"Save your tears for another day
[…] I'll make you cry when I run away"
- The Weeknd
"After the accident, Voldemort left the Ministry. He found a place in an antique shop, a job that was far below his capabilities but which provided him with a great amount of time"
She looked down, let her finger run on the smooth stem of the glass while she stated dates and facts, tangible things that were to prevent her somber memories to resurface. She did not wish to linger on those weeks that had followed the incident, how in the direct aftermath of that event she had woken up at St Mungo's, hurt and disoriented. How, blinded by the lights, her hand had mechanically searched for her belly, only to find her stomach flat like a barren land. How she had straightened up, rummaged through the room with a crazed look, searching for a hint of her child. A crib, a bassinet, anything that could explain her empty womb, until she had run into one colleague. She had known, even before the latter had started to speak.
The scream she had let out that day was from another world. It had come from the outer limits of earth, where the sun was humbled by darkness, a place devoid of light, wintry and desolate and cold. Her stolen son, abandoned on a faraway shore, lonely and scared, was now forever trapped into an obscure abyss, that child of whom she had never seen the face, that child she had never cradled nor kissed.
She had been drugged after that, and then most often, to prevent her breakdowns, for she would throw herself against the walls, she would kick the staff with her feet and fists. She blamed them for saving her, she blamed everyone. He should have lived, she would repeat on a loop, until the spells would work and provide a semblance of truce. After a while, though, her respite ended, and she was sent back home, with nothing but her memories and the crushing weight of guilt.
From the first day on she had begged Tom to forgive her, sobbing and bowing and tugging on his clothes.
To no use.
For weeks on Tom did not talk to her, did not look at her, left each room she entered. He would stand when she'd sit, avert his eyes when she'd look. His open resentment had her hug the walls, hoping dearly that her sadness would consume her, would swallow her whole, but she would wake every morning, very much alive, and yet with no child nor husband to hold.
Until the night Tom had come home from the pub, smelling of cigarette and whiskey, for the first time in weeks standing in their bedroom's doorframe.
She did not deny him that night, nor the others that ensued, despite how merciless he was, how painful each thrust. It was as though he meant to punish her, vengeful unions tinged with blame, like if hatred was the only feeling he had left for her.
She put up with it, because his wrath was better than his silences, and because she hoped to find redemption in pain.
Eventually, her silent ordeal paid off, and Tom's sanctions became milder, as if his anger had been slaked, his rage satiated. Life had started again, her job, holidays, social gatherings during which he held her hand and kissed her cheek. She used to believed he had forgiven her, that he had forgotten all about her misdeed.
Could she have been any more wrong?
Tom Riddle did not forget.
Tom Riddle did not forgive.
And as if she had been speaking out loud, the boy who lived looked at her, asking her the next question, the one she dreaded most.
"You did not tell us yet why you ended up in Azkaban"
— March 1955 —
Annabel turned the tap to the side, cupped some cold water. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror, one brief glance that confirmed what she had thought. She looked restless, her eyes wide and her skin pallid, her lips scratched from the many times she had grazed the flesh with her teeth.
She splashed some water on her cheeks in an attempt to calm herself, but the cool liquid did little to ease her apprehension.
There is no way he won't notice, she fretted before she looked at herself some more, until a door opened behind her and she was forced to abandon her spot by the sink. She turned off the tap and grabbed her purse with a sigh before she dragged herself upstairs.
The Leaky Cauldron was full that evening, game night she recalled. The Tutshill Tornados against the Caerphilly Catapults, two of the most popular teams. She was not particularly into Quidditch but it was hard to escape the frenzy these days. The British and Irish league was all people talked about.
There were sounds of glasses that clinked, of forks and knives against plates. Annabel weaved between the groups of fans in that din, stepping aside whenever someone staggered her way. Once near the bar, she stood up on her tiptoes to scan the room until she spotted him. He was sitting alone in the back, an empty glass in front of him. She stepped forward, walking past the table adorned with club flags where people were intoning Quidditch chants.
"We can go elsewhere if you wish" she offered once she finally slipped on an empty bar stool.
The man casted her a short glance before he shook his head, his hair glimmering in the flickering light.
"I'm good" he replied and Annabel darted him a guarded look.
She knew he was lying.
She could sense it growing, his discomfort, spreading in his chest like a wild fire. She could see it in his slouched posture, in the way he grazed one hand with the other, in the way he peeked above his shoulder every now and then to cast a glance at the ceiling where the game was magically broadcasted.
Alastair had suffered a crushing defeat two weeks prior, one last blow that had kicked his team out of the league. A shame given the sacrifices he had made, his commitment to his Quidditch training. "The captain's fault. If that troll had not switched Rabbot's place with Bay's, we would have won" he had spitted after the game, throwing his gloves one the floor in a furious gesture.
She had tried to console him that night, praising how fast he had flown, how impressive his descending spiral.
"And that nosedive, Merlin, that was something"
But no compliments had comforted him.
The sound of the waitress' voice jolted her out of her thoughts.
Yes she would have a drink, a pumpkin juice, a big one she replied with clear-cut words. She looked around, noticed the lack of spare seat and eyed the tavern's greasy floor before she rummaged in her bag in search for her wand. She fumbled with a bunch of things, a lipstick, a pair of earrings, before her fingers finally closed around the wooden grip.
"You have it back!" exclaimed Alastair at the sight of the instrument and Annabel darted her friend a perplexed look.
"Your wand" he added with a tilt of the head.
Annabel had misplaced the precious item some weeks ago, and mourned it ever since. It was the oddest feeling to be deprived of the object that channeled her powers, like if she was defective, impared. She would always leave it on her bedside table at night, take it first thing in the morning.
She had turned to Ollivander of course, shortly after she had noticed the loss but the wizard had shared with her the quasi impossibility to reproduce the exact same wand. "Wands are far too complex to let themselves be replicated" he had explained with his ethereal voice, offering her a substitute in the meantime.
"It's only a rental" she sighed. "Ollivander said he might never be able to find again the thestral that gave its hair for my original wand… In the meantime, I'm stuck with this"
She gestured at the cheap-looking wand and winced.
"Well, I suppose it's better than nothing" ventured Alastair while he watched Annabel pull faces before she finally casted a spell to have her purse levitate next to her.
The man's gaze moved from her bag to the table where she was resting her hands. She was fiddling with her wedding ring, turning it from left to right and right to left, twisting it endlessly. She caught her friend's gaze, how his brow slightly crinkled at her restlessness and she placed her palms flat on the wooden surface.
"Are you all right?" asked Alastair with a frown.
"Just work" she replied with a nod, yet part of her wished she could tell the truth, confide into her friend. She was still shaken by the news, the kind that made stomachs churn, and she clenched her fist at the revived memory of how she had spent her afternoon locked inside the bathroom, dozens of vials scattered on the floor beside her.
Annabel had had an ordinary day until then: her weekly meeting, follow-up appointments, a patient scheduled for a thorough check-up. The man had a lump at the birth of the neck and she ought to figure out the source of such growth. Because she had wished to rule out any deadly disease, she had registered him for an M-ray - a magic radiation - but before she was to conduct it, she had had to submit to a battery of test since M-rays, if casted by the wrong folks, could have dramatic consequences.
Annabel had made it to the lab then, where she had met her colleague, a short and rather unfriendly man with a glistening forehead. Was she ill, pregnant, cursed? he had asked while taking a sample of spit, rubbing a cotton bud against the inner-walls of her cheek.
She was none of the latter, she had promptly replied, before the man had left the room to soon be back with a parchment sheet.
"Are you sure?" had been his only response, and Annabel had almost fallen from her seat at the sight of the results.
It could not be, she had replied, issuing him to redo the test, but the man had shaken his sweaty face.
She had left the lab displeased, rushing towards the apothecary, to ask the herbalist for plants that were to disprove the alarming news. There must be a mistake, she had thought while taping nervously on the counter, listing in her head all the research articles that questioned the accuracy of saliva tests. It must be something else. What? A germ cell tumour? she had fretted as she had been handed over a couple of vials. She had rushed inside the corridor, taking right then left, the sole of her shoes squeaking against the linoleum on the sixth floor. She had headed to the bathroom, slammed the door close, locked herself in the nearest cubicles. She had pulled her robes up and crouched above the latrine, opened the cork with her teeth before she had placed the vial between her legs. She had let a tiny trickle run out, straight into the container, repeating the operation as many times as the vials allowed.
Thirteen in total.
Thirteen that had confirmed the former diagnosis.
There was no denying the fact.
She felt the tears gather at the back of her throat and she looked down, stared at the glass that had appeared on the table. A hand covered hers, thumb lodging itself in the crook of her palm as someone unclasped her fingers, pealed off each digit one by one before Annabel finally realised that she had balled up her fists.
"What's wrong?"
She looked at Alastair who was sitting in front of her, and for the first time that evening, she acknowledged the softness of his traits, the kindness of his smile. She recalled the many times he had been there for her, her only friend, really, now that the others had left, busy with children and a husband to tend, their life so unlike hers.
She could trust him couldn't she? she pondered as she fixed upon their clasped hands, and with a strangled voice, she forced the words to come out.
"I'm pregnant"
His reaction was just what she had expected: a gasp, sharp breath drawn by opened mouth, and a smile that made her shoulders slump.
"By Merlin!" he chirped. "I thought this was not possible anymore, not since what happened…"
"I can't believe it! You and Tom must be thrilled!"
Alastair searched for her eyes but she looked stubbornly to the side. She would never get used to it, people's reactions to that kind of news, the profusion of smiles, the gush of congratulatory words.
As if Alastair had sensed her malaise he brushed her fingers with his thumb but Annabel pulled off her hand, with a sudden and brusque gesture.
"Anna?" he asked, pausing at the end of her name, an inflection that betrayed his sudden concern.
At the look of the alarmed expression in his eyes, she tugged on her sleeves, cleared her throat to compose herself.
"It's just that-"
He leaned forward, drew closer as he asked a gentle "what".
"I haven't yet decided what to do"
"What to do?"
"With the baby"
"What did he say?"
She glanced up, exhaled slowly as to prevent any tear to roll down.
"What did Tom say, Anna?"
"He doesn't know. I just found out"
Alastair sat back into his chair, his brow knitted as if he could not follow her reasoning.
"Not yet but he will, right? You'll tell him. First thing when you come home"
She blinked a few times, a rictus warping her mouth as she grabbed the glass of juice in front of her.
"Anna-" he began, soon interrupted by a yell that came from the back of the room. Around them, dozens of people stood up, clapping and cheering.
"I have to make up my mind first" she replied, nodding as if to convince herself of her words before she peeked at the clock above the bar. She emptied her glass in one go, discarding it to the side, while in front of her, Alastair's expression had changed.
"Annabel, you cannot possibly be thinking to-" he urged but was cut off by another cheer, and Annabel grabbed her purse, shot him a serious glance.
"Promise me you won't say a word"
He opened and closed his mouth, like a fish outside water, and she bent forward, gripped his wrist. Her tone was rushed when she pursued:
"Listen, Alastair. If Tom learns I'm with child, he will do everything in his power to make me keep it"
She quaked at the words, because only when she uttered them did she realise how true they were. Tom would do anything to make her carry this pregnancy to term. She knew it in her bones, in her flesh. He would deem this child a blessing, a presage of something greater. The proof for them to revive whatever bygone era was theirs to reinstate. But she couldn't. Not again.
"Promise me" she urged and she glanced up at him, acknowledging the crease on the man's forehead, a deep wrinkle between his brows. And at the sight of his tormented look, it came to her mind that she should have perhaps kept her troubles for herself.
—
She dusted herself off when she landed, removing the tiny particles that were stuck to her clothes. She insisted on the shoulders, patting the wool with the flat of her hands, shaking the yarn. Conversations were audible from the living room, masculine voices she had yet to recognise. She stepped out of the chimney and stomped her feet against the tiles, once, twice, before she leaned forward, pulled on the leather strap of her heels.
"Who's here?" she asked with a sigh of relief when her soles met the cold flat floor. She handed her purse to the house elf who was standing near the hearth and fumbled with the brooch that kept her cloak shut.
"Your friend, milady"
Annabel's knuckles turned rigid, her fingers stiffening against the golden pin. She darted the elf a contained look but her mind was going berserk, her thoughts cascading like a river on the edge of a cliff. She went over her past twenty-four hours in fast forward: her patient, the MR, the tests. The pub, the drink, the promise. Alastair and his worried look. Her trip, earlier, to the herbalist, not for vials this time but to procure herself a handful of cotton roots. Pearls of sweat began to bead on her forehead, under her ams. She was hot, suddenly, and would the elf open the window for Merlin's sake, air out that corridor that felt like a furnace.
Conversations in the other room fell silent, and Annabel wondered if her being in the house had been betrayed by the sudden wind. A knob turned on the double-door, to reveal the silhouette of Tom in the doorframe.
If he knew anything, he showed no sign of it.
—
Annabel was stirring the soup with the tip of her spoon, and she brought a mouthful to her lips. She swallowed the mixture distractedly, all preoccupied she was by everything else but the content of her plate. Instead, she was thinking of her husband, next to her, who she was closely watching.
Was there anything unusual in his behaviour? Any twitch of the lip, any fold of the brow that could betray his knowing? She looked at his hand, not the one that held the spoon but the other, the one that lay on the table, the one that adorned this horrid ring. She stared at the veins that marbled that hand, blue rivers on alabaster skin, and she imagined the blood flowing, streaming through the canals. Was it running faster, was it being pumped at a different speed? Could he possibly know of her condition? Of her intentions?
She nodded at something he said, not so much in agreement but to fake her interest, for she was not as much listening to the content of his speech than paying attention to the form. She was focusing on the words he used, his choice of terms, their sense, their nuance. She was seeking for a message, hints and traces of a potential double meaning, any clue that might indicate what fate awaited her.
After she had come home earlier, the man, her husband, had kissed Annabel's cheek, wrapped an arm around her waist to guide her to the next room. There, he had revealed the presence of their friend, announced he would stay for dinner, without divulging the actual purpose of the latter's visit. She had yet to ask him herself, for Tom, as usual, had taken the lead, striking up each and every conversation with a staggering easiness. Quidditch, St Mungo's, Borgin and Burkes, he never let silence stretch for too long, in such a way that Annabel almost forgot at times the Damocles sword that was hanging over her head.
"Milady, will you have some more?"
She blinked twice before she noticed the pair of bulgy eyes. She shook her head, and the elf who was gesturing towards the soup snapped her fingers. Crumbs were swept and spoons were cleared, tureen and ladle disappeared from the table. Dinner plates replaced bowls and forks and knives were placed in front of her.
Annabel glanced at Tom, who was discussing the Ministry's latest bill, and as if he had noticed her heed, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. He intertwined their fingers, kissed each of her knuckles, gently, in that way he had to show her that he knew she was there, all the while nodding at whatever Alastair was saying. He brought her palm back to her lap, covered hers with his own, preventing any movement of a finger, any escape of a digit. For a split second, she closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling of Tom's fingers against hers, of his soft palm on her callous hand, dry from all the washing at the job. She thought about the eight previous years, the work it had taken for them to reach this phase, after all the pain, all their sorrow. She wished for time to stop, for things never to change, for their relationship to stay at that, two hands that held.
Because when the elf reentered the room to serve wine with the venison, filling the men's cups with the drink, Tom's hand left hers and placed itself above her glass, to prevent any pouring of the red liquid. And it was at that gesture, before he even uttered the words, that she knew her fate was sealed.
"She'll have water"
"Cotton root and the cotton plant are known as Gossypium herbaceum. Cotton is a member of the mallow or Malvaceae family. The cotton plant is an evergreen shrub that is native to Asiaand Africa. It is also grown in the southern United States, Egypt,and countries along the Mediterranean Sea. The plant was cultivated to produce cotton fiber for clothing. Cotton root bark, the inner bark, and cotton seeds are all used as herbal remedies. While the seeds also served as a food, cotton root bark has been known for centuries as a "female medicine." [...] While it was used to make childbirth easier, cotton root bark was also taken as an abortifacient (to induce miscarriages)." - Encyclopedia