs someone to be a bit harsh on her. I told her I didn't want to talk about it, and all I've gotten since that night is owl after owl after owl after owl. And, obviously, when that hasn't worked, she's sent you to wrangle me in. Whose next, then? McGonagall? Molly? Should I expect a visit from Luna too? Why don't we just go ahead and get the whole governing board of Hogwarts to jump me, while we're at it."

Ron frowned.

"This hits a little… Close to home for her, is all. You know she never was able to find her parents in Australia again."

Hemlock slapped her glass down, voice dropping to an angry, rushing whisper like the buzz of a wasp.

"That doesn't mean she can transfer her issues onto my own and dictate what is or isn't best for me by her own wants and wishes. This isn't her life. This wasn't her world getting flipped right onto it's fuckin' head. This isn't something she can fix with a page from one of her bloody books."

Ron leant back into his seat, fingers tapping against the edge of the table.

The quiet clatter from the kitchen stopped.

Hemlock glanced to the door, eyeing the wood.

Strange.

Ron wouldn't have been able to hear the sudden silence… But she could.

And it didn't feel right.

"I'm worried too, 'Lock. You've been spiralling for a while now. It's like... It's like you've changed right in front of me, slowly and quietly, and now I can't recognize you anymore. Your eyes get darker every day. You explode at the slightest provocation, and then brush it off as if it's a game to play. You lash out at everyone around you just because you can. You're detached and getting further away... and I can't reach you anymore. No one can reach you, as if you've decided to lock the entire world away. You're... Cold and aloof, and angry all the time. You had a sharp tongue before, but now you can be downright bloody cruel on the flip of a switch. And I get it, as much as I can, okay? You've been through a lot, you're still dealing with a lot, but I'm just asking that you stop shutting us out. If you don't want to speak to Hermione or me, we can find someone else, but you have to start-"

Hemlock waved her hand dismissively.

"Shhh."

Ron scowled deeper.

"At some point, you're going to have to talk about-"

"Shhh!"

Ron's mouth clamped shut.

Hemlock eyed the room before her.

Empty tables and chairs.

"Do you hear that?"

Ron blinked vacantly back.

"Hear what?"

"Exactly… Nothing. Nothing at all in a restaurant at lunch hour."

Not even the thrum of heartbeats from the two sitting behind her. Silence.

Why couldn't she hear-

That was when everything happened at once.

Chanting, latin-

A paralyzing spell.

The arm came swinging around her neck, pinning her to the chair, Ron slumping backwards in his seat, motionless, lost under the heavy magic blanketing the bistro.

Hemlock couldn't-…

She couldn't move.

A frantic voice in her ear. Female, American.

"Hold! We're lucky she hasn't fed for the first time yet… If she breaks out of it we're all dead! Pass me the blade."

Hemlock rammed against the magic suffocating her, shattering and-

Free.

Her hand shot up to the arm wrapped around her neck, grip snapping bone straight through flesh, a howl… Blood, warm and wet, splashed across her face, down her chest, turning her gaze crimson, the scent of copper heated, But it was already too late.

The free arm from the woman holding her from behind was raised before her, dagger tight in their grip, already coming down fast. If Hemlock wasn't the one being assaulted, she would have been impressed by the witches tenacity to continue the attack with her arm snapped near clean in two.

Impressed or distressed, it mattered not, especially when she hardly had any time to comprehend the glimmer of metal.

The blade slid into her chest like a hot knife in butter, straight through the heart.

Ron's pale blue eyes were wide from the other side of the table, and still, he did not move. Neither could Hemlock anymore as her chest burned with cold fire, cold fire that seeped through her veins and settled in her limbs and… Dark.

It was getting dark.

"Get the sarcophagus ready."

That was the last thing Hemlock Potter heard for ten years.


A.N: Updates for this should be between Mondays-Thursdays. Fridays and weekends will be put aside for boring ol' life stuff, and updating my other fics. So, you might get one chapter a week, you might get all four if I get it done, depending how much down time I have. Expect some Caroline/Hemlock friendship coming up too. I love that queen.

Bonus points to those who can spot the Brad Kane quote!

Hope you all liked it, don't forget to drop a review if you have the time, and I will hopefully see you all on Monday! Have a merry weekend!