1st October, 1890 — The Painted Lady

The smell of the tea today was making her queasy. The Hogsmeade teashop always had strong floral scents wafting about, but they didn’t usually manufacture such a headache in her, or this undercurrent of nausea. Calliope had not even ordered hers, for her friend had not yet arrived.

She had tried to sit serenely and at least wait for her friend to appear, but eventually she couldn’t fake it any more, and hurried through to the teashop’s toilets. She had been feeling a little nauseous even before breakfast, so there wasn’t much to come up, but as she let herself out of the toilet and moved towards the washbasins in the little antechamber of the powder room, her face paler than usual in the mirror and her whole body feeling physically, abnormally dreadful, Calliope almost smiled. This confirmed her suspicions, then. Finally.

Absorbed in a haze of self-congratulation and persistent nausea, she splashed her face without wasting a glance for the other occupant of the room, not sure she could get down any tea now she knew the reason for the sickness. She covered her mouth for a moment, hoping there would not be a second round, and then moved towards the powder-room door.

It was stuck. Calliope pushed at it a little harder, and then pulled, to no effect, rattled the handle. As far as she could see it looked unlocked. What was this, a sticking charm?

“It won’t open,” she declared - with a hint of accusation - as she turned towards the other woman who she suspected had come in later than her and thus must be to blame. Her eyes narrowed, but that was for an entirely different reason. Look who it was.

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Having become rather blotchy and red from laughing with her friend Marcy, Ama had nipped into the restroom to powder her nose. But she was swift about it, partly because she didn't want to leave Marcy sitting there solo (especially with Ama's slice of lemon cake tempting her so beautifully), but also because she didn't care much about her appearance. At least not in any conventional way. Her dress today was a lovely, flowing thing, slightly unsuited to a lady of her age, sporting several shades of yellow. Ama cared about that more than she cared about blotches.

So she briefly checked said dress in the mirror, patting down a slight crease, before she turned to leave... only to find the restroom's other occupant standing by the closed door and looking round at her.

Ama remembered that face from the wedding notice in the Prophet. She recalled looking away as quickly as possible and reading no more than a few words, but it was too late; those features were seared into her memory. She'd recognise the new Mrs Zabini anywhere.

"Mrs Zabini", Ama greeted her courteously, her tone a far cry from the merry trill it had been not ten minutes ago. On auto-pilot, the witch — adept in wandless magic — raised her hand at the apparently locked door. "Alohomora".

It budged not.

  

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She hoped this woman’s presence was not a bad omen. The very sight of her was like staring The Grim in the face. If a horribly garish one.

Calliope opened her mouth as if to return the greeting - it would be clipped and disdainful, as much as the woman deserved - but the echo of her own name, Mrs. Zabini, would be like handing something over to her that she no longer merited, and she refused to do it. She could not recall the woman’s maiden name, either, so there was nothing to say.

About that, at least.

There was plenty she had said about Cosmo’s first wife in the presence of her friends, but none of those sentiments were any more flattering to the woman than that godawful sunshine-yellow dress.

“A wand might be a useful start,” Calliope said instead, the words thankfully under her breath, although her look was derisive enough by itself. The ex-wife must be quite deficient, for the door had done nothing with her spell, so Calliope repeated it emphatically, tapping her own wand to the door handle and testing it vigorously. Again, nothing.

“Ugh,” she huffed, as if the former Mrs. Zabini and the door were co-conspirators against her. If she had not wanted to get out of here and bask in her good news already, the presence of her in close proximity had certainly made opening the door a priority.

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   Aldous Crouch

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Ama ignored the quiet muttering and the look of disdain — she'd received worse from better. She'd always attempted to uphold a dignified indifference towards the girl, but it was difficult to know she'd taken up the mantle that Ama had cherished, and the arm of the man who'd always cherished her. Additionally, Calliope Zabini appeared huffy and vain, seeming to try her hardest to not be likeable. And Bellona didn't like her at all, which banished any remaining possibility that Ama could ever respect the tall young newcomer.

Now focussed on ending this unpleasant meeting as swiftly as possible, Ama crossed the room to the high windows by the sinks. One of the windows was ajar, adding a crisp Autumn breeze to the floral scents of the restroom, and Ama fancied she might be able to catch the attention of someone out there. But these windows didn't point towards the street, she was quite sure, making it unlikely that there'd be any passers-by any time soon. Regardless, she'd rather linger here than turn and face her again — besides which, she was quite sure she could hear a child's muffled giggle coming from somewhere outside...

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   Aldous Crouch

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There was the childish temptation to kick at the door in frustration but one, if her unlocking charm had done nothing, force probably wouldn’t either; and two, kicking was rather unladylike. And Calliope, as the pureblood witch she professed to be, and as the current Mrs. Cosmo Zabini, had a reputation to maintain.

Not that it mattered what Ama Zabini thought of her. It wasn’t as though she had any contact with her former family - not that Calliope knew of, at least - or any surviving standing in society circles. 

Rather than kick the door, she whirled around to watch the other woman move towards the windows. “I’m not sure you’ll fit through there,” Calliope remarked, more matter-of-fact about this than consciously trying to imply anything unpleasant. (That said, she was quite good at being malicious unconsciously, too.) What she meant, really, was that clearly neither of them would fit; she was the taller of the two, clearly, and the window was high up and rather tiny. She did hear the sound of someone’s amusement outside - if this was some Hogsmeade ragamuffin’s idea of a fun jape, she would gladly box them around the ears, ladylikeness be damned - and moved nearer with some idea of calling out for help.

Only for the breeze to bring in some other scent to her nose for a brief moment, and that brought all the nausea she’d thought was finished for now rushing back up; gagging, she lurched for the nearest sink, leaning forwards and trying desperately to hold it in.

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The remark stung. Ama had come to accept (and even love) almost everything about herself in recent years, including the body God had given her. But one does not go a lifetime of fussing over mediocrities only to change one's habits in one fell swoop. Ama considered body weight a mediocrity, and she hadn't worried about such things in years — but then in came Calliope Zabini — thinner, younger, whiter — feeding off her dormant insecurities like a leech. Ama did not even try to give her the benefit of the doubt; the catty young woman had proven that she meant Ama ill-will.

Ama only managed to avoid swiping back because she reminded herself that there was a reason for the new Mrs Zabini's cattiness. If Ama really was no threat, nothing to envy, then there would be no need to treat her with such disdain.

The old Mrs Zabini stifled a sigh. The high road was a lonely place.

She placed her handbag (which matched her dress) on the surface by the sinks, and rummaged around in search of parchment and quill. Not that she intended to share this, but Ama's plan was to write a little note for help and Charm it out of the window, or perhaps under the bathroom door. As she rummaged, she tried to ignore the younger woman's sudden show of poor health. Ama could help, but knew Mrs Zabini would rather suffer than accept aid from one she deemed a mortal foe.

Ama continued to search her bag, but it was difficult to ignore the gagging sounds now coming from three sinks along.

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   Aldous Crouch, Calliope Zabini

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She ought to have felt triumphant, to be pregnant with the heir (- she ought to begin her prayers for a boy, she supposed, but if not this one then the next -) of the man who had cast this liar of a woman aside. She ought to be laughing in this woman’s face!

But there was little room for triumph, when her stomach was in knots as though she’d been at sea and there was the stress of the door that wouldn’t budge as well. Nor did Calliope particularly want to give into this churning sickness at the sink in front of her; she pursed her lips, then clamped a hand over her mouth, wishing the tea-shop powder room was not so heavily perfumed. 

Quite unbidden, leaning over the sink as she was and wishing she could rest her forehead against the coolness of it whilst retaining her dignity, Calliope remembered the other ghost of a Mrs. Zabini. A much less vivid figure than the Mrs. Zabini beside her, to be sure - but what had become of the second wife again? Died in childbirth, she thought. She wondered if this woman had ever met her.

But this was not conducive to - well, anything. Not least finding a way out of this situation, one way or another, but preferably without retching up any more bile. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the halfblood woman rummaging in her bag. “What are you - doing?” Calliope croaked out, refusing to be kept in the dark about their escape plans; and if she was going to be offered a handkerchief, she would like fair warning of it, thank you very much, so she might decide whether or not to accept it.

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   Aldous Crouch

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"Sending out a note for assistance", Ama replied with her nose still in her handbag, and was glad to find that she didn't snap out these words. For she was feeling very snappy inside. She didn't like it — it was not like Ama to find herself writhing in this unkind fusion of dislike and the feeling of being disliked. It made her quite out of character, and keener than ever to escape this miserable situation.

She finally found a scrap of parchment, and was in the process of placing it on the counter and withdrawing an old quill when she glanced up and noticed just how pale and clammy young Mrs Zabini looked. It seemed that the beauty in this bathroom was in fact Ama. But she felt so wretched at having such a childishly petty thought, that she finally felt a semblance of pity for the girl.

Ama returned to her handbag and withdrew a small wrapped sweet, which she offered to Mrs Zabini. "It's peppermint — it'll help with the nausea", she said simply, half expecting to be rejected despite the consequences.

  

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She might have made a catty remark about their hopes resting on someone seeing this note, only she didn’t have the energy to think of a clever thing to say, never mind the energy to speak right now. Out of the corner of her eye - or through the mirrors - she watched Cosmo’s former wife take out a quill, and then rummage for something else. Almost instinctively, Calliope flinched at whatever was offered to her, as if expecting something poison to the touch (- why Medea came to mind so quickly, she dared not think -), but it did look entirely innocent, that little wrapped sweet.

Her brow - already close to too pale, if such a thing existed - creased in confusion. What sort of woman was she, to have come in seeming so happy and carefree, to be freely passing out peppermints to enemies? Had the scandal of her marriage not mired her in perpetual torment, as it ought to have done? Was she not supposed to be a social pariah, duly alone and miserable?

Tentatively, Calliope took the peppermint, pretending that her throat was too dry to do anything more than mouth her thank you. And then - “You have not remarried, have you?” she asked as she unwrapped the mint, quite without meaning to.

It had been a question to herself, as if the woman were a puzzle. Naturally, a scandalous divorcee (at that age, and without her pure blood) was never going to have found herself with any great prospects, at least in this country - but surely she might have taken off to somewhere she was less known and remarried an old widower? Regardless of remarrying, Calliope considered, it would have been rather more pleasant for the both of them if she had left the country. Why on earth did she have to be loitering around Hogsmeade like a living ghost?

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Ama Zabini / Bragi Holm

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   Aldous Crouch

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There was something distinctly human about the conflict taking place behind the young Mrs Zabini's oceanic eyes — should she take the peppermint, perchance to feel better? Or should she deny the offering, perchance to feel higher? Ama did not enjoy watching the conflict play out, but she found it faintly interesting, this touch of humanity. A slight tug of a reminder that they were, after everything, just two people.

Two Mrs Zabinis, to be more pertinent.

"I haven't, no indeed", she confirmed with slight surprise at the question. Quill and parchment remained unused for now, mid-hesitance, as she was distracted from her plan to write a help note.

"That part of my story is quite over", Ama added, and could not hide a note of gentle contentment in her words. Not relief, exactly — for Cosmo had been, and remained, the love of her life — but there was a great freedom about deciding she no longer wanted the life of a wife.

Instead she simply wanted the life of Ama. And she was living it. Amid the disapproving reputation of an eccentric divorcee, yes... but such a title had proved more fun than she could've possibly imagined.

  

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Calliope put the peppermint in her mouth and sucked on it contemplatively.

An unsurprising answer, to be sure, though despite divorce seeming to Calliope as equivalent a fate as death, this Mrs. Zabini seemed to be perfectly at ease with it, swanning about without regard for anything. Nor did she sound as though she were searching for a way to worm herself back into her former family’s life. (Calliope didn’t know why she was worried at that, Cosmo was hers now, he couldn’t go back even if he had wanted to - but she had been worried, all the same.) No, Mrs. Zabini seemed very pleasant about it all.

And Calliope felt more like herself after the peppermint, so she pushed down all the rest of her curiosity about how this woman spent her life, free and happy and alone, an straightened up again with another look of cool impatience fashioned on her face. “Well, of course it is,” she said crisply. “So perhaps you ought to find somewhere new to go.”

Resolving to say nothing else to her until they were out of here, Calliope stalked off to try the door again.

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