Andromeda Receives a Letter

A fantasy of revenge.

She didn't blame Nymphadora. No, she wouldn't, she mustn't blame Nymphadora. She blamed him. That man who had corrupted her daughter. That man, who had stolen Nymphadora from her family, put his doubt of her mother into Nymphadora's heart and his lies in her mouth. So she didn't blame Nymphadora, but nor was she going to forgive. She lay on the floor of the breakfast room where she had fallen and hated and hated and howled.

*

Dumbledore had not even asked her to join the Order. He must have known she would refuse. Either that or he did not trust her, which was equally likely. She wondered if Nymphadora had asked him nonetheless. Probably. Andromeda hated Lord Voldemort, her daughter knew that. Everyone knew that.

*

The house elf took the letter from the owl and laid it on the breakfast table beside the marmalade. Then it hurried into its den off the kitchen, inserted two large wax plugs into its ears, and sat down to wait. It had seen the characteristic purple seal, the address written in green ink in that spidery hand, and it knew no good could come of it. No good had ever come from that quarter for Mistress Andromeda Black.

*

The elf's den was small but well appointed. It had a small, comfortable bed with a crocheted cot blanket inherited from some ghastly Muggle great-aunt of Ted's, a neat little corner cupboard with family photographs in frames on top and a stack of clean tea-towels inside. The white-painted door was fitted with the standard heavy bolt on the outside. The stairs creaked overhead and the elf pushed the plugs a little further into its ears. No sound. Mistress must have read the letter by now. Perhaps she would not be angry. Being a good elf, it had an optimistic nature where its mistress was concerned. But Andromeda Black did not have the Daily Prophet delivered, and the house elf had not read the front page. Had it done so, and could the creature have imagined what lay inside the parchment with the Hogwarts seal, it would not have been surprised when its Mistress's voice broke the silence, raised not in anger, but in terrible, heart-broken screams.

*

At first she had been angry. She usually was. Andromeda could not recall a single communication she had had with Dumbledore since she had been sixteen in which her part had not been one of anger. She did not consider herself unreasonable; she did at least open the envelopes; there was always the possibility that he might apologise. He never did. Each time she knew it with the first line, never Dear Madam Black, never courtesy, never acknowledgement of what she was, only the Headmaster's old, avuncular tones, My dear Andromeda. How dare he! How dare he! How dare he presume to be dear to her, to intimacy with a single member of an old and ancient family he had pushed close to extinction. My dear Andromeda. Oh, those smug, twinkling tones, those eyes flickering in the bearded face, those eyes that saw everything, that saw so little. What had his dear Andromeda to hear from him? There was no such woman and both of them knew it.

*

It was years ago; she was still at school, a fifth year approaching her O.W.L.s. She sat in the Headmaster's office on the penitents' side of the desk, the slip of parchment with her N.E.W.T. subject choices lying between them.

'It is an unusual choice of subject,' he said calmly, with no trace of humour. A good sign, as far as Andromeda was concerned.

'It's still in the Statutes and Ordinances. I checked, but Professor Prewitt said that I had to get your approval before he signed it off.'

'I see. I'm curious as to how you came across the possibility, Miss Black. It's hardly widely advertised.'

'One of the Aurors took it; I remember Bartemius Crouch mentioning it to Dad. Then I looked through the Daily Prophet and found that someone else had done it as well. He was called Riddle, I think. The one Mr Crouch talked about was Alastor Moody.' The Headmaster's gaze, hitherto unwavering, shifted almost imperceptibly. Andromeda wondered why. Perhaps it was the mention of Crouch. She didn't like Mr Crouch much herself, but she supposed that just because Dumbledore secretly held the same opinion that didn't necessarily mean she had to alter hers. The Headmaster's voice was unchanged.

'I understand that you wish to pursue a career in Experimental Charms?'

'Yes.'

'You are making arrangements to obtain the necessary licences for the animals?'

'Yes, Professor Dumbledore. Hagrid has kindly agreed to help me.'

Dumbledore leaned forward, his long sleeves pooling over the blotting paper.

'Tell me, Miss Black,' he said, steepling his fingers over his spectacles. 'Do you think that this is in some way funny? Or are you attempting to impress me.'

'Neither I assure you, Headmaster, not in the slightest.'

Dumbledore lowered his hands and picked up a quill. He sighed, signed the parchment with a flourish and pushed it back towards her.

'You may deliver it to Professor Prewitt.'

'Thank you, Headmaster.' Andromeda pushed her chair away with a vicious squeak across the parquet floor and left the office without looking back. Her eyes were riveted upon the parchment.

Andromeda Black: proposed N.E.W.T. level study.

Ancient Runes, Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Independent Study: Dark Arts.

Approved: A.P.W.B. Dumbledore, Headmaster

*

Andromeda didn't bother to look at the seal. No-one else had a hand quite like that. As she unfolded the letter, her glance took in the contents at a single sweep. Sirius alive, Sirius innocent, Sirius dead. Her own daughter in St Mungo's. Her elder sister fled again. Her brother-in-law in hell in the north Atlantic. Lord Voldemort returned. And now - now! - Dumbledore presumed to call her his dear, to offer comfort, to say that Sirius had not died in vain, that her cousin Sirius who for fifteen years she had thought a murderer, a traitor, a coward, that Sirius had been free, and innocent, and a Black.

*

Bastard! She knew that she had blamed him a great deal in the past. She had blamed him and blamed him, and she had known that sometimes she had done so to avoid blaming others, to avoid blaming her father, her sisters, to avoid blaming herself. Oh, Dumbledore had always been partially to blame, but there had been other contributing factors on occasion. Not this time. This, this was his fault and he would pay for it. He would pay. Someone would help her make him pay.

*

The Dark Lord was in surprisingly good humour for someone - something, Andromeda was a stickler for accuracy - whose plans had so recently and publicly gone awry. It had not been difficult to find him, but then Andromeda had some impressive resources at her command. No wonder the Ministry's results were so pathetic when they couldn't do something as simple as this. Granted, using only a higher ape didn't give quite the level of accuracy one might have desired, but it was good enough to give one a general idea of the desired location and after that it was basic spellwork and a bit of intelligence. Andromeda twirled her wand idly between her fingers and the Dark Lord drew together the ridges of skin where his eyebrows should have been.

'May I?' he asked in that dry, quiet voice.

'Be my guest' She held it out to him, the polished ebony gleaming, the inlaid unicorn ivory warm from her hand. He examined it closely and handed it back.

'Most impressive.'

'Thank you.'

'And now, to business? I am afraid that do not have a great deal of time.' He waved a long-fingered hand towards the panelled door behind him. It was rather a pleasant room, all things considered, albeit the furniture badly needed reupholstering.

'Of course, we're all so busy these days. Yes, definitely business. I'm not on your side,' she assured him, 'I simply want something and I think you might agree to help.'

'My enemy's enemy is my friend?' His laugh was nothing, a mere shudder of shallow breath.

'I think that's pushing it,' Andromeda said. 'I was thinking more along the lines of a straightforward deal.'

'A deal with the devil, then; how Gothic.'

'Don't flatter yourself.' She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the crimson arms of the chair. 'My cousin Sirius, as you know, is dead. He was also imprisoned, innocent, in Azkaban for twelve years and for that you, for once, are rather low down on the list of those to blame. Oh, you had some role in getting things started, I know, but as a disembodied spirit in...Albania, wasn't it?...you were hardly responsible for what happened afterwards.'

'And it is afterwards that concerns you,' the Dark Lord answered.

'Yes.'

'So, Madam Black, what is it that you want from me?'

'Peter Pettigrew.'

This time the laugh was a death rattle in his throat.

'And what do I get in exchange?'

'You get the cold stiff corpse of Albus Dumbledore.'

'That sounds rather to your benefit than mine. I'm not inclined to release a valuable servant. They're so hard to find these days. Certainly not when I suspect that you'll kill the old man anyway.'

'You're right, I will.' She lifted her eyes to meet his red gaze directly. 'But I can do it before or after he beats you. I'm offering you before. And I'll let you take the credit.'

'How generous. You will allow me time to consider it?'

'Of course.'

'Sherry?' He gestured towards a decanter in the Tantalus. Andromeda nodded; the bar bent, the decanter tipped, crystal glowing in the firelight, and a glass floated into her hand.

'Amontillado,' she said, 'very nice.' The Dark Lord took a glass for himself.

'You haven't asked after your sister,' he commented. Andromeda shrugged.

'Narcissa tells me she's well - or she was. At any rate, she isn't in Azkaban, which puts her a step above most of your side. You could give her my love, if she'd take it.' She hesitated. 'It was a fair fight with Sirius, I heard. I'm almost sorry I missed it.'

The Dark Lord sipped his sherry.

'Well, I must move on.' He stood, towering above her. 'I agree to your proposal. How would you like Pettigrew delivered?'

'Dead. I'll leave the details up to you.'

'Then I'll take the same, although a photograph of a masked figure in the Prophet would not be unwelcome at this juncture.'

'I'll see what I can do.' She rose from her chair, spat on her hand and held it out. The Dark Lord spat in his turn - clear, green, red, she couldn't see in the firelight - and her hand slipped over his shining palm. Oh, he was no Pureblood. He escorted her to the apparation point on the driveway in front of the old house.

'I'm curious,' he said, 'that you should hate him so very, very much, yet still be on his side.'

'I'm not.'

The Dark Lord raised the white skin where a brow should have been.

'Sometimes he has been on mine.'

*

A wand raised, a green flash, unmistakable, and a body hitting the floor unmarked. The world is not divided into good people and Death Eaters. Certainly he had been neither. Andromeda would not presume to consider herself either, but she knew she was right.