Absinthe, Wysteria, and an Open Casket solo

Absinthe Opheliæ Morgaine was a terribly unlucky woman. Sure, one could consider her “lucky” due to her prophecies, but ever since Jo’s birth, disaster never seemed to cease striking the family. How could she ever forget the day her own mother had taken that horrid, new streak of grey hair nestled among the luscious black locks and whispered to her that she was cursed? “It only gets worse from here, my dear… I have never seen the truth as a blessing, sweet child - dearest Abby.”

She had seen her husband’s crimes, smelled the crisp air of death, and yet…somehow… she still couldn’t see any future without him. “What am I doing?” She’d ask herself as the wedding bells rang, but she never bothered to look back.

When Jo was born, she began to see awful visions - visions she ignored. The child wouldn’t go to Hogwarts - Absinthe wouldn’t let her. And even if Finlay was a human, there was still a large chance that the girl wouldn’t inherit her ability. None of Abby’s sisters had, after all.

Either way - she had to make sure Jo wouldn’t ever go back to London. She knew the infant was magical - that much was clear - but perhaps the girl would never have to know about her heritage.

Half-delirious from her fever, the woman clasped her quill and with trembling fingers penned a desperate owl to her friend. Her visions now were only of cold earth and a beautiful dress - folded arms and flowers dotted her dreams and during her waking moments she saw the world up-side down. She could barely see the infant reaching out to grasp her fingers as she scrawled a letter to the only person she could trust.

Two days later, Absinthe sat at a bus stop, ignoring the cracks of lightning and the loud roar of heavy rain. Her mascara bled and ran down her face, dripping onto the screaming baby, but she waited nevertheless.
A haggard old man half-blind in one eye approached her, spitting on the ground and adjusting the rags binding his hands. He stared at her through his milky eye - and reached out a hand, into which the woman placed a small stone. The man inspected it, and once satisfied shrank down and morphed into a familiar frown. The infant quieted.

The woman shaking her freckled face couldn’t have been more than 25 years of age. “I won’t take it.”

“Pan- please. You have to. ”

“That’s Pandora to you.” The blue-haired woman angrily snapped. Suddenly the flush in her cheeks receded as she whispered to the distraught mother.

“You promised. You promised when you married Finlay that we’d go our separate ways. I warned you against him. You said you’d never contact me again.”

“I know, but…” The witch pleaded, her wavy grey hair dancing about her face in the wind.

“I’ve got a boy, you know. Three years old. I love him to death, and I won’t raise him or let him play with some criminal’s kid - especially Fin…” Her lip trembled and she swallowed her saliva. She seemed about to cry.

“I warned you, Abby - I really did. You knew what would happen, and you did it anyway. Frankly, I’ve got no sympathy left.”

“Then don’t do it for me. Do it for her. Merlin’s sake, I’m not asking you to keep her!” Absinthe unwrapped the bundle. Jo’s beady eyes stared at Pandora - who was wrinkling her face in disgust. A steady stream of rain was falling onto the strange witch’s umbrella. She closed it as she walked under the narrow roof of the bus-stop.

“I’m seeing Foxglove’s face, Abby. I’m seeing my brother - and everyone else that man destroyed. Trust me, it doesn’t do you any good.”

“Christ, Pan. Just take it back with you. Give it to an orphanage. Here.”

Absinthe pressed a piece of parchment into her old friend’s hand. Pan opened the parchment and sighed as the Galleons glinted. A raindrop fell on one with a soft “plink” sound. Jo giggled, waving about her tiny arms and legs.

“It’s not about the damn money, Abby.”

Absinthe looked up - the woman was gone and her blanket was empty. Wondering if she was living a grey nightmare, she pressed her hand against the warm cloth, stroking the soft felt where her child should have been - or perhaps had never belonged.

Suddenly her vision began to fade. She gripped a nearby telephone pole to steady herself - it was a prophecy.

Cold and damp - she had seen this one before. No doubt it had been triggered by her current surroundings. It would be raining during her funeral - yes. She reached out and felt the wood of the coffin, sighing. It was always too dark to see - but the flowers felt cool and refreshing on her skin. She nestled against one - wysteria and hyacinth. The dying woman smiled -someone had listened to her request. (She’d asked for only purple and red flowers, as they complimented her skin tone.)

As must be with all things, the vision ended. She picked up the sopping blanket that had fallen onto the ground, and looked up at the sky, shielding her face from the relentless sheets of water. The wind picked up as she began to walk back to an empty home or an empty grave - whichever was waiting for her.

Jo never learned about her mother - Pandora was too loyal for that. She was always just a bit lucky - she was in the right place at the right time, or knew when to dodge just before a punch. Sometimes she’d know if a friend was sad, or if an enemy had trouble brewing. She chalked it up to a keen eye. She was wrong.