Ficlet: The Hand That Rocks the Cradle (Lily), PG-13
Title: The Hand That Rocks the Cradle
Author: magnetic_pole
Characters: Lily Evans
Summary: This is no way to start a family, with a lie.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Dark themes, discussion of abortion, implied infidelity
Notes: 1600 words, I’m afraid. I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time. (Blaise Pascal, Muggle mathematician, scientist, philosopher, and fellow procrastinator)
I’ve gone soft in my old age, I have. Time was, I’d turn a right profit on everything I sold in the shop, working through lunch, brewing their potions, patting their tears dry, collecting their gold. I’m not a hard woman, but no one could last as long as I’ve lasted in this line of work without drawing a line between one’s own life--the only life that really matters--and what is, in the end, a business. Aconite, asphodel, belladona, hellebore, wormwood, they’re just ingredients. What the girls do with them is none of my business, or anyone else’s. Anyone who says different is a hypocrite, or a man.
I’m not sure why I responded to the ginger-haired girl the way I did. I’d seen a hundred of her type before--pale and skittish at finding themselves here, but arrogant, too, never worked a day in their life, likely to look down on a woman like me who makes a honest living through trade. They pretend like they’ve been to Knockturn Alley before, like they know what they’re doing, like they know what they want. They rarely do. I take their gold anyway. I need it. We’ve all been screwed over by somebody--and I’m the first to admit it happened to me--but if they pay me enough, I’ll help them act like that’s not true.
I was alone in the shop when the ginger-haired girl walked in, just about to close up on a chilly, grey winter’s afternoon. Like I said, nothing I haven’t seen before, no more than a year or two out of school, ordinary-looking, even a little familiar, as if I’d passed her on the street before. She wore a thick wool cloak the color of blood, and she bought the smell of fresh snow into the shop with her. She had a long, horsey face and green eyes and freckles, and she wasn’t pretty, not exactly, but she had the warmest, loveliest smile I’d ever seen, and my heart skipped a beat when she looked at me.
“A friend told me you could help me,” she said quietly, and I looked her up and down. She seemed thin as broomstick under that cloak, but she wouldn’t be showing much, not yet, not if she’d seen an omen or had her fortune told. Better that way, I’ve always thought, before you become too attached.
I already had the basic ingredients out on the counter, two stoppered vials and a small, steaming cauldron. “I can,” I said, gesturing to her to sit down near the counter. “It’ll cost you twenty-seven Galleons, but you’re safe with me, I give you my word. It’ll all be over by nightfall.”
“Over?” she asked, puzzled. “Oh! No, you don’t understand. I want to keep it, I just...” She blushed crimson and took a deep breath. “I want to be sure it looks like my husband, and not...anyone else.”
That stopped my broomstick mid-air, as they say. “You don’t have a ring,” I said, puzzled.
“No, I don’t,” she said cheerfully. “We’re to be married next week. It’s all rather...last-minute.”
“Sit,” I urged her again, and she did. Her cheeks were still rosy from the cold, and she looked at me expectantly. “There is a potion,” I said. I didn’t brew it all that often, but I knew how, and I tallied the cost of the ingredients in my head. “I could brew it for fifteen Galleons, four Knuts.” Only a Galleon in profit, but a man I suspected to be Death Eater had paid dearly for Veritaserum brewed with human fingernails earlier that morning, so no matter. “It’s similar to the Polyjuice Potion, if you know about that,” I added. “Needless to say, this version is one the Ministry frowns on.”
“I thought you might have something like that,” she said, nodding. “Whatever you can do, I’m grateful. I want to make this marriage work.”
I usually hated girls like this, who knew nothing of unusual potions or the Dark Arts or adult life, who scorned my skills and appeared at times of crisis, suddenly humble and willing to do anything I asked, if only I could make their problems go away. But the ginger-haired girl was different. I don’t know why; like I said, I’ve gone soft. “Look,” I said, as gently as I could. “You either trust your husband-to-be completely, or you’re terrified of him. Please take my advice, if it’s the second, you’re better off calling the wedding off and taking the kind of potion I usually brew. In fact, you might be better off without the baby either way. This is no way to start a family, with a lie.”
I’d expected my words to banish the smile from her face, but she looked at me for a long moment, calm and composed as a hippogriff. “Do you have a husband?” she asked.
“No longer,” I said. The less said about that, the better.
“Children?” she asked.
“One son,” I said, starting to see where she was headed. “I don’t see him as much as I’d like, and we have our differences, but, yes, a son.”
The ginger-haired girl nodded as if we’d come to some sort of understanding. “The man I'm going to marry is basically a good man, the kind of man who will make a good father one day, and he adores me, and he wants the child,” the girl said. “I’ll love the child, and that will be enough.”
I bit my lip. “Love isn’t always enough,” I said.
She smiled, a slow, bright smile that seemed to light up my little shop. “Isn’t love all we have? Especially now?”
Who was I to tell this girl what to do? Did she want to know about the son who’d grown sullen and quiet and then vanished altogether? I had heard rumors about him and his friends, of course, but I didn't take responsibility for his actions; he was an adult now, past the age when I could tell him what to do, whether it was to be kind to others, or to be humble in his approach to the Dark Arts, or to avoid murder so as to keep his soul intact. Besides, I had no desire to think that something I'd done or not done, years ago, might have led him to serve at the Dark Lord’s whim. I had brewed what I could with the ingredients life had dealt me; perhaps her life would be different. She certainly looked like the type whose life would be different. Business is business, I reminded myself.
“Tea?” I asked.
”Thank you,” she said. She gave me a half-smile as she took the cup I offered, dimples flashing, and I smiled back at her despite myself.
“Won’t be more than a minute,” I said, crouching down to look for the fluxweed and the boomslang skin, rummaging among the dusty boxes of rarely used specialty ingredients. “This is a right easy potion, it is. If you have a lock of hair, we’ll be finished before you can--”
I heard a soft hiccough, and I stood up, huffing, to discover that the ginger-haired girl was crying silently, tears rolling off the end of nose, into her tea.
“There, there,” I said, flummoxed, handing her my stained handkerchief. “Don’t fret. What-”
Oh, my.
The Grim lurked there at the bottom of her tea cup, unmistakable against the patterned blue porcelain. I drew a breath before I could help myself and drew a sacred circle over my heart, protecting myself again the omen.
“It’s there all the time now,” the girl said dully, wiping her cheeks. “Three times now, I’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time, nearly killed. I’m not sure how much time I have left. I’m sorry. I’ve seen it often enough I really shouldn’t fall apart like this.”
“I--” I paused, uncertain what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I put the fateful teacup on the counter and began to assemble the ingredients necessary for the potion. The ginger-haired girl pulled a small velvet pouch out of her pocket and placed it on the counter. Inside I found a few short strands of hair, as coarse and black as my own. For the briefest of moments I thought--but no. Impossible. When I added the hair to the potion, it frothed and bubbled ominously. I poured a serving into a clean cup and passed it to her.
“One long sip now,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
The girl nodded once, decisively, wrinkled her freckled nose at the smell, and drank. “That’s that,” she said when she finished. “No looking back, right?”
I wondered if she was thinking of the father. No, there was no looking back, not with that potion. And yet--
I reached under the counter again, this time looking for a small box that held my most valuable ingredients and potions. Inside, underneath a few contraband unicorn hairs, I found a tiny bottle filled with a thick gold liquid: my own variation on Felix Felicis.
I handed it to her. “If it ever turns out that love is not enough,” I said. “Drink all of it, or give it to the baby.” After all I'd been through, I put my faith in potions, not people, but no need to tell her that.
The girl looked almost angry, like she wanted to argue, so I held out my hand. “Fifteen Galleons, four Knuts,” I said firmly. Ingredients were costly, after all, and if we argued, she might leave without paying.
She counted out fifteen Galleons and four Knuts and pressed them into my hand. The Felix Felicis went in her pocket, where it glowed gold even through the red wool cloak. I wondered if she would need it, if she would use it. Was it even possible to stave off the Grim?
“Thank you, Madam--”
“Prince,” I said. “Madam Prince.”
The oddest expression passed over her face--surprise, recognition, something akin to wonder. “Madam Prince,” she began softly, urgently, one hand moving to touch her stomach protectively. “I’m--”
“Better not to know,” I interrupted. “Ministry hacks raid my shop every few months, ask me things that are none of their business.” I shrugged. “I would say you should come back if you find you have bleeding or nausea, but you won’t. My potions are of the highest quality.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I'm quite certain they are.”
“No looking back,” I said. “Go on, then. Make your marriage work.” My tongue, unconvinced, had difficulty twisting around the words.
She turned and vanished into the winter afternoon, a bright crimson spot against the grey paving stones of the Alley, and I didn't know why I felt like crying.
Soft, I tell you. Soft. I turned back to my potions counter to clean up the mess left behind, trying not to think of these young people and their lives and their loves and what was still in store for them.
*
The hand that rocks the cradle / Is the hand that rules the world.
(William Ross Wallace, Muggle poet)
Poll
Author: magnetic_pole
Characters: Lily Evans
Summary: This is no way to start a family, with a lie.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Dark themes, discussion of abortion, implied infidelity
Notes: 1600 words, I’m afraid. I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time. (Blaise Pascal, Muggle mathematician, scientist, philosopher, and fellow procrastinator)
I’ve gone soft in my old age, I have. Time was, I’d turn a right profit on everything I sold in the shop, working through lunch, brewing their potions, patting their tears dry, collecting their gold. I’m not a hard woman, but no one could last as long as I’ve lasted in this line of work without drawing a line between one’s own life--the only life that really matters--and what is, in the end, a business. Aconite, asphodel, belladona, hellebore, wormwood, they’re just ingredients. What the girls do with them is none of my business, or anyone else’s. Anyone who says different is a hypocrite, or a man.
I’m not sure why I responded to the ginger-haired girl the way I did. I’d seen a hundred of her type before--pale and skittish at finding themselves here, but arrogant, too, never worked a day in their life, likely to look down on a woman like me who makes a honest living through trade. They pretend like they’ve been to Knockturn Alley before, like they know what they’re doing, like they know what they want. They rarely do. I take their gold anyway. I need it. We’ve all been screwed over by somebody--and I’m the first to admit it happened to me--but if they pay me enough, I’ll help them act like that’s not true.
I was alone in the shop when the ginger-haired girl walked in, just about to close up on a chilly, grey winter’s afternoon. Like I said, nothing I haven’t seen before, no more than a year or two out of school, ordinary-looking, even a little familiar, as if I’d passed her on the street before. She wore a thick wool cloak the color of blood, and she bought the smell of fresh snow into the shop with her. She had a long, horsey face and green eyes and freckles, and she wasn’t pretty, not exactly, but she had the warmest, loveliest smile I’d ever seen, and my heart skipped a beat when she looked at me.
“A friend told me you could help me,” she said quietly, and I looked her up and down. She seemed thin as broomstick under that cloak, but she wouldn’t be showing much, not yet, not if she’d seen an omen or had her fortune told. Better that way, I’ve always thought, before you become too attached.
I already had the basic ingredients out on the counter, two stoppered vials and a small, steaming cauldron. “I can,” I said, gesturing to her to sit down near the counter. “It’ll cost you twenty-seven Galleons, but you’re safe with me, I give you my word. It’ll all be over by nightfall.”
“Over?” she asked, puzzled. “Oh! No, you don’t understand. I want to keep it, I just...” She blushed crimson and took a deep breath. “I want to be sure it looks like my husband, and not...anyone else.”
That stopped my broomstick mid-air, as they say. “You don’t have a ring,” I said, puzzled.
“No, I don’t,” she said cheerfully. “We’re to be married next week. It’s all rather...last-minute.”
“Sit,” I urged her again, and she did. Her cheeks were still rosy from the cold, and she looked at me expectantly. “There is a potion,” I said. I didn’t brew it all that often, but I knew how, and I tallied the cost of the ingredients in my head. “I could brew it for fifteen Galleons, four Knuts.” Only a Galleon in profit, but a man I suspected to be Death Eater had paid dearly for Veritaserum brewed with human fingernails earlier that morning, so no matter. “It’s similar to the Polyjuice Potion, if you know about that,” I added. “Needless to say, this version is one the Ministry frowns on.”
“I thought you might have something like that,” she said, nodding. “Whatever you can do, I’m grateful. I want to make this marriage work.”
I usually hated girls like this, who knew nothing of unusual potions or the Dark Arts or adult life, who scorned my skills and appeared at times of crisis, suddenly humble and willing to do anything I asked, if only I could make their problems go away. But the ginger-haired girl was different. I don’t know why; like I said, I’ve gone soft. “Look,” I said, as gently as I could. “You either trust your husband-to-be completely, or you’re terrified of him. Please take my advice, if it’s the second, you’re better off calling the wedding off and taking the kind of potion I usually brew. In fact, you might be better off without the baby either way. This is no way to start a family, with a lie.”
I’d expected my words to banish the smile from her face, but she looked at me for a long moment, calm and composed as a hippogriff. “Do you have a husband?” she asked.
“No longer,” I said. The less said about that, the better.
“Children?” she asked.
“One son,” I said, starting to see where she was headed. “I don’t see him as much as I’d like, and we have our differences, but, yes, a son.”
The ginger-haired girl nodded as if we’d come to some sort of understanding. “The man I'm going to marry is basically a good man, the kind of man who will make a good father one day, and he adores me, and he wants the child,” the girl said. “I’ll love the child, and that will be enough.”
I bit my lip. “Love isn’t always enough,” I said.
She smiled, a slow, bright smile that seemed to light up my little shop. “Isn’t love all we have? Especially now?”
Who was I to tell this girl what to do? Did she want to know about the son who’d grown sullen and quiet and then vanished altogether? I had heard rumors about him and his friends, of course, but I didn't take responsibility for his actions; he was an adult now, past the age when I could tell him what to do, whether it was to be kind to others, or to be humble in his approach to the Dark Arts, or to avoid murder so as to keep his soul intact. Besides, I had no desire to think that something I'd done or not done, years ago, might have led him to serve at the Dark Lord’s whim. I had brewed what I could with the ingredients life had dealt me; perhaps her life would be different. She certainly looked like the type whose life would be different. Business is business, I reminded myself.
“Tea?” I asked.
”Thank you,” she said. She gave me a half-smile as she took the cup I offered, dimples flashing, and I smiled back at her despite myself.
“Won’t be more than a minute,” I said, crouching down to look for the fluxweed and the boomslang skin, rummaging among the dusty boxes of rarely used specialty ingredients. “This is a right easy potion, it is. If you have a lock of hair, we’ll be finished before you can--”
I heard a soft hiccough, and I stood up, huffing, to discover that the ginger-haired girl was crying silently, tears rolling off the end of nose, into her tea.
“There, there,” I said, flummoxed, handing her my stained handkerchief. “Don’t fret. What-”
Oh, my.
The Grim lurked there at the bottom of her tea cup, unmistakable against the patterned blue porcelain. I drew a breath before I could help myself and drew a sacred circle over my heart, protecting myself again the omen.
“It’s there all the time now,” the girl said dully, wiping her cheeks. “Three times now, I’ve been in the wrong place at the wrong time, nearly killed. I’m not sure how much time I have left. I’m sorry. I’ve seen it often enough I really shouldn’t fall apart like this.”
“I--” I paused, uncertain what to say. “I’m sorry to hear that.” I put the fateful teacup on the counter and began to assemble the ingredients necessary for the potion. The ginger-haired girl pulled a small velvet pouch out of her pocket and placed it on the counter. Inside I found a few short strands of hair, as coarse and black as my own. For the briefest of moments I thought--but no. Impossible. When I added the hair to the potion, it frothed and bubbled ominously. I poured a serving into a clean cup and passed it to her.
“One long sip now,” I said. “Don’t stop.”
The girl nodded once, decisively, wrinkled her freckled nose at the smell, and drank. “That’s that,” she said when she finished. “No looking back, right?”
I wondered if she was thinking of the father. No, there was no looking back, not with that potion. And yet--
I reached under the counter again, this time looking for a small box that held my most valuable ingredients and potions. Inside, underneath a few contraband unicorn hairs, I found a tiny bottle filled with a thick gold liquid: my own variation on Felix Felicis.
I handed it to her. “If it ever turns out that love is not enough,” I said. “Drink all of it, or give it to the baby.” After all I'd been through, I put my faith in potions, not people, but no need to tell her that.
The girl looked almost angry, like she wanted to argue, so I held out my hand. “Fifteen Galleons, four Knuts,” I said firmly. Ingredients were costly, after all, and if we argued, she might leave without paying.
She counted out fifteen Galleons and four Knuts and pressed them into my hand. The Felix Felicis went in her pocket, where it glowed gold even through the red wool cloak. I wondered if she would need it, if she would use it. Was it even possible to stave off the Grim?
“Thank you, Madam--”
“Prince,” I said. “Madam Prince.”
The oddest expression passed over her face--surprise, recognition, something akin to wonder. “Madam Prince,” she began softly, urgently, one hand moving to touch her stomach protectively. “I’m--”
“Better not to know,” I interrupted. “Ministry hacks raid my shop every few months, ask me things that are none of their business.” I shrugged. “I would say you should come back if you find you have bleeding or nausea, but you won’t. My potions are of the highest quality.”
“Yes,” she said slowly. “I'm quite certain they are.”
“No looking back,” I said. “Go on, then. Make your marriage work.” My tongue, unconvinced, had difficulty twisting around the words.
She turned and vanished into the winter afternoon, a bright crimson spot against the grey paving stones of the Alley, and I didn't know why I felt like crying.
Soft, I tell you. Soft. I turned back to my potions counter to clean up the mess left behind, trying not to think of these young people and their lives and their loves and what was still in store for them.
*
The hand that rocks the cradle / Is the hand that rules the world.
(William Ross Wallace, Muggle poet)
Poll