November 1947 - The Rubble
The air was filled with an opaque screen of smoke through which he could barely discern any faces. Except for the person who was sitting in front of him, a plain man with a large neck whose yellow fingers seemed glued to the pipe he brought every now and then to his lips. He was missing some teeth at the front, and his checkered mouth opened every now and then to proclaim whatever absurdity crossed his mind.
"You said you're a lord didn't you? Pardon me sir but you don't look very lordy-like" he commented when Tom took a sip of the dark brew that stood before him.
The words irked him. He looked at the man above his drink, how his large hand had left greasy fingerprints on the cup he was holding. He could make it explode, he thought.
He imagined the sound of broken ceramic, the hoarse moan the man would make. He pictured the crimson colour, the wet noise of the blood that would drip on the table. He would search for a handkerchief, hand it to the man in feigned concern.
Yet he could not.
It was too soon.
He still needed him.
Tom had left the UK a few days before, for a journey that had led him somewhere in the depths of the Dinaric Alps. He had decided to avoid the main roads, mainly to shun any potential encounter, for none of the arguments he had invoked to get some time off the Ministry could justify him travelling.
In fact, he had advocated Annabel's complicated pregnancy, the thorough exams she had to make in the beginning of the third trimester. "She's very nervous" he had explained in the office of the wizards resources with a clever mix of apologetic benevolence. A little trick that had granted him three days, more than he had hoped. And after a long night on the road, he had finally reached the village of Theth, where he had found the right man whom he had been told could guide him through the mountains. The man had some sheep that grazed on the higher plateaus, whom he'd have to bring back before winter.
He could bring him there, he had been told. Little had he known, at the time, that the man's company would prove so trying.
"So" Tom cut short to the man's remarks, for the latter had picked up his blathering again. "When do we ascend?"
The man in front of him put his cup on the table and he stood up, his chair rattling behind him.
"Now"
—
The trip was easier than he'd thought, only a few hours walk, and the path they followed was simple and straight. They'd be back to the village before dusk, the man had said before they split, and the news had him smile, because Tom had rejoiced to be home that evening, and also because it was funny that the man thought he would deign to go back by foot, and that he thought he would make it back at all.
The wind was whispering when he reached his destination, branches swaying at the pace of the breeze. The tree was tall, a giant overlooking the forest, its roots marbling the floor. At the top stood a hole, a wound in the shape of a screaming mouth that scarred the trunk.
He was there at last, he murmured as he got close, and Tom put his hand on the tree to feel the rugged surface of the bark.
He glanced up and stared at the crevice, wondering how a woman so petite could have placed it there. He recalled how small she was in front of him despite her ghostly form, and the fact that she was floating a few inches above the ground. She must have used magic, he thought as he imagined the dispute that had opposed her to the Bloody Baron, the tragic outcome of it. She must have been so concerned with hiding her mother's diadem that she must have forgotten to defend herself, he concluded as he pulled out his own wand.
In a whisper, he casted a summoning spell, and a few seconds later there was a rustling sound. All at once, leaves began to leave the hole, shaking as they escaped the tree. A squirrel ran off with a squeak, clawing at the trunk before dirt and fungi fell down, forced out by the item that was being magically requested. Soon enough something glowed, reflecting the midday sun.
Tom's mouth fell open when his eyes landed on the jewel, goosebumps spreading on his forearms, hair prickling against his shirt as he got closer to the tree. He grabbed the item that was flying towards him, its surface cold against his palm, and he raised it before his eyes, tilting it this way and that to inspect it.
Gently, his thumbs grazed the spread wings of the eagle, chasing away the remaining dirt, revealing the emerald at its centre. He drew in a sharp breath as he caressed the stone like one would caress the skin of a lover, and he took a moment to commune with himself, to revere the item with which he would soon entertain a far more intimate relationship.
"Hey" someone called next to him, and Tom's eyes moved away from the object unwillingly, his heart cracking from the disturbance.
The shepherd was standing a few feet away from him, his eyes two cracks that stared at him.
"What was that?"
The man's voice was shaking.
"I-I saw what you did"
Behind him stood a dozen sheep, their eyes bulging in their long faces.
"Wi-with that… that thing in your hand"
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, willing to draw out the pleasure, for there was something enticing about the fear that showed on the man's face. His nervousness must have reached his sheep for they began to bleat, their tongue pocking out. In the middle of the flock stood a lamp, fearful on its puny legs, and Tom wondered what happened to sheep without their herder.
"You took th-that stick, that stick in your hand"
Tom looked back at the sheep.
Would they find their way home, or would they wander until they'd freeze?
"Oh, that?" he asked as he rose his wand, a hint of a smile showing on his lips.
"That, sir, is not a stick"
The man hit the ground with a thud and the sound echoed on the hills and vales. His eyes fixed upon the fleeing lamp, moved towards the inert body. With a foot, he turned around the corpse's head and stared at the stone that was sunk deep into the man's forehead, like devoured by a hungry skull. How convenient, this stone, he thought as he placed the body back the way it was.
No one saw the green light, no one knew he was there. To anyone, this would look like an unfortunate accident. Yet Tom had no time to give to such mundane considerations, and he placed the diadem into the inner pocket of his cloak before he apparated out of there.
—
"Please don't add your nails. I'll tolerate everything but nails" begged the blond woman who shot a disgusting glance at the potion.
Fumes were escaping the cauldron, like snakes that danced at the sound of a flute, swaying gently above the bubbling liquid. The air was filled with a foul smell despite how much the women had tried to ventilate the room, for the basement of the Selwyn's did not allow much circulation. Thankfully, her parents were gone, and she knew she would not risk being pried on, for her parents' home was the only place Tom's spies did not dare venture into.
"Last step" she whispered while she looked attentively at the decoction before she swiftly turned towards her friend.
"Scissors" she ordered before her friend handed her the tool and with deft-fingers, she reached for a strand of hair at the back of her head.
The potion made a sputtering sound when her hair sunk inside the liquid, and Annabel seized the ladle to give the drink a good stir. She grabbed the glass she had placed on the side, filled it with the viscous liquid despite the repulsed air on her friend's face.
—
Annabel circled around her friend, looking at all the details. She fixed the updo, tightened the belt, pulled on the sleeve. She smoothened the fold of the collar, commented on the posture. Only once she was truly satisfied did she take a step back to contemplate her work.
"Well, look at you" she beamed at the girl with grey eyes and chestnut hair.
"Almoooost perfect" she exclaimed before she tapped on her chin with one finger as her eyes scanned the room. With a small "ah!" she summoned one of the pillows that laid on the sofa behind her.
"I don't understand why it didn't take into considering my tummy" she wondered out loud before she handed the cushion to her friend who placed it under her robe.
"Probably one limit of the polyjuice" shrugged Elena. "You know, in the Polyjuice Plot, recent studies showed that people should have noticed that the person they talked to was not really Phineas Nigellus Black. The potion got its moustache wrong"
Annabel nodded absentmindedly, too engrossed in her own thoughts to engage in the modern analysis of historical conspiracies.
"Much better" she nodded at the sight of the protruding belly, and she gave the pillow a few pats to make it look even rounder. Certainly, a pillow would not fool her husband, but she planned to return before he would be back from his trip.
His damn trip she rectified for herself with gritted-teeth as she grabbed the cauldron and the glass and brought them to the kitchen. She sent off the elf that insisted to help her as she placed the dishes in the sink with a thud, her movements betraying her wrath, for Annabel was still resentful that Tom had objected to her attending the award-giving.
If people had the slightest idea about what she had to go through to make it to that stupid ceremony they would certainly attribute her another prize she thought as she began to scrub the iron with fast, energetic movements.
The Polyjuice was one thing. Having to intercept Tom's letter before the International Order of Healers would lay its hand on it was another. Not to mention that she was technically breaking the law by exiting the country without her husband's permission…
At such thought, her hands squeezed the sponge.
When would society finally stop considering women like eternal minors?
She had had no choice than to involve other people, she thought as she turned on the tap and let some water run into the basin. She thought of her friend Elena, who now stood in the living room because she had corrupted in a rather dirty way.
A few months ago, she had run into her in Gringotts, and learned by devious means that the blond woman had discovered she had a certain appetence for gambling. And that, occasionally, she helped herself with the money her husband saved, unknown to him of course. A useful knowledge Annabel had made good use of after her multiple requests for help had remained unanswered…
She was not proud of it, but what other options did she have, she thought as she stared at the foam in the water.
The grandfather clock in the kitchen announced four o'clock and Annabel jumped at the sound before she rushed back to the living room.
"All right, let's go through the plan one last time" she exclaimed before she turned on her heels to grab her cloak that lay on a nearby armchair.
"I'll go back to your place with the floo network, take off my cloak and give it to the elf who will probably greet me when I arrive" recounted Elena with an uncertain voice.
"She'll ask if you want-"
"-a cup of tea, yes, but I- I'll refuse" she quickly added at the sight of Annabel's frown.
"Instead I'll say that I need some rest and I'll head straight to the bedroom, ask her to dismiss anyone who wants to talk to me"
"Especially Alastair"
"Especially Alastair"
"We won't be able to fool him" she added before she peeked at the time and swiftly put on her cloak.
"I'll be back in no time" she added as she squeezed her friend's shoulders by way of farewell. But as she was about to turn around, and step into the hearth, a pull on her arm made her stagger.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" murmured Elena in a plaintive voice.
Annabel took both of her friends' hands in hers.
"Leonus will kill me if he ever finds out I helped you transgress Tom's orders"
"Elena, I'll be fast like the wind! St Mungo's set up a special portkey to get there. I'll just pick up my prize and come home before dinner. No one will ever know I was there" she winked, before she added at the sight of Elena's guarded look.
"Trust me. Nothing bad can happen"
—
When she landed on the ground, Annabel was overwhelmed by the scent that permeated the air. A moist, earthy aroma that settled deep in the lungs and transcended all the other smells. She stood up straight, dusted her robe to get rid of the clods that were stuck at her knees before she glanced up, searching for a source of light. The patch of land was dark despite it being in the middle of the afternoon, and close to no light made it to the forest floor. She felt at her hips for her wand until she found the familiar shape of a stick which she pulled out of her pocket.
Lumos, she uttered quietly, her voice low for she feared to disturb the tranquility of the place and she looked around, noticed that she was engulfed in mist. She sought for a hint, anything that could indicate where she was meant to go but her vision was bleary from the fog.
Finally, as she stepped forward, a path cleared.
She would have expected a guard of honour she thought as she proceeded with slow, cautious steps, now swallowed by the thick greenery. Yet, she had heard the organisers could be puckish, that it was common for first time visitors to be subjected to playful tricks by the Order, and so when she felt the tremors of the earth under her feet, Annabel thought it was simply one of those pranks.
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If Tom Riddle were to recount the night he lost his first child, he would certainly start by invoking the great confusion that prevailed the moment he apparated in his home. He would depict how he had found a few of his folks in his living room, surrounding a blond woman whose face was sticky with blood, that her upper lip was cut in two, making it look like a bursted ripe fruit.
He would recall the fear on their faces as he stepped forward, wand in hand because of the racket, for it was not them he had expected to see, but any vile intruder who he was ready to punish for violating the sanctity of his place.
He would narrate the way one of his friends grabbed a fistful of hair of the blond woman after he asked what the hell was going on, how he pulled on her locks in a way that made her wince, to expose her face before he ordered her to explain herself.
He would evoke the woman's nonsensical prattle, her absurd sentences that consisted of words he had never thought he would hear.
He would often think of them, later, the order in which they were uttered and the grammar behind it, sweet English grammar whose rules never yielded, its implacable standards, remiss of tragedies, for those words - soon repeated by another friend who got close to him - could have meant something different if a single comma would have been inserted.
Yet, they were introduced to him in their crudest form.
"Ceremony"
"Earthquake"
"Rubble"
St Mungo's, hurt, baby,
AnnabelAnnabelAnnabel.
The rest felt like a dream, like a movie without sound. He apparated out of the place to land in the sanitised entrance hall of the hospital where he was greeted by a healer, one he had never met.
He ignored the looks of the others, those who knew him, who knew his life was about to change, that it had changed already, like if the broomstick that carried him through life had taken a sharp turn.
And so he sped along the corridors, following the man in the green blouse, the latter explaining countless things to him. Something about the baby's magical ability, and that of the mother's, a simple pattern in fact, yet the machinery refused to start, the gearwheels in his head refused to move.
He did not understand because he did not want to, and only when he found himself in front of the door that led to the operation theatre, when his eyes caught sight of her in that bed, her beautiful face tumid from so many bruises, her who he had sworn to protect, her to whom he would have given the world, he was faced with the hardest choice to make.
He had whispered his command, despite the stunned exclamations of his people, those who had followed him, disregarding their common anxious whispers of my-lords, and what-about-the-heirs.
"Let her live"