There was the pitter patter of the rain on the earth, the smell of the wet soil when she arrived at the grave. As always, the grass had grown, nature reclaiming its rights despite the many times she had weeded the stone.
They had buried her in the garden, down by the pond, under the apple tree that turned white in spring, the colour in which she used to dress her most, the colour of her daughter's skin the moment she found her.
Sudden infant death syndrome. It was in those terms that she used to explain it to people, a four-words sanitised name that meant nothing but the most cruel of losses. But how else could she explain it all, the death of a child, so unthinkable, so unnatural? Words would never be enough to explain the ache, its torment, language failing her, she often thought, obsessing over this idea whenever she was trying to talk, her feelings explained dying in her throat before they could even reach her mouth, and she often sat still instead, mute as a fish, too engrossed in her own pain to be able to share any coherent thought.
Two months already. Two months of silent dinners and of kneeling by the grave, of grasping and tearing the clumps of grass that kept on growing, gripping handfuls of green little stems, feeling them tickle the soft skin between her fingers before she pulled up as hard as she could, like if her life depended on it. It was meditative, somehow, this constant grabbing and plucking. It felt like punishing nature for what it had taken away from her, blaming it for the body she had buried down there, still warm and soft just a short while ago.
She kneeled in front of the grave and her knees sunk into the wet soil. She buried her hands in the dense vegetation, pushing around the ivy that had grown, shooing away some worms, sweeping away the earth. The latter left brown traces on the marble, getting embedded in the engraving. "In memory of our beloved daughter" it said, and she scrubbed each letter with her sleeve, inserting her thumb's nail in the cracks to dislodge the remaining impurities, deeply regretting that she did not bring a brush to better clean the inscription. She discarded the cut flowers she had brought a week ago, tossing the wilting carnations before replacing them by a handful of garden roses she had cut just earlier, placing the bouquet sideways on the grave.
She took a moment to commune with herself, every now and then wiping away the rain from her face with the inside of her elbow. It was quiet, nothing to be heard if not for the heavy raindrops that fell through the tree's branches, until she heard a pop. She opened her eyes, to find the house elf standing a few meters away from her, its hands twisting as if embarrassed to disturb her.
"Mistress" it squeaked. "There is someone at the door"
"Tell them I have no time"
"They say it's important"
She sighed and picked herself up, granting the grave one last look. She would come back once the rain had stopped, perhaps even bring the foldable beach chair that she had purchased a few years back, when Tom and her had been travelling to the West coast of France, sit at her daughter's side for a while and read, she thought, even bring a cup of tea.
She walked back up to the house at a brisk pace and headed straight towards the door. She casted a spell for the latter to open, and on the front steps stood a paunchy man.
He tilted his head in greetings, explained he worked from the Land Registry and he needed the proof of registration of the spell used for the extension of the land.
"Our recent measurements indicate that you have up to 20 acres of gardened landscapes but our registry include only 18 acres"
He took out a document and pointed to the incriminated number.
"Omission of declaration of extension charms in the case of land and property exposes owners to a fine of up to 220 galleons"
She blinked a few times.
"My parents bequeathed the house to us. They must have registered the two missing acres at the time. I fear your information might not be up to date, here your document states that the house is still under the name of my parents, which changed-"
"Regardless of the name, the latest declaration at the Land Registry is of 1937 and it indicates 18 acres. If the omission lies with the solicitor, he would be the one who-"
"What is the document you need?" she cut him off, irritated now. If Tom was right about one thing when it came down to politics, it was how much bureaucracy was an evident loss of time. She abandoned the man in the house elf's company, climbing up the stairs with heavy steps.
"Okay" she sighed once she stood on the doorstop of Tom's study, wondering where the hell he might have stored such paper. She pushed the door open, stepped on the parquet floor that creaked under her feet. The distinctive smell of Tom's body permeated the air. All at once, Annabel caught herself being gripped by a profound nostalgia, for if Tom was home more often since the death of their daughter, as if to convey her his support, there was this aura around him, darker, sinister than she had ever seen.
She busied herself with the search of the paper, wondering what key words she could use to accio that document. She tried a few that she could think of, but neither the word "registry" nor "acres" gave any result. At the word "garden", she cursed at that stupid search-spell when about fifty books came flying towards her. After a while and different combinations, she resolved to search without the help of magic.
She started with the bookcase, where publications and folders were neatly stored on the mahogany shelves. Most binders were named, but none bore a title that could have plausibly anything to do with the management of real estate. She let her finger run on each cover, reading some of the names out loud, rediscovering her husband's different passions: Hogwarts' founders, the origins of black magic, the history of the Slytherin house. But also eclectic choices, books that dealt with history, law or politics, runes, arithmancy, all you needed to have a wise head on your shoulders.
It was almost thrilling to be in that room without him, something she had done only a few times - she could still remember what she had discovered that first time she had stepped into his office alone, laying hands on that letter destined to her, about that award that had caused her downfall - and she usually only dared defy Tom's authority if she had a good reason to do so, but she assumed that this man, downstairs, who asked them to be accountable was reasonable enough.
She turned on her hills, looked at the desk, where she knew he stored some papers, and she began to open the drawers one by one, ignoring the various items that were stocked in there - the traditional inkpots and quills, but also strange artefacts he had brought from his trips. She grabbed the handle of the last drawer, pulled on it, found different folders, skimmed the papers of each, but found nothing that seemed related to the management of real estate.
A frustrated sigh escaped her lips, and she picked herself up. She considered whether she should simply wait for Tom's return, but somehow, she was thankful for the distraction this man provided. She rarely had any visitor since the passing of their child, and busying herself with such a dull task that occupied both her mind and her hands seemed providential.
Suddenly, she remembered that her parents had advised Tom and herself to keep all major documents at the bank, for there was few places as secured as Gringotts. Perhaps had Tom been wiser than she was, and moved some papers during the months she was away. She racked her brain to recall where she might have placed the spare key of their vault and decided she should better have a look inside her different purses and cloaks. After all, she had that terrible habit to throw everything inside her pockets, coins, letters, even jewellery at times, and there was no reason that the key to the very-safest-place-they-owned would be an exception.
She headed downstairs, shouting "one moment" to the man who was still waiting on the front steps. She rushed to her bedroom, accioed the key to the vault while she headed towards the wardrobe. Usually, the house elf would neatly lie on the console table everything it found in Annabel's pockets, and she would discover, mesmerised, that she finally had some change before she'd head out. But cloaks and purses, that required little cleaning, were certainly a goldmine. She accioed the key again, for good measure, but decided to tackle the search by herself as she began to take out the various bags and cloaks she owned. She kneeled on the carpet, surrounded by all her coats, and like she had expected, she fished out fascinating treasures: the wrapping of an acid pop, a few knuts, that voucher for Flourish & Blotts she was convinced she had lost. Earrings she had been searching for for weeks, a crumpled leaflet, a crumpled letter, a vial with a remedy against tummy aches. Another folded document, thin like rice paper, that she could not remember having ever seen, and she opened it out of curiosity.
There, on the thin paper, the logo of an apothecary, not the one of Mr Mullpepper no, nor the one called Slug & Jiggers, but the one in Knockturn Alley. And on that paper - a carbon copy she understood - a scribble barely visible for the ink was already fading, a prescription for zinc phosphide.
Annabel paused.
Zinc phosphide?
A very deadly venom, a toxin so potent that a single drop could kill a cow, used nowadays to get rid of rats - or garden gnomes for the less ethical - said poison that had killed that woman, Hepzibah Smith, poured accidently in her tea by her house elf. Said poison that the Ministry had found at her house, hers, Annabel's, when the Ministry had conducted a perquisition, a substance that had sent her to jail…
Her mind was racing but her body was like stupefied, each muscle so stiff that she could not make the slightest of movement, her eyes riveted on the document she had in hand. On the paper, her signature, unmistakable, to the slight exception that the stroke under her name was too short, the "e" was too round. And the sight of it made her blood curdle.
She would have recognised that handwriting among a million different ones.
The way he had to linger on the descender part of letters, that self-confident stroke on the T of phosphate.
Tom's handwriting.
Tom, ordering that toxin in her name.
There could be no mistake.
When the house elf suddenly materialised on the doorstep, to inquire whether she had found the document, Annabel struggled to turn her head. Her jaw was locked, and she had to try multiple times to finally emit the smallest of sounds. "No" she managed to reply after a while, her voice parched. This sudden disruption had the merit of bringing her back to the here and now and she cleared her throat. "Tell the man I'll owl him the paper once I find it".
The elf nodded, and disappeared as quickly as it came.
Annabel placed the paper back where she had found it. She did the same with the rest, but her movements were urgent, disorganised, and she had to start again three times before she managed to throw the acid pop wrapping inside one leather purse. She picked herself up, grabbed the coats and bags single-handedly, placed them in the closet but they fell out, and she stepped back, her eyes wide as she felt her legs begin to shake. With haste, she left the room, slammed the door behind herself, and she took the stairs two at a time.
She headed outside, where it still poured. She could not think, her mind fuzzy like if it was stuck in a thick and endless fog. She followed where her feet carried her, towards the Eastern side of the house, where she rarely ventured. She wanted to run but truthfully she was trudging, her steps impeded by the loose soil. Her dress, soiled by the wet earth, was heavy. She kept on rushing, desirous to put as much distance between herself and that prescription as she could. She walked, and walked, until she reached the top of the cliff.
There, the sea air licked her face, gluing strands of hair to her cheeks, and she contemplated the water down below, the waves that crashed against the rocks. She could jump, she thought, and she wondered: "would her head hit the rocks first, or would it be her feet?"
She neared the edge, staring at the foam that brushed the rough surface of the stone, and for a brief second, she imagined herself taking a step further, leaping into the void, the wind diving into her clothes, into her hair.
There was a sound behind her, a rustle of clothes, and she knew to whom it belonged without even looking.
"I know what you did" she said.
She wondered if he would try to stop her, like he once did, grabbing her wrist before she was about to plunge her hand in the Flesh Eating Slug's basin. Except, this time, he did not move an inch.
"I found the prescription. Zinc phosphide…"
She turned around to face him. Her vision was blurry from the rain, but she could see that he was holding her gaze.
"Is it true?"
She looked at his hands, those that had held hers many times, that had explored her body in the most intimate of ways. Those hands that could caress her and make her sigh, were they the same hands than those that had filled up that prescription, sealed her fate?
She expected him to deny it, to come up with an excuse, but no sound escaped his lips.
Inside her, something stirred.
"Why?"
Tears gathered in her eyes as she took a step towards him.
"Why, Tom?"
"Tell me why you would hurt the only person you ever swore to protect?"
Silence stretched, and for a while, there was no other sound than the murmur of the waves.
"You know why"
His voice was soft when he spoke, and she hated him for it.
"I did it to protect you" he said.
She let out a sob as it all came back to her: the trial, the jail. The debilitating loneliness. How she had been forced to carry that child to term, against her will. And the birth, the blood, how she had to deliver their late daughter on all four, alone.
Oh, how cruel, how terribly cruel of him.
She shook her head.
"How could you?"
There was another sob, from her side, because for the first time ever since she had married Tom Riddle, Annabel was scared. An emotion she had not felt for a while, a fear so great that it crawled under her skin, each minute worst than the past, so entirely shaken by the certitude that was beginning to form in her head, by the truth that she was finally starting to see, with a clarity she had rarely experienced: that he would do it again.
What he had made her go through, he would not hesitate to do it again.
Yes, he would make her accede to his will once more, subject her body, bend her mind. Again, and again.
And when the clouds finally cleared up, lightening his eyes - two dark orbes - she realised that his hands, at which she had been looking, would no longer be there to cherish and graze, but would be there to pin her down, have her do his bidding. And she knew, that he knew that too.
She looked away, coming back to her senses at last, and her tears ran down her cheeks at the realisation that there was only but one way out.
"Will you let me go?"
He looked to the side when she asked, his gaze moving straight in front of him, and part of her wished that he would make it hard for her to leave, that he would try to hold her back.
But instead he replied, his expression inscrutable, his traits like chiseled into stone:
"I will not hold you back"
And he did not, not when she walked past him, not when her arm brushed his. Not when she climbed back down the hill, her heart heavy just like her dress, not when she reached the house and summoned her suitcase and packed her clothes.
He did not hold her back when she lingered in the corridor, dragging her luggage, secretly hoping that he would soon call for her, beg her to stay…
No, he did not hold her back when she headed towards the chimney, grabbed a handful of green power.
He did not hold her back.