Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIX
GIVE MY LOVE TO MY GODDAUGHTER WHEN YOU SEE HER
The bloody owl had stopped taking her letters.
“Oh, come on!” Hannah snapped angrily at it when it danced away from her attempts to hand the parchment over. “He’s not dead, he’s just…he’s abroad! Go find him!”
The tawny barn owl gave a low, plaintive hoot that sounded awfully judgemental.
With a groan, she tapped the letter against the windowsill, lips pursed in thought. The view looking south over Kensington was always a favourite of hers as a little girl. Like many wizarding townhouses, the attic served as an owlery, magically reconfigured to extend the ceilings higher than was strictly physically possible. Hannah had spent many a lazy summer afternoon up here, in the quiet airy warmth. Now it was littered with unopened envelopes and scribbled out attempts to contact the father of her unborn child.
The thought made her feel a little nauseous, reminiscent of how she’d felt approaching Harry Potter and his friends last week at the Cauldron. It didn’t really matter how many times she told herself they were just people or how politely they greeted her. Every step toward their table felt like an anvil was strapped to her feet.
Godric, she must’ve looked pathetic, sidling up to them with hopeful eyes, asking after Neville bloody Longbottom. She wasn’t blind to the knowing glance exchanged between Ginny and Ron. The last they’d spoken after all, she and Neville were half snogging across the bar. She could still hear the ear-splitting shriek of them whistling on their way home.
“Hey Harry. I, er, don’t suppose Neville is here tonight?” she’d asked faintly.
She hadn’t actually figured out what she was going to say to Neville if she did catch him. Something along the lines of oh, yes, turns out we may have enjoyed each other’s company a little too well that night and I’m thinking of keeping it. Thoughts?
Harry had blinked at her, looking politely confused. “Oh, he didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” her heart slipped into her gut, awash with all the worst-case scenarios: Neville knew somehow. He knew and he never wanted to see her again. Or he didn’t know but he’d decided that their night together was such a mistake that he never wanted to see her again. Or Neville had died horribly between then and now and he was never going to see her again-
“He came back for a few days last month but he’s already back there. His Brazilian study got an extension on their grant funding.” Harry explained. “Some kind of moving, hidden jungle he found.”
Ginny smiled, looking pleased for her friend. “It was kind of a big deal actually. Apparently, it’s almost impossible to find so he’ll be one of the first to study it.”
“Right.” Hannah was feeling dizzy again. “But he’ll…he’ll be back, eventually?”
“Actually, he warned us that there’s no way to contact the outside world while he’s there.” Ginny explained gently. “Owls can’t find it, you see.”
All her worst-case scenarios tended to involve Neville never wanting to see her again. None of them covered what might happen if she couldn’t find him in the first place.
“Not even Floo?” Hannah tried weakly.
For the first time, Ginny and Harry looked awkward. Their eyes met ever so briefly, in that nameless, silent way couples communicated. Hannah could read between the lines. Poor desperate Hannah, waiting miserably for Neville to come home from his all-important plant trip to a magical hidden jungle in Brazil.
“It’s hard enough to get in, you know.” Harry tried to assure her. As though anything could reassure her at this stage. “So, he won’t really leave until the whole project is done.”
“…and when will that be?”
Another silent look between the two. “Well, he made it sound as though it’d take at least a year. Maybe eighteen months?”
Hannah didn’t quite remember walking to the bathroom after that. But she knew she’d spent a while sitting on the closed toilet lid in the cubicle, studying the floor tiles.
Her body didn’t quite feel her own. She supposed it wasn’t really, not right now. Not with the tiny little life she was growing in her belly at that very moment.
Hannah hadn’t really admitted to herself until that moment that she had been counting on Neville being there to help figure things out. He was responsible for this little person too, after all. He was, really, the only other person responsible for it. And he was gone. Maybe not forever but certainly for now.
Merlin, Neville wasn’t going to meet his child until it was almost six months old. If she went through with the pregnancy, that is.
Even now, the thought left her feeling scooped out, hollowed in a dreadfully familiar way. She wasn’t one to judge someone else’s decisions. Maybe if she hadn’t just lost her father, she might’ve even been able to make that decision. But sitting in that cubicle, her hand hovered over her belly and she couldn’t shake the thought that there was a little piece of him just below her fingers. That whoever this child grew to be, they’d be her family. Hers to love, hers to care for.
It didn’t make the thought any less terrifying. In fact, she was certain she was unnerving the poor customers trying to use the loo with her limp dissociated stare. Not to mention that by the time she emerged from her bathroom fortress of anxiety and terror, the Cauldron was in some kind of uproar over a bar fight that had almost-sort-of-not-quite happened earlier.
She didn’t mind too much; throwing herself into her work was a welcome distraction. Then she came home to Abbott House where there were no such distractions, only remnants of the family that had once thrived here.
Hannah tried not to be morbid about the whole thing. She had her Aunt Cathy, she had Susan and Terry. She told herself she wasn’t so alone as she feared, not truly. But they weren’t going to be the baby’s parent. Not like Hannah was. Not like Neville would be. Perhaps. If she could find him.
Hannah wasted several sleepless nights trying to scribble out letters explaining the situation but every one of them had returned in the beaks of progressively more annoyed owls until finally they reached their limit. He was, it seemed, truly out of contact. Stupid, unplottable, hidden magical jungle.
Hannah shifted her weight, winching at the leg cramps which had started up for no discernible reason this week. It made coming up and down the stairs harder than she remembered.
“Please.” she finally said quietly, fully aware of how undignified it was to be begging the owl. “Can you just…try? Please?”
The tawny creature tilted its head and then made a low chirrupy noise as if to say ugh, fine. It plucked the parchment envelope from her fingertips and flung itself from the window, soaring low over the rooftops into the afternoon sun.
Please, please, please, she prayed silently to whichever of her mother’s saints looked after pregnant unwed women. Please let this one reach him. Please let it reach someone, please.
* * * * *
* * * *
The Thiswhistle Maternity Clinic was a rather discreet looking building in the west of London. It didn’t really resemble a hospital, not as Hannah knew it. The plain brick building was several storeys tall, old fashioned in style with two wings and a large courtyard at the front, surrounded by well-manicured gardens that provided a hint of privacy from the street.
Hannah was glad for the hedgerows as she quickly ducked inside. She knew logically no passers-by were particularly interested in her but the secret currently growing in her belly left her feeling on edge, as if everyone could immediately tell.
Healer Plank had advised Thiswhistle as the best place for Hannah, considering the preventative potion course she was on. Their in-house apothecary would be able to adjust the necessary recipes as needed. Plank had failed to mention the aura of quiet wealth Thiswhistle oozed. Even the sun-drenched entryway, with its large windows and plush couches, felt too rich for Hannah’s blood.
A part of her appreciated how different it felt to St Mungo’s. She’d spent too long watching her parents wither away in its halls to be truly comfortable there. Trying to hold on to that feeling, Hannah approached reception tentatively, her shoes squeaking on the marble floors.
The receptionist, an older witch with an expectant, brisk expression, peered back. “Good afternoon, Mrs…?”
“Er, Miss. Hannah Abbott. I have a referral from-”
“Healer Plank, yes.” The receptionist’s expression didn’t twitch but Hannah thought she detected a change of tone. Something pitying. “She called ahead to warn us. Just yourself today, is it?”
She thought of that stroppy owl refusing her letter and swallowed around the lump in her throat with some difficulty. “Yes. Just me.”
“Very well.” There was definitely pity in her expression this time. “Well, you’ll have to fill out some initial paperwork, it’s quite standard for new patients.”
The receptionist handed her the parchment on a clipboard and a quill. “You can sit down on the couches over there.”
The paperwork was indeed fairly standard. Hannah had filled in so much of it over the past few years, but that was typically on behalf of her parents. Thiswhistle asked harder questions. Date of last period, estimated date of conception, prior health conditions, names of parents, next of kin.
Hannah was in the process of trying to count how many weeks along she was when the double doors swung open.
“-I’m saying!” the newcomer said loudly in an annoyed tone of voice. “You can’t simply bend to his wishes, Astoria, it’s poor form.”
“I’m not bending, it’s called compromise.” Her friend replied simply.
She was a rather exquisite witch, Hannah noted absently. Her long dark hair was pulled back, revealing an elegant neck and high cheekbones. Her eyes flashed with good humour as the other woman let out a short scoff.
Hannah couldn’t see her as well but the only thing the two appeared to have in common was dark hair. The other witch was short where her companion was tall, pixie-like where the other was curvaceous.
“It’s called indulging a sulking toddler.” She retorted sourly, tossing her cropped hair with a theatrical flair.
The receptionist seemed poised to give the same welcome. “Good afternoon-”
“We have an appointment.” The shorter one cut in with a bored tone. “With Healer Calcifer.”
The receptionist’s voice tightened. “Of course, welcome back, Mrs Malfoy. And your…”
“I’m her bodyguard, obviously.”
“Pansy,” the taller of the two (the Mrs Malfoy apparently) chided. “Pardon her, she’s here for support.”
“I see.” The receptionist pursed her lips slightly. “I’m afraid Healer Calcifer is slightly behind schedule today.”
“Great, more of our day wasted.” Pansy muttered.
“I did say you didn’t need to do this. Daphne offered to come.” Astoria pointed out serenely, unmoved by her friend’s poor attitude.
“You’d rather Daphne than me?” she sounded offended. “If anyone is seeing to their goddaughter’s needs-”
“Pansy, we haven’t announced godparents yet.”
“Semantics.”
Hannah hid a smile at the dramatics, enjoying their back and forth more than the prospect of her paperwork.
The receptionist didn’t seem to feel similarly. “Mrs Malfoy, if you’d like to follow me, I can show you where you can prepare for the appointment.”
“And what am I meant to do in the meantime? Juggle?” Pansy demanded in a sulky tone.
“You are so much like Draco sometimes.” Astoria informed her with a surprising snort of laughter. She didn’t seem the type to make such a graceless noise. “Just wait here, would you? I’ll be out in about an hour.”
“I’m not meant to leave your side.” Pansy pointed out, dryly. “Draco was quite insistent.”
“We have a strict policy regarding additional guests to the appointments.” The receptionist jumped in quickly. “But you are more than welcome to the waiting area in the meantime.”
“Fine.” To Hannah’s surprise, Pansy suddenly propped up on her tiptoes, brushing a kiss to Astoria’s cheek. “Give my love to my goddaughter when you see her.”
Astoria laughed lightly. “We’re discussing anti-nausea tonics, Pans. I doubt Healer Calcifer will be checking in on her today.”
Hannah couldn’t see her face, but she had the sense that Pansy was gloating. “Ah, so you do think it’s a girl.”
The receptionist cleared her throat. “Mrs Malfoy, if you would follow me.”
Quiet took hold of the waiting area once more. Hannah couldn’t help but peer curiously at the short, petite witch who took the spot opposite hers on the couches. She’d recognised the names, of course but it had been years since she’d seen Pansy Parkinson in the flesh.
She seemed more sophisticated than Hannah remembered. Clad in an expensive creamy linen blouse and perfectly tailored trousers, she lounged against the plush couch with careless grace, well suited to the mid-June heat.
Meanwhile, Hannah felt distinctly underdressed in her long skirt and tucked in tee-shirt. The bow she’d used to tie back her long blonde hair seemed childish.
“Can I help you with something?” Pansy didn’t look at her, simply inspected her fingernails with a casual air. But there was no one else in the room to address.
Hannah flushed, having been caught staring. “Sorry, it’s just- I didn’t fancy seeing you here, that’s all.”
“Why? Deatheaters can’t have children now?” Pansy’s eyes slipped to hers, sharp and bristling.
Her stomach lurched. “Merlin, no. I’m sorry I should’ve- My name’s Hannah. We went to school together, actually.”
“Hannah.” Pansy rolled the syllables of her name around her mouth with consideration. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Well, we didn’t…I guess we didn’t really speak. We were Prefects together, that’s all.” Hannah’s shoulders sank with her embarrassment. She should’ve kept her mouth shut-
There was a slight flicker of recognition in Pansy’s face but not the welcome kind. “You’re the barmaid at the Leaky Cauldron.”
Hannah frowned. “Er, yes.”
“We’ve spoken recently then.” Pansy scowled unexpectedly. “In that cesspit they call a women’s bathroom. You asked if I’d ever made a mistake that blew my life apart.”
It took her an embarrassingly long moment to realise what was going on.
“Oh, fuck.”
Pansy’s perfectly arched brows twitched upwards with something faintly resembling delight. “Language, barmaid. This is a maternity clinic after all.”
“No, I meant,” Hannah flustered, scrubbing at her eyes tiredly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t remember, I didn’t even recognise you that night. If I had-”
“You wouldn’t have asked the witch who tried to surrender the Chosen One if she’d ever made a terrible mistake?” Pansy suggested silkily.
“I didn’t mean it like that, honestly.” Hannah said earnestly. “I didn’t even recognise you, I swear. I was just…processing some news that night.”
“From the mouth of the Chosen One himself, yes I saw.” Pansy hummed with intrigue, her gaze flitting to Hannah’s at-present flat stomach. “So, what sort of mistakes have you two been making, hmm?”
She choked on the idea, a flurry of near-hysterical laughter escaping her. “Oh Helga, no. That’s not it, at all.”
“Shame.” Pansy drawled. “I would’ve liked to see his halo dinged a little.”
Still trying to smother her laughter at the idea that she had somehow seduced Harry bloody Potter into fathering her lovechild, Hannah took a moment to appreciate her own ludicrous circumstance: all on her lonesome at a secret appointment for an unplanned pregnancy with no one but Pansy Parkinson for company.
She took a deep breath to steady herself. Pick your words carefully, her mother used to say.
“I am sorry about that night.” Hannah repeated, keeping eye contact with Pansy to make sure she understood. “I didn’t recognise you, it wasn’t intended to dig up old wounds.”
Pansy didn’t say anything for a moment, simply studied her like a viper inspecting a potential meal.
“That’s the third time you’ve apologised to me, you know.” She finally pointed out with a slightly judgemental air.
“I guess that’s true.”
“A little excessive but I’ll allow it.”
“Good.” Hannah let out a sigh, half to herself. “That’s good.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes while Hannah tried to reapply herself to her intake paperwork, but the questions hadn’t gotten any easier.
“If you aren’t carrying a Potter bastard, what brings you here?” Pansy spoke up unexpectedly.
Hannah snorted again at the thought. “The same thing that brings everyone, I expect.”
She wasn’t about to make Pansy Parkinson the first person she shared her news with, especially not to offer her a tasty bit of free gossip.
“And you?” Hannah continued politely. “You mentioned you were a bodyguard earlier?”
Pansy shrugged carelessly. “Of sorts. Apparating is apparently just as bad for the baby as the Floo, so I’ve been assigned to keep Astoria company for the ride in the town car since she’s not as used to them as I am.”
Hannah would’ve liked to ask Pansy how in the world she, of all people, was familiar with Muggle cars but her heart had suddenly been seized with panic.
“Apparating is bad for the baby?” Hannah had Apparated to this very appointment without a thought. She’d arrived in the courtyard less than an hour ago.
“Apparently so,” Pansy drawled. “According to Astoria’s worrywart of a husband, there’s an incrementally higher risk of splinching for expectant mothers in the second trimester.”
Second trimester. That was what? Thirteen weeks? Hannah felt her palms go sweaty as she struggled with the math. She wasn’t particularly good at arithmetic, never had been. Healer Plank had told her she was around six weeks along at her last appointment, and that had been a month ago, so she was…eleven weeks into her pregnancy? Definitely first trimester, surely? But to know for sure, she should count from the conception, only she couldn’t remember the precise date of conception, or else she would’ve put it on the stupid intake paperwork-
“Merlin,” Hannah could hear Pansy sneer. “Pull yourself together, barmaid. Astoria already threw up on the way here, I’m not in the mood to Vanish a second round of vomit.”
“The second trimester,” Hannah could only say faintly. “That’s…that’s thirteen weeks, isn’t it?”
“Oh.” Pansy cleared her throat. “Yes. I think. Draco said so. Why, how far along are you?”
“I’m not really sure.” Hannah’s voice was high pitched, reedy with her panic. Had she hurt the baby? How bad was it, Apparating? What if she’d done some kind of damage, she would know if she had, wouldn’t she?
Her hands slipped to her stomach unconsciously.
“Think.” Pansy commanded sharply. “Before you pass out.”
“I…I think eleven weeks. Maybe.”
“Is this your first appointment?” She suddenly asked.
“What?”
“Is today your first appointment with a maternity Healer?” Pansy pressed aggressively. She sounded faintly unsettled herself, perhaps at the thought of Hannah puking up or fainting or both.
“Yes.” Hannah answered around her bone-dry mouth. What if she’d hurt her baby? What kind of mother hurt her baby?!
The other witch let out a small sigh of relief. “Then you aren’t in your second trimester.”
Hannah frowned at her, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”
“The first appointment is always in the first trimester. They make a whole song and dance about it.” Pansy explained, waving her hand. “You wouldn’t be having your first appointment so late.”
“Are you sure?” Hannah said weakly.
“Positive.” Pansy confirmed with a confident nod. “I remember Astoria’s. Draco nearly swooned.”
“Oh,” Hannah’s hands began to loosen around the quill which was regrettably quite bent out of shape from her terrified grip. “That’s…well, that’s good then.”
She thought she heard Pansy make a comment under her breath about all this useless knowledge coming in handy for something, but it felt distant, lost beneath the relief slowly pulsing through her.
This was the regrettable moment the receptionist returned to the waiting area.
“Are you quite finished with the intake paperwork, Miss Abbott?”
“Oh, er…nearly.” Her voice was weak, still trying to process the rush of adrenaline that had accompanied her panic, unable to really formulate a response to the older witch’s inquiry.
But she simply continued on in a condescending tone. “I’ll remind you it is necessary to fill out all the required fields for our records.”
“Right. Yes.”
“That includes your name, address and personal information.”
“I’d wager she’s written her name before. Several times in fact.” Pansy chimed in with a waspish look. “Get her another quill, if you would. And some quiet.”
Her tone made it clear it was not a request but a demand.
Hannah watched the receptionist retreat, shamefully grateful not to have to deal with her for a little longer. “Thanks for that.”
Pansy shrugged. “I haven’t liked her since Astoria’s first visit. At least part troll, I’d wager.”
Hannah laughed helplessly. “That’s awful.”
“It’s true. The way she guards that silly little desk is absurd.” Pansy’s thin lips curved up at the corners with wicked amusement.
There was a sudden short cough behind Hannah as the receptionist returned with a new quill and a disdainful look that belied even her rigorous professionalism.
“I’ll need that paperwork before we can prepare for your appointment, Miss Abbott.”
“Of course.” Hannah demurred, accepting the quill. “I think I’m nearly done, actually.”
With one last notation, she handed back the parchment, littered with guestimates and vague details, and felt only slightly guilty for laughing. At the very least she’d lost the condescending pity in her tone which Hannah appreciated.
The receptionist gestured for her to follow and then addressed Pansy with a sniff: “Mrs Malfoy is being seen. She’ll be done in an hour or so.”
“I wait with bated breath.” Pansy drawled.
The receptionist seemed ready to make some retort but stifled the words. “This way, if you would, Miss Abbott.”
Hannah paused to glance back at Pansy with a half smile. “Thanks, Pansy. I s’pose I’ll see you around.”
The witch didn’t say anything, only gave a faint nod. It was still a friendlier gesture than anything she had expected, Hannah told herself, steeling her nerves as she followed the part-troll receptionist into the clinic beyond.
* * * * *
* * * *