red lips & rosy cheeks

Her. So Mafalda had been right about her subconscious prediction. Before, there had been thoughts of worry, of distress, as Hestia had realized how much there was to do to pave the way for this child. But now, as Mrs. Jones wheeled in a pink bassinet with the words Baby Girl Jones printed on the front, Hestia only felt complete and utter elation.

“I want to hold her. Please.” 

As Mrs. Jones carried her granddaughter over, Hestia took inventory of everything. Ten little fingers, ten perfect toes, and a bright pink nose, all swaddled in a quilt of lavender and rose. How she managed to keep track of it all with her heart beating so loudly in her ears, Hestia could never know. The baby found her way into Hestia’s waiting arms; arms that vowed immediately to never let go. The guilt she had felt for missing her daughter’s first breaths all but evaporated as she stared into the sleeping child’s doll-like face.

“She’s beautiful,” Hestia whispered in awe, surprised she could manage that much as tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. And she was. Every feature was sculpted after Hestia’s, petite and fairy-like in nature. Hestia ran her hand over her head, mesmerized by the silky tresses of dark brown that already covered it in abundance. “She’s completely all right?”

“Completely,” said Mrs. Jones, kissing the top of Hestia’s head. “You did wonderfully, darling. She’s precious.”

Miraculous was more like it, Hestia thought, for it was impossible to do anything but smile in the presence of this little wonder. If she had tried to count the number of troubles waiting for her at the exit of St. Mungo’s, Hestia would have spent the whole day making a list. And yet, with her daughter safely wrapped up her arms, everything else seemed so very small.

“Let me get you some more of that potion,” Mrs. Jones said suddenly, moving towards the door. “I can find Healer Smith, and---”

“Don’t bother, mum.”

“Are you sure?”

She didn’t remember how she had gotten to St. Mungo’s, only that her mother had placed the emergency portkey within her reach on her way out the door. She remembered, briefly, the elder witch’s worrisome debate over whether or not to go and see her brother-in-law and leave Hestia all alone at home, the cries of concern even more piercing now while her head was pounded beneath a heavy wrapping of bandages. She touched her fingers to the material, eyes squinting in confusion as her vision went in and out of focus. Only a few hours, she remembered insisting before she gave the reassurance that everything will be fine.

It was apparent now whose judgement had been faulty, and the epiphany was the last thought Hestia had before her vision tuned out permanently as her eyes rolled beneath their lids and back into a restless slumber.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Jones.”

The second waking was much less alarming than the first. Hestia remembered her surroundings, even before she registered the light shining in her eye from the end of a healer’s wand. As soon as he let go of her lashes, she blinked furiously, clenching her eyes shut as she willed the throbbing in her temples away.

“What’s happening?”

“You’re in recovery,” said the same voice, which she now recognized as belonging to Healer Smith--- fourth floor, spell damage, if she remembered correctly. Spell damage? Hestia swallowed audibly as her eyes widened in concern. Healer Smith smiled sympathetically. “Suffice it to say that you’re a very lucky girl, Miss Jones. I take it you don’t remember much of anything?”

Hestia started to shake her head, but stopped. Her skull felt as though it was splitting down the middle. She held her hand to her forehead, trying not to squint again, which only intensified the pain. “I don’t,” she finally muttered. “I don’t remember a thing. Except that I was reading by the fireplace. That’s the last thing I remember before dozing off.”

But then there were glimpses that felt like a dream, remnants of which thrashed about loudly in her mind. Splintered wood, shards of glass, a great gush of wind that sent her spiraling back into the air---

“The security charms surrounding your home backfired,” Healer Smith explained as he glimpsed the insides of Hestia’s ears. “The aurors have more details, but I’ve convinced them to leave you alone for now.”

For now. A bundle of emotions fluttered in Hestia’s gut at the idea of dealing with the aurors yet again, a flutter much unlike the one she had grown used to over the past few months. The panic induced by the aurors disappeared, replaced by another as she came to the startling conclusion that something was noticeably different--- quieter, certainly, but in the most disturbing way.

“I’ve lost my baby, haven’t I?” There was no other explanation for the stillness in Hestia’s womb, a level of inactivity that made her feel empty. She reached, simultaneously, for her stomach and her mouth.

“No,” Healer Smith said, patting Hestia on the hand. “No, you haven’t. Your baby is alive and well.”

Alive and well. Hestia knew Healer Smith had meant the words to be comforting, but they’d had the opposite affect. One minute, she had been pregnant, and the next--- alive and well? She realized then just how disoriented she was. No idea of the date, or the time, or what exactly had happened to her; she only knew that she was injured, and even still, not to what extent.

Overwhelmed by her own thoughts, Hestia burst into tears.

“There’s no need to cry,” said Healer Smith gently. “Your baby is fine. Right now, we’re going to focus on you. We need to get you rested and strong for the little one, don’t we?” He poured a teaspoon of magenta colored potion into a small cup. “This will help with your head. Drink up.”

In a matter of seconds, Hestia had gone top heavy, her head brimming with worries about cribs, and names, and where on earth was her baby? And how was she to figure any of it out if one thought couldn’t silence itself long enough to let the others take their turn?

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Mrs. Jones asked as she set an old tin can on the table to Hestia’s left. “There’s the emergency portkey, but I doubt I’ll be more than a few hours, so---”

“I can manage a few hours,” Hestia said, setting her book down on the end of the couch. “Besides, it’ll do Uncle Anderson good to see a friendly face somewhere outside of a funeral parlor. I’m sure the house is quiet without Megan around.” Mrs. Jones shuddered. “I’ll be fine. Please, go see him, and tell him hello from me.”

“All right,” Mrs. Jones sighed, swinging Alexander’s diaper back across her front. “But if you need anything, you need only owl. Or floo. All right? Hestia? Hestia.”

But Hestia had already settled back into the couch cushions, pretending to only be resting as she drifted off to sleep.

A sharp pain split Hestia’s spine down the middle and her eyes wide open. A quick glance at the grandfather clock revealed that it had taken forty minutes for shadows to cover the room, and for the fire to dwindle to mere sparks. Hestia’s lungs heaved in anticipation of another phantom stab. She pushed herself up, looking about the room as her confusion ebbed away, and, feeling nothing, reached across the couch to retrieve her book.

“Ow!”

The sharp pain returned, this time not so fleeting. Hestia wrapped an arm beneath her heavy stomach, massaging (away, hopefully) what felt like an all-powerful cramp. Braxton Hicks, she reassured herself as she persevered and snatched up the book. After what felt like an eternity, the pain subsided again, and Hestia fell back against the arm rest, opening to the marked page.

CRASH

Hestia’s head snapped up, her eyes automatically seeking out the guest bedroom above. The noise had undeniably come from there--- or was that paranoia? It occurred to her first to owl her mother, to lie still in the living room until she was sure of what she was hearing, if she was really hearing anything at all.

THUD

There was no time to owl, though, not if Hestia wanted to an immediate solution. If whatever was causing the noises upstairs was more than a strong gust of wind through a neglected window---

CRASH

Swallowing her fear, Hestia propelled herself up and off the couch. She tugged her wand from the knot in her hair as she gripped the banister, trudging up the stairs slowly, as noiselessly as possible.

In the time it took her to reach the top of the staircase, the noises had stopped. Hestia breathed a little easier. It was likely an open window that have given way to a burst of air, or an eager squirrel who had been woken up too soon, or a---

“Broken window?” Hestia gaped at the jaggedly shaped hole in the glass pane. Her heart began to race, pumping adrenaline through her body too quickly for it to process, and blood into her brain too loudly for her to be able to hear herself think. There was no sign of anyone inside the room--- but was it worth the risk to take a chance in a situation such as this?

Unconcerned now with noise, Hestia stampeded down the staircase, nearly tripping over her own feet as she raced towards the fireplace. She reached for the floo powder, her fingers just dusting the fine grains when a shadow caught her attention through the corner of her eye through the front window.

Something outside had moved.

Hestia froze, uncertain whether or not she should look. There was no telling what she could see with a quick turn of her chin, if anything at all. She squeezed her eyes shut, vowing to open them again on the count of one...two...three---

Hestia struggled to comprehend, finally shaking her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That man. The father,” Megan said incredulously, nodding at Hestia’s stomach. “I didn’t know. How much?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Hestia yawned, settling her face back into her pillows and closing her eyes. “I’ve no interest in any of it. They locked it away in an account that I have no intention of touching.”

“Really?” Megan gasped. “Let’s go, then. I’ve got to stop at Gringotts anyway, we can---”

“I’m going back to sleep now,” Hestia interrupted, waving the elder girl away with her hand. “Ta ta, dear.”

“Do you think we ought to report it?”

Mrs. Jones shook her head from across the dinner table on Tuesday evening, after Amelia had gone home. Megan had yet to show her face again since Hestia had seen her Monday morning, and none of her things gave the impression that they had been touched. “It’s only been a little more than a day,” she said. “It’s normal for her to come and go.”

“But for this long?” Hestia asked. “The way things are these days, I don’t---”

“She’s fine, Hestia,” Mrs. Jones insisted. Hestia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “If she’s not back by tomorrow morning,” the older woman sighed, “I’ll ask someone from Magical Law Enforcement what we ought to do.”

“Thank you.”

“When did she say so?”

“Monday morning,” Hestia huffed, flustered. She rifled through Megan’s things in the guest room, pausing every few seconds to catch her breath and rub her lower back. The chain of Mrs. Jones’ purse jingled as she swung it across her torso, edging closer and placing a hand on Hestia’s shoulder.

“Hestia---”

“Kindly don’t,” Hestia spat, swatting her mother away. As if she wasn’t miserable enough without her blood pressure rising and her stomach flipping and flopping. Megan still hadn’t returned home, not even in the late hours; Hestia had been up all night tossing and turning, and never once had she seen the bedroom across the hall disturbed. Even for the old Megan Jones, irresponsible and free as a baby bird that just learned to fly, two nights away from her residence and belongings was a bizarre circumstance. Hestia’s mind had fallen down the rabbit hole to the worst case scenarios.

“I’m sure---”

“What’s this?” From a pile of parchment, Hestia pulled a letter. Scrawled at the top in Megan’s handwriting---

“Vault four hundred and thirty eight.” Hestia’s voice shook as she read it allowed. “That’s her handwriting. Vault four hundred and thirty eight. But the rest...”

Her eyes squinted as they processed the rest of the information, reading, as Mrs. Jones peering over her shoulder, of details to meet outside of Gringotts.

“And bring her with you. What is this? Mum?”

“What did she say?” Mrs. Jones asked quietly. “What did she tell you, exactly?”

Hestia thought for a moment, eyes scanning the room as if the words would leap out in front of her. “She was going to Gringotts,” she stammered. “She was going to Gringotts, and she wanted me to come with her, to--- to look in the vault. The one---” Her eyes ballooned as her jaw nearly fell to the floor. Mrs. Jones shook her head, enraged.

“She stole from you?”

“No,” Hestia cried out. “She couldn’t have, even if--- But the vault’s four hundred and eighty three.” Tears poured down her face, mingled with salt and a lack of understanding. What had Megan been up to with Gringotts, and what did it have to do with her not coming home? “I don’t understand---”

“Shush, shush,” Mrs. Jones said soothingly, wiping the tears from her daughter’s face. “I’ll send them out to check for her,” she said, smiling, though the corners of her mouth were strained. “I’m sure she’s fine. Make some tea. Relax.”

Hestia nodded as her mother led her into the kitchen, tears streaming silently down her face. “I mean it, Hestia,” the older witch said. “You have to relax. Sit down, read a magazine, pick up that knitting again.” She sat Hestia on the couch in the living room and kissed the top of her head. “I’m going to get this sorted out straightaway. You sit here and don’t worry your pretty head about any little thing.”

And so Hestia sat back, leaning against the old couch cushions with a piping cuppa in hand as she did the only thing her mind could allow.