A Mother's Love
Title: A Mother’s Love
Author: redvelvetcanopy
Fandom: Harry Potter (No spoilers for Deathly Hallows)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of violence, death
Prompt: 40. Life is easier than you'd think; all that is necessary is to accept the impossible, do without the indispensable, and bear the intolerable. -- Kathleen Norris.
Summary: Prudence Pettigrew suffered a mother’s agony when her son died. When Peter reveals that he’s alive and needs her help, the decision to assist him is a simple one compared to what she’s withstood.
Author’s Notes: Thank you to laudomia and seaislewitch for beta reading this story.
~o~o~O~o~o~
Liquid moonlight suffused the sitting room with a silvery glow as Prudence Pettigrew stumbled down the carpeted stairs, clutching the mahogany railing with one hand and holding her tattered dressing robe closed with the other. Making her way to the table by her armchair, she gripped a crystal decanter, poured herself a measure of sherry, and gulped it down. She dared to look through the window’s cloudy glass into the garden, dreading movement from the shadowy shrubs that might conceal the lurking spectres of her dreams.
That dream again. That dreadful, horrid dream!
Drawing her wand from the pocket she’d stitched inside her sleeve, she lit the candle sconces and a fire on the grate.
Thirteen. My darling boy’s been gone for thirteen long years, and still the dream recurs…and yet tonight, it was different.
The clock in the hallway struck twice, causing Prudence to jump. The wrinkled flesh under her chin wobbled as she trembled, but the fire flared on the hearth, reassuring her as it pushed the frightening visions to the edges of her consciousness. She relaxed, sinking into the depths of her armchair, and picked up a worn, leather album. She smoothed the cover, dust forming small clumps against her fingertips as she did so.
Dreadful, Pru, that you’ve let the house go. Why in the old days, you’d be ashamed to see such a sign of housekeeping neglect!
Her eyes strayed to a battered wooden box on the nearby table. No! Don’t look in it.
Prudence refilled her sherry glass and drank it down. The alcohol calmed her nerves but couldn’t quell her sorrow. She hugged the tome to her ample bosom and closed her eyes, tears leaking from their corners along the wrinkles trailing down her cheeks.
“You’ll never get to sleep now, you silly cow,” she said aloud. Sniffing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she urged herself. “Go on then. Open it up.”
She lifted the cover of the album, and the brittle leather cracked. Against the sooty pages, figures in yellowed photographs waved, laughed, and moved about. Prudence choked back a sob when she gazed at the first portrait. There she stood, a young bride of nineteen with her Harrison. Prudence studied her own pointed nose, deep-set eyes, and lustreless brown hair. She’d worn it up that day. That hairstyling charm was difficult but my attempt to look elegant, she remembered.
Prudence gazed at the handsome groom with the same tender, loving expression as did Bride Prudence in the portrait. Seven years her senior, Harrison had swept her off her feet with the depth of his ardor and the might of his intellect. When he asked for her hand, she’d broken down in tears and demanded to know if he were joking. How could he really love her -- fat, drab Prudence Gamp? Harrison had responded that he didn’t give a Knut what anyone else thought; he loved her!
Dear Harrison’s been gone for five years, she thought with a sigh. Peter’s death had killed him, slowly, right in front of her. It had been agonising to watch him fade away.
With Peter and Harrison both gone, she had nothing for which to live. Once, she’d brewed an over-strong Sleeping Draught, and just as she was about to swallow it, a flame leapt to life inside her. She knew then that she must survive. For what purpose, she’d yet to discover.
Over the years, Prudence had memorized the figures and their movements in each photograph in the album. In the next one, young, exhausted Mother Prudence reclined against pillows, a squirming bundle of blankets in her arms. From over her shoulder, Harrison beamed proudly. The happiest day of my life. Having Peter had completed her; for the first time in her life, she was certain of her role. While other witches around her confessed that motherhood was confusing to them, Prudence was born to be a mother.
What had mystified her was how to let go of the son she’d loved so fiercely when the time came for him to attend school far away. That wretched parting was the start of my troubles. Why, in Merlin’s name, must Britain’s educational institution be set amidst the wilds of Scotland? At Hogwarts, Peter had grown into a daring young man. He’d taken chances, and made friends with characters of whom Prudence did not approve; they hadn’t treated her son the way they should. They had taken him away from her.
Knowing that she’d never go back to sleep if she dwelt on that old anger, she closed the book. What awakened me again? Oh, yes. That dream.
So many times, the dream had recurred. That miscreant, Sirius Black, taking aim at Peter, and Prudence trying vainly to save her son from the blast of the spell. Before she could reach Peter, he would disappear. When the smoke cleared, she would find his bloody severed finger lying in her palm and awaken crying out her boy’s name.
Prudence Pettigrew had imagined those events endlessly, and she always came to the same conclusion. She didn’t give a tinker’s cuff what the Ministry said, there had to be more of her son in this world than a sodding finger!
She jumped up from her armchair and grabbed the box from its shelf. Taking a deep breath, she opened it. Inside, Peter’s finger was stiff, darkened, and shrivelled. Prudence had examined the finger so minutely that it no longer galled her. This morning, the sadness she usually felt when looking at it was replaced by anger. The dream last night…. It was different! This time, instead of just missing Peter as she ran toward him through the spell-fire, he ran to her, begging for her help.
“Cornelius Fudge can go snog an Acromatula! Peter is not dead, and he needs me! It’s the only explanation!” concluded the portly matron as she slammed the lid on the box, dropped it on the floor, and strode from the room with her gown streaming behind her.
In her bedroom, Prudence dressed quickly. She pulled a pair of green trousers over her ample hips and buttoned her white blouse primly. She tucked her wand into her handbag. Looking at herself in the mirror over her dresser, she tied a flowered scarf around her lank, grey hair and pulled on her robe. That will do, she thought to herself. I'll wait outside the Minister's office all day, if I must! If she were to meet her destiny today, she was prepared.
~o~o~O~o~o~
Apparating to the spot beside rabbit hutch, Peter crouched down immediately, wand drawn. The night was dark as the moon had already set, and thick clouds blotted out the starlight. The hutch was crumbling with neglect. A brief wave of guilt washed over him for leaving his parents alone for so many years. There was no other way, he told himself. He scampered to a hidden nook between the house and the barn that used to hold his father’s prized Aethonan.
As Peter scanned his parents’ back garden, a glimmer of light caught his eye, and he looked down. My hand, my glorious hand! Oh, precious gift, my lord! The thrill of the Dark Lord’s resurrection ran through him, as it had continually for several days. The loss of his hand meant nothing to Peter; he would have readily made a greater sacrifice. Surely, his offering would gain him prestige among his fellows and curry his favour.
This was it. If Peter contacted his mother, there would be no turning back. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He knew that his mother had always loved him. Even when she didn’t understand his motives or agree with his actions, she loved him unconditionally, and yet revealing himself to her after a thirteen-year absence was a bit more daunting than explaining than childhood shenanigans. Even so, Peter took a deep breath and knocked on the door to his childhood home. He needed his mother’s help.
The door creaked open. Prudence Pettigrew stood there, travelling robe on as though ready to leave the house. Her eyes opened wide, and her face blanched.
“Mum?”
Thunk!
His mother fainted and crumpled to the floor as though Stupified. Quickly, Peter stepped over the threshold and into the entryway, shoving the door closed. Kneeling down next to her, he patted her cheek. “Mum? Mum!”
Perhaps a bit of cold water will rouse her? Wand at the ready, Peter cautiously made his way down the dimly lit hall into the kitchen. Near the sink, there was a glass on the counter, and he filled it with water. Holding his wand in his teeth, he crouched down to fetch a bit of ice from the icebox. The icebox was dry and empty, save for a dead spider in the back corner. It’s warm! The Cooling Charm hasn’t been refreshed in ages! He paused for a moment, pondering the meaning of this discovery; it didn’t bode well. His mother, true to her Hufflepuff ways, always kept the house in spit-spot shape. What’s happened to her?
Peter poured the water down the sink. “Aguamenti!” Cold, fresh water poured from his wand’s tip into the class, and he hurried back into the front hall with the water, just as his mother was coming around.
~o~o~O~o~o~
After he helped his mother into a chair in the sitting room, Peter knelt before her.
Prudence looked at him warily for a moment and then asked, “Is it really you, Peter?”
“It is, Mum.”
As Prudence leaned forward and hugged her son fiercely, she whispered, “I knew it! That dream! Oh, thank Merlin you’re safe, my son!” She pulled away and stroked his cheek. “You’ve changed…you look older…and you’re so pale. Oh, darling! Where have you been? How -”
He cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m home. This is still my home, isn’t it Mother?”
She glanced fearfully at his silver hand, asking, “What’s happened to you?” Prudence’s own hand trembled as she pushed her hair off her forehead. “All these years, I’ve thought you were dead. Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I’m so sorry, Mum,” Peter replied, glancing down at the floor. “There was no other way. No one could know I was alive.”
She grabbed Peter’s shoulders and asked, “Are the rumours true, then? Has He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned? And, Peter, d-did you help that happen?”
Joy filled Peter’s eyes as he nodded his answer. “Mother, great things are to come!” He held his hand up in the lamplight. “Look at what he can do, Mum! I sacrificed my hand for him, and he restored it. Now, I am among his greatest followers. Without me, he would not have regained his glory!”
“Oh, Peter! What have you done?!” Prudence saw the wild triumph on Peter’s face. She remembered with trepidation that Peter was always willing to follow wizards he admired, no matter how daring the deeds they performed together.
“Mother, listen,” Peter said, kneeling down before her and clasping her hands. “I need your help.”
“My help?” Prudence whispered. “What do you…does he want?”
“The Dark Lord does not require anything of you, Mum. I’d like to come home.”
Tears welled anew in Prudence’s eyes. “Come home?”
“I need a safe place to stay, away from…others that might seek to distract me from what must be done…from doing what the Dark Lord asks of me.”
Dread filled Prudence. “You’ll be working for him, then, Peter?”
“Yes, Mum. Great things are about to happen.”
Prudence stood up. She pulled off her gloves, placing them in her handbag and snapping it shut. She removed her cloak, tossing over the back of the armchair, and walked over to the window. Soft, pink light framed the horizon and highlighted the inky outlines of the trees in the woods.
To harbour my son would break the Ministry’s laws….
That didn’t matter to Prudence; her son was alive. Alive! After so much mourning!
She turned back to Peter, who as now standing and fingering his wand, a worried expression on his face. “Yes, my darling, I will help you. I will always help you.”
Author: redvelvetcanopy
Fandom: Harry Potter (No spoilers for Deathly Hallows)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mention of violence, death
Prompt: 40. Life is easier than you'd think; all that is necessary is to accept the impossible, do without the indispensable, and bear the intolerable. -- Kathleen Norris.
Summary: Prudence Pettigrew suffered a mother’s agony when her son died. When Peter reveals that he’s alive and needs her help, the decision to assist him is a simple one compared to what she’s withstood.
Author’s Notes: Thank you to laudomia and seaislewitch for beta reading this story.
~o~o~O~o~o~
Liquid moonlight suffused the sitting room with a silvery glow as Prudence Pettigrew stumbled down the carpeted stairs, clutching the mahogany railing with one hand and holding her tattered dressing robe closed with the other. Making her way to the table by her armchair, she gripped a crystal decanter, poured herself a measure of sherry, and gulped it down. She dared to look through the window’s cloudy glass into the garden, dreading movement from the shadowy shrubs that might conceal the lurking spectres of her dreams.
That dream again. That dreadful, horrid dream!
Drawing her wand from the pocket she’d stitched inside her sleeve, she lit the candle sconces and a fire on the grate.
Thirteen. My darling boy’s been gone for thirteen long years, and still the dream recurs…and yet tonight, it was different.
The clock in the hallway struck twice, causing Prudence to jump. The wrinkled flesh under her chin wobbled as she trembled, but the fire flared on the hearth, reassuring her as it pushed the frightening visions to the edges of her consciousness. She relaxed, sinking into the depths of her armchair, and picked up a worn, leather album. She smoothed the cover, dust forming small clumps against her fingertips as she did so.
Dreadful, Pru, that you’ve let the house go. Why in the old days, you’d be ashamed to see such a sign of housekeeping neglect!
Her eyes strayed to a battered wooden box on the nearby table. No! Don’t look in it.
Prudence refilled her sherry glass and drank it down. The alcohol calmed her nerves but couldn’t quell her sorrow. She hugged the tome to her ample bosom and closed her eyes, tears leaking from their corners along the wrinkles trailing down her cheeks.
“You’ll never get to sleep now, you silly cow,” she said aloud. Sniffing and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, she urged herself. “Go on then. Open it up.”
She lifted the cover of the album, and the brittle leather cracked. Against the sooty pages, figures in yellowed photographs waved, laughed, and moved about. Prudence choked back a sob when she gazed at the first portrait. There she stood, a young bride of nineteen with her Harrison. Prudence studied her own pointed nose, deep-set eyes, and lustreless brown hair. She’d worn it up that day. That hairstyling charm was difficult but my attempt to look elegant, she remembered.
Prudence gazed at the handsome groom with the same tender, loving expression as did Bride Prudence in the portrait. Seven years her senior, Harrison had swept her off her feet with the depth of his ardor and the might of his intellect. When he asked for her hand, she’d broken down in tears and demanded to know if he were joking. How could he really love her -- fat, drab Prudence Gamp? Harrison had responded that he didn’t give a Knut what anyone else thought; he loved her!
Dear Harrison’s been gone for five years, she thought with a sigh. Peter’s death had killed him, slowly, right in front of her. It had been agonising to watch him fade away.
With Peter and Harrison both gone, she had nothing for which to live. Once, she’d brewed an over-strong Sleeping Draught, and just as she was about to swallow it, a flame leapt to life inside her. She knew then that she must survive. For what purpose, she’d yet to discover.
Over the years, Prudence had memorized the figures and their movements in each photograph in the album. In the next one, young, exhausted Mother Prudence reclined against pillows, a squirming bundle of blankets in her arms. From over her shoulder, Harrison beamed proudly. The happiest day of my life. Having Peter had completed her; for the first time in her life, she was certain of her role. While other witches around her confessed that motherhood was confusing to them, Prudence was born to be a mother.
What had mystified her was how to let go of the son she’d loved so fiercely when the time came for him to attend school far away. That wretched parting was the start of my troubles. Why, in Merlin’s name, must Britain’s educational institution be set amidst the wilds of Scotland? At Hogwarts, Peter had grown into a daring young man. He’d taken chances, and made friends with characters of whom Prudence did not approve; they hadn’t treated her son the way they should. They had taken him away from her.
Knowing that she’d never go back to sleep if she dwelt on that old anger, she closed the book. What awakened me again? Oh, yes. That dream.
So many times, the dream had recurred. That miscreant, Sirius Black, taking aim at Peter, and Prudence trying vainly to save her son from the blast of the spell. Before she could reach Peter, he would disappear. When the smoke cleared, she would find his bloody severed finger lying in her palm and awaken crying out her boy’s name.
Prudence Pettigrew had imagined those events endlessly, and she always came to the same conclusion. She didn’t give a tinker’s cuff what the Ministry said, there had to be more of her son in this world than a sodding finger!
She jumped up from her armchair and grabbed the box from its shelf. Taking a deep breath, she opened it. Inside, Peter’s finger was stiff, darkened, and shrivelled. Prudence had examined the finger so minutely that it no longer galled her. This morning, the sadness she usually felt when looking at it was replaced by anger. The dream last night…. It was different! This time, instead of just missing Peter as she ran toward him through the spell-fire, he ran to her, begging for her help.
“Cornelius Fudge can go snog an Acromatula! Peter is not dead, and he needs me! It’s the only explanation!” concluded the portly matron as she slammed the lid on the box, dropped it on the floor, and strode from the room with her gown streaming behind her.
In her bedroom, Prudence dressed quickly. She pulled a pair of green trousers over her ample hips and buttoned her white blouse primly. She tucked her wand into her handbag. Looking at herself in the mirror over her dresser, she tied a flowered scarf around her lank, grey hair and pulled on her robe. That will do, she thought to herself. I'll wait outside the Minister's office all day, if I must! If she were to meet her destiny today, she was prepared.
~o~o~O~o~o~
Apparating to the spot beside rabbit hutch, Peter crouched down immediately, wand drawn. The night was dark as the moon had already set, and thick clouds blotted out the starlight. The hutch was crumbling with neglect. A brief wave of guilt washed over him for leaving his parents alone for so many years. There was no other way, he told himself. He scampered to a hidden nook between the house and the barn that used to hold his father’s prized Aethonan.
As Peter scanned his parents’ back garden, a glimmer of light caught his eye, and he looked down. My hand, my glorious hand! Oh, precious gift, my lord! The thrill of the Dark Lord’s resurrection ran through him, as it had continually for several days. The loss of his hand meant nothing to Peter; he would have readily made a greater sacrifice. Surely, his offering would gain him prestige among his fellows and curry his favour.
This was it. If Peter contacted his mother, there would be no turning back. He wasn’t sure what to expect. He knew that his mother had always loved him. Even when she didn’t understand his motives or agree with his actions, she loved him unconditionally, and yet revealing himself to her after a thirteen-year absence was a bit more daunting than explaining than childhood shenanigans. Even so, Peter took a deep breath and knocked on the door to his childhood home. He needed his mother’s help.
The door creaked open. Prudence Pettigrew stood there, travelling robe on as though ready to leave the house. Her eyes opened wide, and her face blanched.
“Mum?”
Thunk!
His mother fainted and crumpled to the floor as though Stupified. Quickly, Peter stepped over the threshold and into the entryway, shoving the door closed. Kneeling down next to her, he patted her cheek. “Mum? Mum!”
Perhaps a bit of cold water will rouse her? Wand at the ready, Peter cautiously made his way down the dimly lit hall into the kitchen. Near the sink, there was a glass on the counter, and he filled it with water. Holding his wand in his teeth, he crouched down to fetch a bit of ice from the icebox. The icebox was dry and empty, save for a dead spider in the back corner. It’s warm! The Cooling Charm hasn’t been refreshed in ages! He paused for a moment, pondering the meaning of this discovery; it didn’t bode well. His mother, true to her Hufflepuff ways, always kept the house in spit-spot shape. What’s happened to her?
Peter poured the water down the sink. “Aguamenti!” Cold, fresh water poured from his wand’s tip into the class, and he hurried back into the front hall with the water, just as his mother was coming around.
~o~o~O~o~o~
After he helped his mother into a chair in the sitting room, Peter knelt before her.
Prudence looked at him warily for a moment and then asked, “Is it really you, Peter?”
“It is, Mum.”
As Prudence leaned forward and hugged her son fiercely, she whispered, “I knew it! That dream! Oh, thank Merlin you’re safe, my son!” She pulled away and stroked his cheek. “You’ve changed…you look older…and you’re so pale. Oh, darling! Where have you been? How -”
He cut her off. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m home. This is still my home, isn’t it Mother?”
She glanced fearfully at his silver hand, asking, “What’s happened to you?” Prudence’s own hand trembled as she pushed her hair off her forehead. “All these years, I’ve thought you were dead. Why didn’t you come to me?”
“I’m so sorry, Mum,” Peter replied, glancing down at the floor. “There was no other way. No one could know I was alive.”
She grabbed Peter’s shoulders and asked, “Are the rumours true, then? Has He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named returned? And, Peter, d-did you help that happen?”
Joy filled Peter’s eyes as he nodded his answer. “Mother, great things are to come!” He held his hand up in the lamplight. “Look at what he can do, Mum! I sacrificed my hand for him, and he restored it. Now, I am among his greatest followers. Without me, he would not have regained his glory!”
“Oh, Peter! What have you done?!” Prudence saw the wild triumph on Peter’s face. She remembered with trepidation that Peter was always willing to follow wizards he admired, no matter how daring the deeds they performed together.
“Mother, listen,” Peter said, kneeling down before her and clasping her hands. “I need your help.”
“My help?” Prudence whispered. “What do you…does he want?”
“The Dark Lord does not require anything of you, Mum. I’d like to come home.”
Tears welled anew in Prudence’s eyes. “Come home?”
“I need a safe place to stay, away from…others that might seek to distract me from what must be done…from doing what the Dark Lord asks of me.”
Dread filled Prudence. “You’ll be working for him, then, Peter?”
“Yes, Mum. Great things are about to happen.”
Prudence stood up. She pulled off her gloves, placing them in her handbag and snapping it shut. She removed her cloak, tossing over the back of the armchair, and walked over to the window. Soft, pink light framed the horizon and highlighted the inky outlines of the trees in the woods.
To harbour my son would break the Ministry’s laws….
That didn’t matter to Prudence; her son was alive. Alive! After so much mourning!
She turned back to Peter, who as now standing and fingering his wand, a worried expression on his face. “Yes, my darling, I will help you. I will always help you.”