"For somebody I thought was my saviour
You sure make me do a whole lot of labour"
- Paris Paloma
"Once I came home, our relationship seriously deteriorated. I was plagued by a continual fatigue which I, back then, attributed to the care I was expected to provide. I was perpetually in a dire mood, stuck at home with motherly duties. I loved my daughter, of course, but I could not help but dream of what my life could have been if I was not expected to be the main caregiver for this child. I struggled with the most mundane tasks: bathing her, feeding her. It all seemed like monumental challenges. Now, that I am older, I know that this was not normal, that there was something else, something worse than the simple need for a nap…"
She talked about the depression, a shameful sin at the time, her incapacity of taking care of her daughter. Which, she believed, was accentuated by the sinister atmosphere of their house, where she believed Voldemort had hidden those items, storing them transiently before he'd find a more proper location, using the place she used to call home as the nerve centre of his scheme.
She tilted her head towards the locket that lay on the table.
"I believe those objects" she tilted her head towards the locket that lay on the table "have an influence on the people around them. The few times I have been in the presence of one of them, I felt a pull. Not in a good way…"
The Boy Who Lived nodded.
"Where was Voldemort at the time?"
She shrugged.
"Gone, more often than not. He quitted his job at Borgins and Burkes shortly after I was being accused of Hepzibah Smith's murder. I just know that they let him go with a nice sum of money. He was probably asked to disappear for a while, in order not to let the shop get bad press. And he was very happy to oblige, as you can imagine…"
"You said you have been in the presence of Horcruxes. Do you think of any of them in particular?"
"It's hard to say exactly, what was or was not an Horcrux. You see, working for an antic shop, Voldemort gathered a lot of relics. I remember he was once in possession of a tureen, a delicate porcelaine piece. It was white, with a golden rand and juggling bears. It had this strange aura, something mystical, dantesque even. It sounds odd, to talk about this way about a pot, but I remember being so… drawn to it. As if it was calling me"
She recalled how she had been coming home that day, dropping her purse on the floor at the sight of the object. She had gotten closer, walking slowly, so slowly as if not to scare it.
"When I finally touched it, my hands felt like if they had been plunged into acid"
The kids seemed more alert now, awakened by the topic.
"Do you think this would be a potential Horcrux?"
She sighed.
"It's hard to tell. I doubt that Voldemort would lock a piece of his soul into something as prosaic as a kitchen utensil"
Heads looked down again in dejection.
"I'm sorry that I cannot help you any further"
No response followed her comment and silence stretched, seconds ticking slowly. She expected the kids to stand up, to apologise for the disturbance. To shake her hand and bend their heads. Thank you for your time. Yet, none of them moved an inch.
"Do you-" she began, her eyebrows raised. "Do you have any other question for me?"
"How did you leave him?"
"Oh" she let out, her eyebrows moving back down. Her hand lay flat on the table and she stroke the fabric of the table cloth.
"I left after I found out about he did"
"That he framed you for his crime"
"That he sent me away to make me keep his child!" she corrected, stressing each word with a condemning tone.
She let out a small sigh through her nose, angry with herself for her sudden displeasure. After all, those kids were not to blame for not picking up on the difference, something even the Ministry was not able to see back then. And yet, to her, such subtlety in the narrative was of great importance.
During all the years of her estrangement with the Dark Lord, Annabel had thought about it many times, mulling over how different it would have been if she had been sent away to simply serve for his crime. For years, she did not correct people, those who mistook her imprisonment for the simplest scheme. After all, who else knew that she did not want to bear any offspring, that becoming a mother was to her as good as jail? No one, really, and she could not blame others for not seeing the personal intricacies of that crime, the intimate dimension of it. Having her take the blame, what an adorable motive, for Voldemort was far more creative, and far more cruel. Was she allowed, then, to blame others when she herself struggled to explain the unexplainable, struggled to understand the understandable, Tom's quest for immortality, his fear of death, so great, so tangible, that it made him bend her to his design, marking her for life, forcing her to experience in the flesh the power of his will?
Her hand began to shake on the table cloth, her shudder creating creases on the cloth like a myriad of little rivers.
"It took me a while to understand" she began.
"For a long time, I did not want to see it, despite all the proofs that I had. People tried to warn me, of course. Those who knew before I did…"
She took a deep breath.
"I just… I wasn't ready yet"
— December 1955 —
The baby bawled, its little face the colour of a red apple. Tears escaped its eyes, big drops that hurtled down its cheeks. She lifted it from the pram under the eyes of the other customers. The shop was full, as it was to be expected before Christmas, people clumping together in the little boutiques that bordered the main street in Diagon Alley. She was at the apothecary, dragging her stuffy nosed daughter along. The poor child was sick, afflicted by a stubborn cough that refused to leave her, and Annabel was seeking something to alleviate her ache. She would have rather left her at home, so she could have stayed warm while she ran her errands, but who could have taken care of her? Not Tom, who was gone Merlin knew where, supposedly busy with some business she did not want to hear about. Not her mother, who had been quiet ever since the judicial mistake, as if the wrongful accusations towards her daughter would tarnish the family reputation. Alastair? Annabel could have laughed at the thought. No, she could rely to no one, carrying alone the responsibility of her child, just like a single-mother.
"Shh-shh" she whispered, placing the child on her hip and rocking it while the woman in front of her turned around to dart her a disapproving glance. Annabel went for the traditional apologetic smile, those of mothers whose child dared make a scene in public.
When it was finally her turn, she walked towards the wooden counter, asked for something against the common cold. The apothecary turned around to busy himself with her order, opening and closing dozens of little drawers and smoked glass jars - elderberries, Annabel noticed, a handful of shaving of white willow bark. The latter returned with a salve to apply thrice a day on the child's forehead. Annabel pocketed the ointment and dropped a few coins on the counter. Outside, downy snowflakes had begun to form in the sky, and Annabel placed the child back in its pram, uncorking the little bottle with her teeth, unladylike in her hurry. She tilted the brown bottle, coated her fingers with a few drops of its contents. It was slimy yet rough, and she hastened to smear the salve on the child's skin. The relief was instant. Her daughter's mouth, turned upside down for the last twenty-four hours - or so it seemed - suddenly stopped quivering. Instead, she brought her hand to her mouth, sucked on her fist in a self-soothing gesture before her eyes shut close.
Annabel let out a sigh of relief. At last, the child was getting some sleep. She looked around at the jam-packed street, at the kids who marvelled at the sight of the snowflakes. It was still early. Perhaps had she the time to run a few more errands, stop by the bootmaker, get herself a new quill. They were also running low on ink and paper, she thought, finally deciding to make good use of the brief respite that was allocated to her. She began to walk down the street, the pram jolting on the pavement. The air smelled of gingerbread and roasted chestnuts and she stopped in front of Flourish and Botts shortly, to take a look at the books displayed in the shop front. She was about to set off again when she heard her name, exclaimed by a voice she had not heard in a long time.
She turned around and between the passers-by stood someone she had not seen in such a long time that she struggled for a moment to name her, and instead abounded attributes: Ravenclaw, Head-Girl, Norwegian Muggle-born. The handkerchief incident, their conversations inside the dorm, the woman's integrity and rectitude.
Annabel gawked motionless at the woman whose red hair was topped by a bobble hat. The latter was smiling, her face free of any make-up, just like Annabel remembered her. She gestured towards the café down the street, insisted to buy her a coffee, and Annabel followed, too surprised by such impromptu encounter to refuse.
They were sitting now on small wooden chairs, two cups fuming at the centre of the squared coffee table. The place was empty, to the exception of a few couples scattered here and there.
"Is this your daughter?"
Her eyes met those of her former friend before she peeked at the pram. She nodded, and lifted the canopy to reveal the sleeping child.
"She's adorable"
"She's… difficult" she admitted with a soft sigh.
"So are most babies I've heard" she replied, her tone compassionate.
"You do have children too?"
A dainty laughter escaped Sophia's throat as she ran a hand through her hair.
"Me? Oh, no, Merlin be blessed! No, no… No husband and no kids to tend to"
"Lucky you" she whispered, and her words were followed by an awkward silence. She pressed her lips together, regretting her misplaced comment. She risked a glance at her friend who seemed serene nonetheless, as if the words had no effect on her. Instead, she granted her a warm smile.
"I suppose you and Tom are still together then"
Annabel avoided the glance her former friend darted her and she fumbled with the small muslin teabag that was floating lazily inside the hot water.
She recalled how unsupportive Sophia had been of her marriage, how Annabel had believed this change would cost her their friendship. Which it did, somehow, their new lives failing to tune up, like two instruments that played a different scale, Annabel's new life, married to the school's prodigy, an existence so different from that of Sophia who was unrestricted, single, free. Even their professional lives did not match, Annabel, one of the few women allowed to work despite her marital status, yet subjected to the many obligations imposed on her by her job or husband, while Sophia was as free as the wind, returning to the Muggle world at times, to her roots in Norway, busying herself with associative work.
Could she have changed anything, she wondered, remembering how peeved Tom's friends were by the Muggle-born's presence, which had certainly precipitated their parting, a rupture she herself had been unable to prevent, all incapable she was to protect her from their malice. Until Sophia simply stopped getting in touch.
She felt the muscles in her neck grow stiff as silence stretched between them and she placed a hand on the back of her head, her fingers massaging the taut area. She changed topic, awkwardly, asking about Sophia's job, and who she was still in contact with. The mood changed, warming up, and Annabel found the time pleasing. The tea was good, and so was Sophia's company. Yet after a while, the baby began to stir, smacking its lips, from hunger perhaps. Annabel peeked at her daughter, contemplating whether she felt comfortable enough to feed her in public, but the cool draught from the badly isolated window dissuaded her.
She apologised and fumbled for a gallon in her pocket, saying she ought to go home.
"Of course"
Annabel stood up and Sophia did the same, but before the latter opened her arms to bid her farewell, she paused, and Annabel felt an ounce of hesitation stemming from her friend.
"I've heard he changed his name"
Annabel frowned, her eyebrows joining in the middle in a single straight line.
"Your husband. They say he no longer responds to the name of Tom Riddle…"
"I'm working for an association that helps Muggle-born people. Recently, we've seen a stark increase in the numbers of hate-crime being reported to the Ministry. A name keeps coming back but most are too afraid to even speak it"
Silence fell between them both, only disturbed by the clinking of porcelain by the bar.
Sophia's tone was low now, urgent.
"There was a blast yesterday, in the Cumbrian mountains. A fire ensued. A dozen people were hurt. All of them were Muggle-born"
Annabel took a step back, confused now by the turn this conversation was taking.
"I have no idea of what you're talking about"
"Ask him, Annabel" she urged, holding her back by the arm but Annabel extricated herself from her former friend's grasp. She placed the money on the table in a thud before she grabbed her coat. In the pram, the baby was crying.
"Ask him if Lord Voldemort was yesterday in Lake District"
The fire was roaring in the earth, giving off a gentle heat. She stroked the back of the child at her breast, her mind wandering while she stared into the dancing flames. Her mind was processing her impromptu meeting, the words her former friend had uttered in hasted speech. She tried not to think of her own doubts, a foreboding she struggled to muffle, the dreadful feeling that something was going on. It had something to do with Tom's escapades, of course, his spontaneous getaways that often had her dine alone, that had her wonder if he was being deceitful, for now that he no longer worked, she could not fathom what could keep her husband away from home until the late hours, and more than once, she caught herself going through his dirty clothes, searching for a hint of perfume, a smear of lipstick. Yet, the collar of his shirts remained doubtlessly clean.
But what if she was wrong? What if her fears had nothing to do with the pleasures of the flesh but with another form of pleasure, one far more vile, far more corrupt?
"Hunting is just like courting" had once said Dolohov as they had been sitting at the White Wyvern's, that friend of Tom's, first busy behind the bar, then joining them for a drink once he had closed the place. He had turned down the lights, allowing for a cozy atmosphere to settle before, the alcohol helping, he had engaged in a rather extensive allegory of that intimate relationship that existed between the predator and the prey, with such a profusion of details that Annabel had felt her cheeks get warm, and she had finished her drink quickly, in just a few gulps, for she did not know what to do with her hands. She recalled Tom's look that day, and this more than the elation that she had felt growing in his chest, she had known. It was a look she had once seen, a long time ago, on the face of her grandfather, which betrayed the excitement of the search, the thrill of the chase. Those eyes, that meant that he knew what hunting meant.
Suddenly, she stood up, tearing the protesting baby away from her chest. She placed it in its crib near the fire, ignoring its complaints, before she exited the living room and rushed towards the stairs. She reached the second floor with a racing heart, and she rushed into the bathroom, grabbed both handles of the washing basket. She tilted it until the laundry fell on the floor and she knelt down, now on all four as she picked and discarded each piece of clothing, pushing to the side the baby sleepsuits, her stockings, dresses. At last, she found it, the robe Tom was wearing the day before, and soon enough, she felt a knot forming in the pit of her stomach. At the hem, tiny holes with burnt out edges, and the smell, overpowering, of something burnt.
—
"After that, hints multiplied, things I hadn't picked up on, but I refused to face the truth. Until…"
She sighed and placed her hands in front of her face for a second, her fingers grazing at her eyebrows, her palms pressing against her eyelids. Bursts of colours showed in her sight when she moved away her fists, and it took a second before she could see the kids' faces again.
"My daughter's death changed everything. I left after I found out that he had schemed it all, and because I understood, then, that he would make me go through all of it again if he had too"
She shivered, a chill running down her spine at the words. What would have happened to her if she had stayed? Where would she be, now? Would they still be together, sharing the same bed and table, waking up in each others' arms? Or would he have disposed of her, like he had with all the people who did no longer proved themselves useful to him?
"And did he just let you go?"
"What?"
She frowned, regaining control over her body before she looked at the boy who sat opposite her. His eyes were looking everywhere but at her, moving fast under his thick red eyebrows, as if ill at ease by the question he was himself asking.
"You Know Who… Did he let you go with ease?"