WHO: Demeter Wiggleswade & Chryseis Higgs WHAT: The aftermath of this. WHEN: A few hours after this. WHERE: Knockturn Alley WARNINGS: Mentions of blood
Demeter had found her mother easily, the panic that she’d been feeling giving way to relief the moment she heard the soft thump-thump from inside the china cupboard. Seeing the door broken open like that, shopping strewn about the floor and the blood — all of the unspeakable and unthinkable things that could have happened were forgotten as she opened the cupboard and helped her mother out.
It was almost as if the silencing spell had continued, after Demeter had helped her mother into a chair and knelt wordlessly beside her, listening to her mother’s shaking sobs. Both of them were under the uncomfortable enchantment while Chryseis hastily knocked back a glass of whisky before getting Demeter to pull the stake out of her shoulder. (On the count of “three” which really was “two” for the shock.) Demeter pressed a wad of cotton against Chryseis’s shoulder, applying pressure and not reacting to the blood. She’d seen a lot worse in the last few days, but she hadn’t seen her mother cry in years. It was easier to watch her shoulder than the tears rolling down her face.
“Okay. I’m going to need a spare pair of hands on this one for a bit more, darling,” her mother choked back more tears, voice rough as she motioned to her medical kit open on the floor beside Demeter.
“The potion should help clean it,” Chryseis indicated a small bottle at the top of her medicine supplies. She sounded shaky, yet businesslike, a tone that Demeter herself adopted with a frequency she didn’t care to admit. “This is the last of it, unless I can get the supplies to make more soon.” A pause, she shuddered again from the pain in her shoulder. The whisky helped, and she gulped back another sob. “The bandage needs a little of it, then wound tightly. Can you do that for me?” Her mother’s fingers touched hers as she held the wad of cotton into place, Demeter releasing her own grip gradually as she nodded acceptance of the task.
Demeter unwound some soft white material from a roll in the box before picking up the bottle and examining it. She pulled the stopper out, then held the cloth bandage against it, tipping it until some of the potion was absorbed and then replacing the stopper. “We could go to St. Mungo’s,” she finally spoke, uncertain. It was bound to be an unpopular suggestion.
“I don’t want to go there.”
They worked in silence, Demeter gently bandaging her mother’s shoulder and trying her best to ignore the winces of pain Chryseis gave as the potion touched the wound. The tears had stopped, at least, the pain easing a little as the wound was dressed correctly.
“I’m supposed to tell you something about rogue Aurors needing to not continue something.”
Demeter’s hands froze for a split second. She knew what that meant, and it angered her that she wasn’t even involved. “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m not part of it, but I know I need to be better. I can work harder, make sure they know I’m just doing my job.”
It might have been the alcohol, or perhaps the pain, but Chryseis snorting hadn’t been what Demeter expected in response. Demeter frowned, tucking the ends of the bandage under and tapping them gently with her wand.
“If you keep thinking that way then you’ll never be satisfied, Demeter.”
Mother’s eyes met daughter’s, and the daughter reached for the whisky bottle in response. “What way?” Demeter challenged.
“That you need to work harder, do better, be best at your job. You’re far better at any of this than you’ll ever believe.”
Jaw set, Demeter opened the bottle and swirled what was left of the liquid around in it lazily. The matter-of-fact tone she was hearing grated on her, and she pushed to get back to the facts of the matter. “Death Eaters attacked you.”
“And you’ll blame yourself for that, of course. But you know that’s not really on you. You’re agitated about everything, spend hours obsessing over being better when it’ll never make you happy.”
“I’m just not good enough for you, is that it?” Childish, maybe, but Demeter’s hurt refused to go unsaid. “I wasn’t good enough for Dad, neither of us were. I wasn’t good enough in school, I’m not good enough at my job.”
“Good Merlin, Demeter, you’re proving my point. You are good enough, you’re better than good enough. I don’t know what those stupid pureblood shits you lived with at school said to make you feel this way, but you’ve always been good. Great, dare I say.”
Demeter stood up, the thought of storming out angrily almost overwhelming, but her mother raised her good arm and reached for the bottle.
“What if they had a point?” Demeter asked, pouring her mother a glass before kneeling back down beside the chair and taking a swig of whisky straight from the bottle.
Chryseis reached down with her wounded arm, stroking her daughter’s hair gently. “A point about what? About you? About anyone who’s not Pure? Because I’ve always seen you as perfect.”
“You’re supposed to say that.” Demeter leaned into her mother’s legs, rolling her eyes gently.
“I know, but I believe it. You got all those perfect grades, accepted to Auror training first time. Sent to work abroad, and I missed you awfully. I knew me moving in here wouldn’t be all sunshine and roses, you’d been pulling away for years. But that doesn’t mean I think you’re anything but great.”
“What if I feel anything but great?” But she was listening, her head now resting on her mother’s lap.
A soft sigh. “That’s what you’ve got to get out of your head, my darling.” Her mother’s fingers were still touching her hair, gently tangling in Demeter’s curls, and Demeter found herself listening to the sounds around them and looking at the room. The clock ticked each second that passed, and her mother’s laboured breathing was still tinged with hurt and worry. The place was a mess, broken furniture everywhere. Blood. Demeter exhaled slowly, purposefully, trying to let go a little. Maybe it’d take more than that, but it was a start.
“I do love you, you know?” Demeter finally spoke.
“Even when we drive each other batty. I know. I just want you to believe in yourself. Brush off all the nonsense you’ve told yourself over the years, or anyone who’s ever made you feel smaller or less brilliant than you are. Because, and take it from a medical professional —” Chryseis leaned down to kiss the top of her daughter’s head, a strangely familiar motion considering the years passed where she hadn’t done that. “Pureblood, Muggleborn, terrible father or perfect family. It has no bearing on you.”
“You’re a Mediwitch,” Demeter told her fondly, not quite finding the heart to argue. Maybe she just didn’t believe in those things any longer. “And you’ve been drinking. Not exactly an expert in those things.”