Author's note: Hi everyone! This is a bit of a darker chapter I'm afraid. Thanks a lot to all of you who are still reading this story despite my sporadic updates 3 Take care
August 1997 - Madonna (1955)
He had brought her flowers. Tiny little buds the colour of sunshine, to embellish the bareness of her cell. The first time he had done so, she had cried, for she had understood what it implied. She was meant to stay.
And that she did, for six months now, two trimestres of despair, only punctuated by Tom's occasional visits. He had become her sole connection to the world, bearer of news, source of entertainment. He brought her books, newspapers, magazines, ink and quills so that she could record her thoughts. He would give her letters, from friends, the only ones she had left, colleagues who wished her the best of luck in this hard time. She took up many hobbies, embroidery on rainy days, painting when the sun was out, even trying her luck at divination, a subject she used to hate, and each time she tilted the cup to discern a pattern in the sunken tea leaves, she remembered why. All she could see was bad omen.
She placed the flowers on the bedside table, near the metal bed, and the hope she felt each time she heard him walk up the corridor ebbed. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, always, as if she held him responsible, as if it was somehow his fault that she was being locked in here. She could not explain it, this gnawing feeling of betrayal, slowly creeping in the depth of her guts, which made her hand shake sometimes, which made her refuse herself to him.
Was it because he was free to come and go as he pleased? Or was it because he promised to her, each time he came, that he would find a way to get her out, and yet stepped into her cell with that damn bouquet in hand? Oh, how much she resented him to be able to go home, to sleep in their own bed, to tread on the floor on which she used to set foot. Each time, she asked him: when will you bring me home? And when he got lost in his own explanations, of why all of his alleged plans failed, she would turn away from him. To conceal her hurt, she would start to bombard him with questions: did the roses bloom in the garden, did the goldfinch came that week? Did the gnomes already appear, was the chimney still working? Each question more astounding than the last, only to prevent the conversation from dying.
Because what scared Annabel the most was that he would grow tired of her. What would happen to her once visiting would feel like a chore? When sailing across the North Sea would become exacting, the waves suddenly feeing like an impassable obstacle?
No, she could not bring herself to think about this.
She pushed her worry aside, eager to make the most of those few hours of joy that were allocated to her. Like always, she expected his hands on her hips, under her skirt, decisive gestures that betrayed his yearning, which somehow tamed her anguish, for he was so hungry for her, it meant that he was not looking elsewhere, but when she turned around, composing a smile in her face, she fell face to face with a small balding man.
She looked at Tom, behind him, and her eyes widened in surprise.
"Darling. Let me introduce you to Healer Tadpole" he said with a cheerful tone. "He will be the one who surveys your pregnancy"
The man took off his top hat, and he dropped a curtsy so low that she feared he would topple over and fall headfirst to the ground.
"Mrs Selwyn"
"Healer Selwyn" she corrected him and he bowed, apologising profusely.
She glanced back at Tom, a single eyebrow raised.
"What is the meaning of this?"
He darted a side look to the man who, at least, seemed to be able to read between the lines, for he had retreated towards the door, and was staying as close to the wall as physically possible.
"We need a healer to check on the baby" he stated.
"I am able to check on the baby"
"Come on darling, you know what I mean"
She eyed him for a while before she briefly peeked at the small balding man. His lime green coat was mucky, and there was no name tag attached to the front pocket. She searched for any sign that he was a legitimate health professional but Tom was already turning towards the man, inviting him to get closer.
"Darling, will you?" he asked, gesturing towards the bed, but she stood rooted to the spot. No way she would let that shady man lay his hands on her. She held Tom's gaze in a challenging fashion, and somehow, she hoped he would find her stubbornness attractive. She tried to recall the time they used to banter, how he seemed to approve of her repartee, as if the more rebellious she was the more seductive he found her. Yet, all she could see now was the hardness of his stare. All at once, she remembered their last night together, at home, the one during which he had subjected her to the Imperius. She had obliterated that tragic episode, all distraught she was from the wrongful accusations that were directed at her, but she could see more clearly now. Her isolation had distracted her, making her forgetful, inattentive. Prison had smoothed her relations with Tom but it had not softened him.
She let out a sigh that she wanted light-hearted but instead, she felt like her lungs were running out of air.
"Fine" she dropped, her voice sounding strangely high-pitched, and like a puppet, she headed towards the bed. She let herself fall on the mattress and soon enough, cold hands were pressing against her belly, pushing here and there like if they meant to move her organs. As she watched the lines on the man's concentrated frown, she racked her brain, trying to remember if she had ever encountered someone called "Tadpole" back at the hospital. For that man, all dubious he looked, definitely knew what he was doing.
"Have you been experimenting any issues? Any cramps? Dizziness?"
She shook her head, gloom gripping her. Were it not for the unusual shape of her belly, she would not think of herself as pregnant. Somehow, unlike her first pregnancy that had plagued her with many aches, this one was occurring in the deepest stillness, peacefully, quietly as if that child was aware of the disturbance it was causing. It desolated her, that she was not able to love that child like she knew she should, and deep inside her she often felt ashamed, for she dreaded the moment she would bring that child into the world, not because she doubted of her skills as a mother, no, but because she feared that Tom would simply stop visiting her.
"Do you wish to know if the baby is magical?" suddenly asked the healer, and Annabel jerked and sat right up. This man was not from St Mungo's, she thought. No matter his title, no matter the colour of his coat. For about two decades now, the Ministry had ruled out the option for expecting parents to know whether their child was imbued with any magical powers. The rate of abortions was too high, and being a squib was not a handicap. Besides, the examination itself was greatly endangering the life of the mother. She recalled her time as an apprentice, how healers hammered it home that any colleague who were agreeing to conduct such a test risked a stiff fine and that they ought to be reported immediately to the healer's association. The risk was not worth it, and years after years, the healers who accepted to indulge the demands of pure-blood families became scarce.
She recalled the monstrous accounts of such tests, how the healer was to put the mother into an artificial coma for only such a state of unconsciousness allowed to perceive the magical aura of the unborn. Many mothers never recovered from it, stuck forever in a state of lethargy, forced to be fed by intravenous drip until it was time for the healer to pluck the baby out of their womb. They were often abandoned afterwards, turning the sheets red as they bled themselves to death, with not a single soul to help them. After all, what use was there for a woman who could never conceive again?
She darted Tom an anxious look. He was facing her across the room, his back leaning against the wall, his arms crossed in front of his chest. His air was cryptic, his handsome face indecipherable and she could not even perceive a fragment of what he was feeling.
He was watching her, silent, focused, like a hunter waiting for the right moment to strike. She broke out in a cold of sweat when she noticed the flicker in his eyes. Just like a warning, a red glow sparkled deep down his pupil, a glimmer she had never seen.
He was considering it, she realised, and a shiver ran down her spine. She could already picture herself laying on this bed, forever caught in the limbo, kept afloat by a single syringe stuck into her arm. Who would miss her then? Not her parents, who had not written once ever since she was there, not her friends who had precipitated her downfall. Would her husband miss her, he who seemed to think of nothing but his heir? Her mind was running wild, each thought leading to the next, her ideas cascading like the tropical recalled her first pregnancy, how the topic had never been broached, how she was sure, back then, that Tom would never dare call on such barbarous practices. But what about now that the cards had been reshuffled, now that she could not predict his next move?
Tom opened his mouth, slowly, so slowly that she wanted to scream and urge him to hasten his sentence. She braced herself, desperately trying to reminisce about all the women who had survived such examination, her grandmother, her great aunt. That friend of her mother who sometimes came to visit. A plethora of women who had not succumbed to the ordeals men inflicted on them.
"No need" he finally said. "There is no doubt about the potency of my child"
His voice was soft, his eyes locked to hers. But was that a smirk at the corner of his lips?
—
Night had begun to fall, and so did the rain, which made a pitter-patter against the window pane.
"Voldemort played me like a fiddle because he knew me so well. Of course, he always knew exactly how to struck a nerve... For all the time I was in jail he promised me that he would get me out of there but in reality, I spent months brooding his child"
"Do you regret it? Having had your child" she added, and Annabellooked at the young woman whose quill was raised just a few inches above her notebook. A frown was plastered on her face, her thick eyebrows joined in the middle as if they were a luxuriant moustache. The question was bold, and she took some time to answer.
"When... my daughter came into this world, I was astonished by what she was - a girl - that I promised myself to do my very best to give her a decent life. 'I will never force you to marry' I used to tell her all the time, which she was too young to understand of course..."
She laughed, and her voice was slightly trembling.
"The healer who followed me in my last trimester kept referring to her as male. Of course, the technique to figure out the sex of a baby was not as accurate as it is today, but I sometimes wondered if he did not do so only to coax my husband"
"Voldemort wanted a son?"
"Not really" she shrugged.
"He wanted a heir, that was all. Voldemort was never someone who gave much weight to social constructs. That said, a boy would have been easier of course... Women of my generation were very dependent on men, and Voldemort was well aware of that. It was that awareness precisely that allowed him to play his cards right"
She looked at the empty glass of wine in front of her, how the condensation had formed and dripped, now creating a small clear puddle at the base. She wondered if she should go back to the cabinet, have another shot of liqueur. Instead, she pursued:
"During the time of our years together, he had made himself essential to me. I owed him everything. My freedom, my career. Even my future. And I was told never to bite the hand that feeds. It was quite simple, you see, for men had no other obligation towards women than to put food on the table. In front of everyone, Voldemort appeared to be a decent husband and father. I fell for it too, whenever I forgot what he had done to me. It was easier to blame myself than to blame him for all the lies, for all the violence, and I used to remind myself that I should bethankful, somehow, for having a husband who stayed despite all the trouble I gave him. Of course, little did I know at the time that he was the one who had schemed it all. That, I learned later, after I found a prescription for zinc phosphide in his name"
"The poison they found at your place"
She nodded, and placed her hands on her lap, staring into space as memories resurfaced.
"And h-how… I mean how did you g-"
She looked up and raised an eyebrow at the red-haired boy who was stammering.
"How did I get out?"
He acquiesced and Annabel let out a small chuckle.
"Just like that" she said, and she snapped her fingers with a laugh as bitter as that liqueur she finally decided to grant herself again.
She stood up, her steps insecure as she walked towards the cabinet and processed the bottle once more. Yet, this time, instead of placing it back in the furniture after pouring herself a shot, she brought bottle and glass back to the table.
"In the hours after I gave birth"
She repressed a shiver as she recalled how she had delivered her daughter on her own, in the middle of the night, with no one answering her desperate calls. Hours long of painful labour she had had no choice but to face alone, fear gnawing at her bowels. She still dreamt of it sometimes, remembering how she had been helplessly banging on the door, standing on all four to manage the cramps, begging for someone to please come assist her, until she had finally surrendered to the urge to push.
"On the next morning, a man - what was his name again? - he introduced himself as Azkaban's vice-director"
She recalled the face the man made when he entered her cell, gawking at her like if she was some kind of three-headed dog, pinching his nose for the cell reeked of blood and urine and sweat. She had barely had enough time to cover herself, the baby hanging at her breast, before he had issued her to get dressed and pack her things.
She had stared at him, her mouth opened in shock before he had explained. "Your name was cleared. They found the man who did this. Some young lad freshly out of Howarts. He went to the Ministry and confessed. You're free to go"
What happened after that had felt like a dream, how the staff had come fetch her in her cell for her to be bathed and donned, dressed with Muggles' clothes while she had stood there, listless, still in a state of shock. She had discovered, that day, that bringing the prisoners to Azakaban by boat was only done for the sake of decorum, for the prison was connected to the Floo Network, which explained the back and forth of the staff as well as Tom's visits, he who then stood in front of the chimney where she'd landed.
She recalled his proud smile, his soft hands when he helped her to go down the hearth, his arm around her waist to lead her to the next room where so many people were gathered. They had all fallen to one knee when she'd passed, guided by Tom towards the middle of the room where had stood a chair, as big as a throne. "What's this?" she had asked, unsettled and sore, before he'd requested that she'd sit, that she'd let the people honour her. Oh, she remembered that air he had had, something not quite sane when she'd told him she wanted them to leave, a command he had refused to give, even when the baby had begun to fuss and scream, even when she had begun to faint, for her feet could not carry her no more, and her breasts were taught as she had to feed while he'd whispered in her ear:
"Welcome home darling"