Amorem Matris

Amorem Matris

She could not remember a hotter summer.

Three weeks had passed since the solstice, and the humid days continued without rain. The air was heavy and still, as if the earth itself was holding its breath in anticipation. As if the earth itself were waiting for something.

The baby had woken her. He was restless, kicking and turning inside her. Her nightgown clung to her damp body and the bedsheets trapped her in a cottony web. She tried rubbing her belly, hoping to soothe the baby. A particularly sharp kick near her kidneys caused her to suck in air; she glanced over at her husband.

He was still asleep.

He lay on his back with the sheets at his waist, one arm thrown out to the side. His chest rose and fell evenly, and his skin was luminous in the moonlight. His dark hair was rumpled. She wanted to brush it away from his face, but she didn't want to risk waking him.

She rolled onto her side as quietly as she could, still trying to calm the baby. Still trying to calm herself...

She had been dreaming. A horrible dream, yes, but a dream nonetheless. She had been dreaming for almost nine months, ever since she became pregnant. She had tried to tell him about the dreams once, when she woke, crying, in his arms. The words hadn't come. There were no words to describe the darkness and terror she experienced in her sleep. He had held her until her tears stopped, and coaxed her back to sleep.

She knew that there was danger in the work that they did. Three times already they had escaped. Each escape had subsequently raised his confidence. Each one had lowered hers. She was afraid.

She tried to remember what the Healer had told her. "The baby responds to your emotions," she said. The Healer was a round-faced witch with laughing eyes. Just the thought of her was comforting. "If you are anxious, the baby will feel it and he will become anxious too. You must take care of yourself."

She tried to focus on pleasant thoughts. The day she received her letter from Hogwarts; the moment she realized she was in love; the first time she felt the baby move within her. The intensity of the love she felt for the baby awed and terrified her. She would protect him with everything she had, everything she was. She was willing to sacrifice her life for him, and yet...

If they failed...

If they died...

"Bad dream?"

His voice startled her. His breath was still even and slow: had he actually been sleeping?

"The baby was kicking."

"She's as restless as her mum." She could hear the smile in his voice. He did it to annoy her, played the 'contrary' game. She knew that if she were to insist the baby was a girl, he would insist that it was a boy. Normally, she would respond to it, but she couldn't muster up the proper indignation.

"We will beat him, won't we?" she asked. No need to name him. No need to clarify to which danger she referred. The thousand fears she refused to voice in daylight preyed upon her at night.

"We'll beat him." He sounded so sure, her husband, so confident. He never seemed to fall victim to the doubt-demons that plagued her. She wondered if it was because he wasn't carrying the child, wasn't as aware as she of every movement, every change within her. Wasn't aware of their awesome responsibility.

"If something was to happen to us..." Her voice trailed off. She hated the weakness inside her, the fear. She wanted to be as strong as he was. The air in the room was hot, stifling. He shifted, turning onto his side and pulling her towards him. She could feel his even breath on her neck, cool on her overheated skin. She tried again. "If we were to die--"

"We aren't going to die."

"Who would take care of the baby?" she asked, silent tears welling up in her eyes. "We can't leave him alone."

"We'll take care of her, sweeting." The tears slid over the bridge of her nose, down her temple, burning through her hair. He was so ridiculous.

"It's a boy," she muttered. "Why do you keeping calling him a girl?"

He wrapped his long arm around her, stroking her belly through the nightgown. She had loved his hands first: strong hands with long fingers: hands that knew where to touch to ease a sore muscle or to inflame desire. "I think it had better be a girl," he whispered into her hair. "I don't fancy sharing you with another man." As if responding to a challenge, the baby kicked twice at the exact spot where his father's hand rested.

"He's your son, stupid," she said.

They lay in silence for a while, his hand rhythmically moving over her, gentling the child back to sleep. The lace curtains at the window swayed as a gentle breeze flowed into the room, sweeping the unbearable stillness away. Thunder rumbled in the distance, promising rain to come.

She wanted to just let go, to return to sleep, but she had to try again. "If we die..."

"We aren't going to die," he said firmly. "We will not leave him alone. I swear it." The quiet conviction in his voice did more to reassure her than his brash bravado ever had. She lifted her hand, reached behind her. She stroked his cheek.

"Promise?"

He kissed her fingers. "I promise." She wondered how there could ever have been a moment in her life when she hadn't loved him.

"Sleep now, Lally," Frank murmured, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. And with her husband's hand cradled over the child within her, Alice Longbottom closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep.