Paper Doll
The morning after, Mary found a plain envelope on her dressing table: it was a finger thick, big enough to hold a couple of Vogue issues. The letter that came with it was by Mr Albert Stevens.
The advomagus introduced the magazines in the envelope, warning Mary about the moving images and, most of all, to hand them back the following day at the latest, while keeping them away from prying eyes. He also invited her for tea that same afternoon, or a morning visit on the morrow if she didn’t manage to get to London in time. In any case, the tramp was eager to meet her.
At first Mary was a little disturbed by the manner the magazines had been delivered. Then she reminded herself that probably a sorcerer had other means to deliver a parcel than the postman or breaking into a house.
She folded the letter closed and leant closer to her mirror, checking her hair root—she would have to dye it again before the hearing.
“Yvette, close the door,” she said, observing the maid’s reflection in the mirror obey and stand, waiting for the next order. “First of all, I want your word that none of this will be shared with the other servants.”
The French maid stiffened her posture, as pride gleamed in her eyes. She was about to be made part of her mistress’ secrets, a proof of the trust she put in her—or at least, that was Mary wanted Yvette to think. After all, within a week they would forget the conversation.
“Oui, Madame.”
“The tramp is a witch.”
Sometimes, calling a spade a spade was the best choice. Not that there was a convoluted euphemism to define what Merope Gaunt was—or rather, Mary didn’t have the time or the energy to think of a more elegant way.
Yvette snorted, amused. “What a surprise… moche comme elle est…"
“I wasn’t referring to her looks. She is a real witch, who… casts spells and fly on a broomstick.”
The maid frowned a little. Of course, she was confused, Mary had been the first to dismiss Tom’s rambling as figments of his imagination, and all the servants had followed her lead.
Mary turned around facing the maid. “Apparently, her lot is a society on its own: according to their rules, what she did to my son is a felony.”
Yvette gasped, making the sign of the cross. “Mais, Madame! You said that the young master will stay married to her!”
“We have been assured that she is lame as a witch: she couldn’t even brew by herself the potion she used to seduce Tom! But I do not wish anyone to dispute my decisions,” Mary said with a cautionary hiss. She handed Yvette the parcel. “I asked some of their fashion magazines: choose among my clothes a day dress and a cocktail dress that would blend in. And if I have none, you could look for something suitable at Harrod’s this afternoon.”
Yvette nodded, taking the parcel. On the other hand, Mary turned back to her mirror, checking for more grey hair—for new lines or age spots that may mar her looks. A wave of indignation hit her when she heard the maid holding back a laugh.
“What is it?”
Yvette laughed softly. “Rien, Madame. I will ask Mme Smith if we still have some of the clothes of la feu Madame.”
Mary turned around at her. “My… mother-in-law’s clothes?”
“Regardez-vous même, Madame!” the maid snickered, handing her a magazine.
Indeed, the images moved—the drawn ladies kept changing poses, showing all sides of the robes—but what was ridiculous, was how out of style they were!
“Bless them! I haven’t seen this style of sleeves since I was eight! And this hairstyle… it is past four or five decades!”
Mary couldn’t hold her laugh back. She leant back, shaking her head. How pretentious of them, to dare looking down on the Riddle of Little Hangleton while dressed as in 1885! Indeed, if Mary wished to blend in when in the Ministry of Magic, she should wear Thomas’ late mother’s clothes—she could even lend the late Mr Riddle’s wedding gown to the tramp, for her to wear for the marriage rectification.
“Indeed, ask Mrs Smith for my mother-in-law’s—no,” Mary’s voice turned malicious in a blink. “We shall rather show off how modern and elegant we are. Choose a few day and evening dresses among those we brough in Paris, the ones you think would make the tramp look less… homely.”
“Oui, Madame,” Yvette replied, although unpleased.
When she was about to leave the room, Mary called her back.
“Also, pack the hairdressing necessaire: scissors, curling iron, hot comb, brilliantine… come up with a style that would make her eye as less noticeable as possible. Oh, and makeup! God if she needs all the help that she can get to look remotely human…”
Yvette curtsied one last time, waited a few second for some other last-minute orders that didn’t come, and left.
***
Mr Albert Stevens led Mary and Yvette into a narrow street, which opened into a discreet and quaint yard—it was vaguely triangular in shapes, with four samplings planted on the longer side to shadow two benches. The advomagus stopped in front of the junction between two terraced houses and cleared his throat.
“Mr Stevens and Mrs Riddle wish to see Mrs Pomfrey.”
Mary held herself back from rubbing her eyes. A narrow door seemed to push aside the two houses, like an explorer walking through a virgin forest. The door, now full-sized and showing a stained-glass design of humming birds going from flower to flower, opened into a bright foyer. It wasn’t a butler who welcomed them, but a small creature with a big head, large, pointed ears and eyes as large and round as cricket balls, wearing a white tea towel as a toga.
“That is a House Elf, wizarding servants,” Mr Stevens whispered. “The richer and more prominent a family is, the more House Elves they employ.”
“I suppose they’re more expensive than normal servants.”
The advomagus chuckled. “Quite the contrary! They love working, but even a penny would offend them: a place by the hearth, a bowl of milk or cream, and some cakes are pretty enough for them.”
“Do they?” Mary gasped softly, looking back at the creature with new interest.
The house elf introduced them into a comfortable, although outdated parlour. Dr Pomfrey welcomed Mary and introduced her to his wife and youngest daughter—she would have been prettier, if she swapped her Gibson Girl allure for a sleek dropped waist and a shingle.
And then there was the tramp.
Proper food, a nice bath, and better clothes made her almost seems like a person. Her hair had been taken care of, turning from dull and lanky to a light cool brown. Her complexion, although still pale after the troublesome birth, was less sallow, almost healthy. Her eyes, thought, were still unsettling with that eccentric pupil that made the tramp look like she had crossed eye. Mary trusted that, after going through Yvette’s skilful hands, she would look acceptable.
She generously let the tramp hold Little Thomas for ten minutes, then asked if Yvette could work on her while she and the Pomfreys discussed what would happen during and after the trial. Mary was adamant about keeping the affair as quiet as possible, even asking if there was a way to make it look like the tramp had been sent off to a sanatorium instead of a prison—to protect Little Thomas, of course. Dr Pomfrey didn’t promise anything but agreed to have the issue discussed in front of the Wizengamot.
About an hour later, Yvette brough back the tramp. The maid had curled and styled the light brown hair into two low side buns, with a side parting and a thick strand to shadow the odd eye. The old-fashioned gown had been replaced by a petrol blue wool day dress coupled with black mary janes featuring a French heel. Yvette took from a box the cloche hat she had chosen to go with the ensemble, with an asymmetric brim to shadow the odd eye. Maybe, if they added a bold-coloured rouge on the lips, they could distract the lookers from the flaw even more.
Mary circled around the tramp, examining her like a mare she considered to buy. The dress looked a little tight on the belly and the chest, but it was expected since the tramp had given birth not even six weeks before.
“Well, it’s not perfect but there shouldn’t be any need to alter it,” Mary said with a pinched smile. “Why don’t you try the Poiret?”
The tramp opened her mouth to answer, but Yvette was faster and pushed the tramp back in the nearby room. The brick red dress, with silver appliques and black bow on the neckline made the tramp look healthier, but it was tighter than the previous one. To Mary’s surprise, Dr Pomfrey’s daughter asked for her permission to tweak it a little and, with a wave of her wand made the dress fit perfectly, as if it had been made for the tramp.
“Bless you, this certainly makes this easier!” Mary had to admit, gesturing Yvette to help the tramp into the next dress.
Each time, Mary made a show to tell who the designer was and where she had brought the dress. Or made everything up if it was something she had brought at Harrods: after all, those wizards and witches had no idea of what the latest trends were. Mr Albert Stevens should have gotten an idea of what Mary was doing and was highly amused by it.
It took them three hours, interrupted by Little Thomas’s nursing, but for the hearing they settled on a silk and wool red ensemble composed of a beaded flat blouse, a pleated skirt and an asymmetric cape, with matching hat and black shoes.
“Now we should choose on the dress you should wear for the marriage rectification,” Mary said, between two sips of tea.
The tramp squealed. “M-madam, I really like this one! I-I never wore anything so pretty…”
Mary scoffed, fighting the urge to reply that, of course, a tramp like her would have never, ever had the opportunity to wear a Jacques Doucet.
“You and Tom didn’t have a proper wedding, so humour me.” Mary stressed those two words instead of saying ‘do as I command, and I may put a good word with Tom’. “Just understand that there is no time to get you a proper wedding gown, so we must do with an evening dress.”
The tramp glanced at her hosts and guardians, and indeed, Mrs Pomfrey cleared her throat.
“Is there any need for this, Mrs Riddle? I’m sure that Madam Malkins can provide for a wedding gown on such a short notice.”
Mary stretched her red lips into a feral smile. “My dear madam, indeed, I was of the same opinion until this morning. But after skimming through your… fashion magazines, I thought it would be better for my daughter-in-law to make a statement. Since her lack of… Magic makes Merope”—She hated to call the tramp by her proper name— “unfit to live among your… kin, I think it is essential for her to get used to my society as soon as possible.”
Mrs Pomfrey opened her mouth to reply, but Mary’s logic was too reasonable to be reprimanded.
Indeed, Mary would use that tramp to slap into their faces how retrograde and unfashionable these wizarding folk were. She had Science and Technology on her side, and although she admitted there were a few instances were waving a stick and a hocus pocus could be practical, they would never make up for the commodity of the modern era.
The tramp paraded in two chemise dresses in front of Mary, Mr Albert Stevens and the Pomfrey. The latter said there was something unconvincing in the dresses; Mary, on the other hand, wanted to say that the tramp looked more like a half-plucked hen trying to decorate herself with peacock feathers.
“That is astonishing!” Miss Pomfrey squealed when the tramp stepped into the parlour with the third dress.
It was a Lanvin robe de style in off-white silk, silver lamé and a dark blue large bow at the waist. Yvette had wrapped a matching silk headscarf as low as possible on the brow to hide the odd eyes, but it didn’t look good. Well, getting a wedding hat wouldn’t be difficult, although Mary would have rather not spend a penny on the tramp.
“It’s a shame for the colour, though…” Dr Pomfrey said.
That rubbed Mary in a way she didn’t like. He was a man with no sense of fashion! How dared he comment on a Lanvin?!
“I beg your pardon?” Mary forced herself to sound polite.
The witch doctor, or whatever it was called, chuckled. “I mean, if it was a very light grey, and the bow was Slytherin green, one could say that Miss Gaunt is honouring her heritage. Because, yes, you are right when saying that she should get used to Muggle society, but at the same time it would be a little too cruel to uproot her.”
Mary wanted to massage her temples. “I beg your pardon, doctor, but I do not understand your point.”
“As I told you, Miss Gaunt is one of the last living descendants of Salazar Slytherin, one of the greatest British wizard and founder of Hogwarts, the wizarding school,” Mrs Albert Stevens explained, then pointed at the dress. “His House colours are a dark green and silver, hence why Dr Pomfrey’s remark.”
Mary stared at the dress, trying to picture it in pale pearl grey and dark green. It could work, but remaking the dress with such specification would take too much time and money; as for using a spell, Mary didn’t know if it would be a definitive change. She expressed only the last doubt.
“It’s nothing but a simple Glamour charm!” Mrs Pomfrey chuckled.
“Think of it as Cinderella’s dress: at midnight it returned into some rags,” Mr Albert Stevens added, casting the spell.
If it was so easy to change a dress’ appearance, perhaps…
“Would this ‘glamour spell’ work on a person too?” Mary asked.
Dr Pomfrey tittered. “Why do you ask?”
Mary sneered at the tramp. “Wouldn’t you like for your eyes to look normal, al least for the marriage rectification and Little Thomas’ baptism? It would make Yvette’s job much easier.”
The tramp gaped, looking like a cornered mouse around her and her face flushed a bright red.
Her eyes settled on Dr Pomfrey. “Could-could it be possible to…” the tramp swallowed, wriggling her hands. “Err… fix it forever?”
Ah, so she was aware of her lameness, but had no means to hide it away. Indeed, if she was a proper witch, she could have made herself more pleasant to Tom’s eyes, instead of resolving on a love potion gone off.
Dr Pomfrey sighed. “My dear Merope, it’s not something as easy as casting a Glamour spell for a few hours… we need to verify if there are no other issues that should be solved first, in addition to the aesthetic one. But there’s a colleague of mine in Spain who specialises in ailment of the eyes.”
Mary’s eyebrows went up as she smirked inside. If this wasn’t a sign from God, she had no idea what it could be. She clapped her hands, and she didn’t need to fake her enthusiasm.
“Spain?! Would she require to spend some time there for the treatment?”
“Err… I suppose,” the wizard doctor said with some confusion.
This time, Mary beamed at the tramp. “It would be a perfect destination for a honeymoon! Why, you and Tom could travel through the Continent: France, Italy, Greece… I bet you never left Little Hangleton before eloping! Besides, it would be good for you and Tom to bond, learn to appreciate and know each other… for Little Thomas’ sake!”
“You know, that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Mr Albert Stevens said. He was quick to catch up. “Spending some time abroad would help them stay out of the limelight until the dusk settle. Or some other, juicier scandal comes out. What do you think, Miss Gaunt?”
The tramp’s face turned an unrightful shade of red. “Traveling with Tom… I-I would love that. But-but the baby…”
“Don’t worry dear, I’ll make sure that he’s happy and healthy while you’re away,” Mary said with a mellow voice, fighting her disgust as she took the tramp into her arms.
The foolish girl! She fell into the trap hook, line and sinker!