Another Perspective

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Rating: Mature
Archive Warning: Major Character Death
Category: Multi
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Dorcas Meadowes/Emmeline Vance,
Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Characters: James Potter, Lily Evans Potter, Regulus Black, Sirius Black, Narcissa
Black Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy, Emmeline Vance, Dorcas Meadowes,
Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Abraxas Malfoy
Additional Tags: Inspired by All the Young Dudes - MsKingBean89, oneshots,
Background Wolfstar, wolfstar, jily, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Canon
Compliant, First Wizarding War with Voldemort (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Series: Part 2 of ATYD - Another Perspective
Collections: Wolfstar Canon™ and Acceptable Alternatives, ficsreadin2022
Stats: Published: 2022-03-05 Updated: 2022-04-11 Words: 14,948 Chapters:
5/?
 Another Perspective
by Rollercoasterwords

Summary

a few oneshots based off of atyd - more specifically, my atyd rewrite of sirius's perspective :)

8/24/23
PLEASE DON'T POST MY FICS ON GOODREADS/STORYGRAPHS/ETC.

PLEASE DON'T REPOST MY WORKS ON ANY OTHER SITES.

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COPIES OF MY FICS.

Notes

this oneshot is set during chapter 89 of atyd - sirius's perspective ("The Week Before"). you
can read that chapter here

as a reminder, this is the spring after sirius's parents performed the cruciatus curse over
christmas to try and coerce him into pledging allegiance to voldemort. he subsequently ran
away from home, moved in with the potters, and was disowned
 Regulus: April 1976

You can’t play a pawn like a king.

It was the first thing his father taught him, when Regulus learned to play chess—can’t play a
pawn like a king, can’t play a rook like a queen, can’t play a bishop like a knight.

“The thing you have to understand about chess,” Orion had said to him—back when he still
spoke to them, back when he was still there, before he turned into a ghost that haunted his
office and drank too much at dinner and never seemed to see them, not really—“Is that each
piece has its own role.” He had gone over every one, explaining the movements, the carefully
conscripted methods by which they could travel the black and white squares.

“Remember,” his father had told him, moving his fingers over the board, “The only one that
matters is the king. Understand? All the others—you can’t hang on to them too tight. That’s a
rookie mistake. At the end of the day, it makes no difference who has more pieces left—what
matters is who’s got their king in check.”

It was an important lesson, in the Black household. Letting things go. One that his brother
had never been able to learn.

Regulus could still hear the screaming, sometimes. He could see it, painted across his eyelids
every night when he tried to sleep: his brother, collapsing, like a puppet with the strings cut.
Twitching; jerking; writhing; red, red blood pooling at his lips, dripping down his chin. And
the screaming—always, the screaming. He hadn’t even sounded human, by the end of it.

And Regulus—Regulus had stood there, watching, as the entire world narrowed into one
sharp point, one truth: that he was completely and utterly powerless to stop any of it from
happening.

Across the Great Hall, Sirius laughed. Regulus could see him, sitting at the Gryffindor table,
healthy and glowing—so far from the broken, twisted thing he had been on the floor of their
home. He was sitting with his friends, smiling like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to,
James Potter’s arm slung over his shoulder. Arrogant, stupid, perfect Potter, who had crashed
into Sirius’s life like a wrecking ball, with no idea of the damage he’d done. The collateral
he’d left behind.

“Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?” Barty asked, glancing up with his mouth full of
eggs. Regulus shook his head.

“Not hungry.”

It was stupid, he knew. An utter waste of energy, really, to hate someone who seemed barely
aware that he even existed. And yet, hadn’t he always been the beginning of the end?
Regulus still remembered it: Sirius coming home for Christmas, that first year, the
overwhelming relief he’d felt to finally have his big brother back—only for him to go on and
on, endlessly, about James fucking Potter.
Maybe he should have expected it. After all, wasn’t that just what Regulus was? An heir and
a spare. He’d always known it, with their parents. It had just taken him longer to realise, with
Sirius.

But after five years of leaving, of watching his brother walk out the door, Regulus knew
better than to hope for anything different. It was almost a relief, this time, to know that it was
for good. Waiting for him to come back—that had always been the hardest part.

So Regulus wasn’t sure why he kept following him. It had been an accident, at first—he’d
caught sight of Sirius in the corridors, walking to class, talking animatedly with Potter about
some nonsense, and before he knew it he’d been standing down the hall on the third floor,
watching them disappear into the Transfiguration classroom when he was supposed to be in
the dungeons for Potions. It was the first time Regulus had ever been late to class.

He was more careful, after that; only following when he had a free, or sometimes on
weekends, when his friends were busy and he could be sure that no one would catch on to
what he was doing—any way you looked at it, Regulus knew it was pathetic. Sneaking
around after his brother like some sort of demented creep—he’d even stumbled upon him
snogging his loud-mouthed girlfriend, by accident, so now that was burned into his brain
forever.

But it was just…the screams. He heard them so, so clearly, every night before he fell asleep,
and if he could just see Sirius—just see him laughing, or smiling, healthy and whole and
untouched…

Well. It didn’t make things better, not really. But it made it a little easier to breathe.

By the end of April, it had become almost routine, following his brother around. It was why
he’d fucked up, why he’d gotten lazy, why he suddenly found himself, one afternoon, pulled
into a room he had never seen before in his life, where Sirius stood in front of him, arms
folded across his chest.

“Alright,” his brother said, frowning, “Spit it out.”

Regulus blinked, stunned, trying to get his bearings. They were in some sort of sitting room,
with a fire crackling in the grate and a few books stacked near two plush armchairs. His eyes
snagged on the table, a little wooden thing, sitting off to the side—there was a chess set on
top, set up for a game. For a moment, his mind went blank.

“That’s my chess set,” Regulus heard himself say, “The one mum got me for my eighth
birthday.”

It was impossible—their mother had smashed it. Regulus still remembered all the tiny,
delicate pieces, with their colourful painted designs, shattering as she screamed at him,

Boys don’t cry!

“Reg,” Sirius said, insistent, “Why are you following me?”

But it looked exactly the same, it had to be…

After a moment, Regulus realised that his brother had spoken. That his brother was looking at
him, arms still crossed, expecting an explanation—an explanation that Regulus couldn’t even
begin to give.

“I’m not—” He started to speak, then stopped; what was the point in lying? Sirius already
had him cornered, it wasn’t like he could deny it.

“Why are you following me?” His brother was still frowning, but it was different, now.
Searching, rather than irritated. After a moment, he added, “I’m not angry. I just…want to
know.”

Words spilled onto Regulus’s tongue—bitter words, hateful words. You want to know? Now
you want to know? Have I got your attention, Sirius? Have you finally remembered that I’m
still here?

Stupid—none of it even made sense. Regulus swallowed it, all of it, looking back at the chess
set. He stepped towards it, studying the pieces—they had the exact same patterns, he was
sure. Regulus remembered them; he had been so thrilled with the gift that he had spent an
entire hour just staring at it, just picking the pieces up and examining each one, tracing the
little colourful pictures that some artist had painstakingly created.

Behind him, Sirius took a breath.

“Have they…hurt you?”

Regulus whipped around, shocked. “What? No—that’s not—no.”

“If they have, you can tell me, it’s alright.”

“I said no, Sirius. I’m fine.”

His brother was looking at him—really looking. Regulus could feel his heartbeat in his
throat, fast and choking. He reached down, picking up one of the pawns from the board,
rolling it in his fingers.

“I can get you out,” Sirius said.

Regulus felt as if he had just swallowed glass.

“What?”

He used the dead-voice, the one he had learned after Sirius left. When there was no big
brother to step in front of their mother as she hissed, Boys don’t cry!

“I can get you out, Reg. I can.” Now Sirius was speaking quickly, a frantic gleam in his eye,
“You could stay with me, at the Potters—they’d take you in, I know they would—you just—
if you want to leave, you can. You just have to want it. Dumbledore—I asked him after
Christmas, but there was nothing he could do, not unless you were in immediate danger and I
—I said you weren’t.”

Of course, Regulus thought, numbly, Dumbledore. The Potters. The perfect fucking Potters,
bloody saints among men. He gripped the pawn in his fist, squeezing it.

“But if you went to him—if you asked him, if you told him you wanted to leave—I could go
with you, I’m sure that he’d—”

Regulus laughed.

It was a humourless laugh, the kind of laugh that sucked the joy from a room. It was the
laugh Regulus used when he wanted to make somebody feel small; another lesson he’d
learned from their mother.

“Dumbledore isn’t going to get me out.”

Sirius stared at him, as if he were just being stubborn. “He could, if he knew you were in
danger—if you told him you wanted to leave—”

“I didn’t say he couldn’t. I said he won’t.”

Now Regulus could see the anger rising in his brother’s eyes, that familiar flaring temper that
Sirius had never learned to control. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Regulus stared at him. “Do you honestly think Dumbledore gives a shit about you? About me
—about any of us?” Are you really that fucking dense?

“What kind of question is that?”

“A serious one. Do you actually think he sees any of us as more than anything but—”
Regulus broke off, feeling the shape of the pawn in his hand. He laughed before he could stop
himself, sharp and exasperated, frustration running tense through the muscles of his back.

“If Dumbledore cares so bloody much, why didn’t he report it? There was never an
investigation, Sirius, not even a fucking secretary from the Ministry knocking on our door.
They were using unforgivables on you for forty minutes, and nothing happened.”

Regulus knew he was getting into dangerous territory. He could feel the emotion, so carefully
tucked away, beginning to swell—like ice, melting and cracking in his chest.

“That’s not true,” his brother insisted, “He got me out.”

“You got yourself out! The fucking—Potters got you out! Dumbledore’s the one who sent you
back in there!” He knew he should stop talking, could feel his control slipping—but it was
too late, everything was spilling out, “If he’s such a bleeding fucking heart, then why didn’t
he get you out after last summer? Why send you back, when he knew—”

“He didn’t know! I didn’t tell him!”

“I TOLD HIM!”

Regulus was shouting, heart pounding so hard he could barely breathe. He didn’t even know
who he was angry with, anymore—their parents or the Potters or Dumbledore or Sirius, for
being unable to see that they were all the same.

“…What?”

Regulus took a breath. “I told him,” he repeated, “I went to Dumbledore. The day after we
arrived at Hogwarts. When you—” He faltered, for a moment, thinking of that day on the
train, the stubborn set of his brother’s jaw, the pain he’d tried to hide. “Said you weren’t
going to see Pomfrey. I told him.”

Sirius stared at him like he’d just been sucker-punched.

“Why?”

Regulus stared back, disbelieving. The question was entirely genuine, as if his brother
couldn’t possibly understand what would have driven him to ask for help. To beg for help.

“Sirius, I had to drag you out of a pool of your own blood. I couldn’t use magic; I had to
force you to walk up the stairs, with your legs—” He had to pause, to breathe, to fight back
the lump in his throat. Boys don’t cry!

After a moment, Regulus continued, voice wiped clean of emotion. “I told Dumbledore what
had happened. I told him that you couldn’t go back home. I told him that he had to get you
out of there, because I thought that next time, she might kill you. Do you know what he
said?”

Sirius was staring at him, eyes like a begging dog.

“He said, ‘Do you know what caused your mother to take such extreme measures?’ Those
were his words—extreme measures. He didn’t even ask if you were alright, just wanted to
know if it had anything to do with Voldemort.”

Sirius shook his head. “That…that’s not…”

Regulus didn’t wait for him to finish, digging in,

“Once he realised that it was just ‘a private family matter,’ he didn’t care. Said the domestic
misuse of magic laws were too vague. That there was nothing he could do unless you came to
him directly, because there wasn’t any proof.” Regulus thought of Dumbledore’s cold eyes,
his benign smile, the way he’d sat behind his desk with his hands folded calmly. I’m sorry,
Mr. Black, but I’m afraid that there’s nothing more I can do.

“He knew that anything you heard from our parents about Voldemort would go straight back
to the Potters, and it was more useful to send you back than it was to protect you.”

Sirius was still shaking his head, back and forth, robotically. “What—he told you all that?”
“He didn’t have to.” Regulus huffed a laugh, “You’re not—a strategist, Sirius; you always
get so caught up in the big picture, and you never consider the details. You don’t think the
way he does.”

His brother snorted, frowning. “Strategist,” he muttered, glancing pointedly at the table, “I’ve
beaten you at chess.”

Regulus thought of games in the library, quiet afternoons, pieces moving across the board.
The way Sirius never learned, always fell into the same predictable patterns. How he never
wanted to lose any pieces—how he played every pawn like a king.

“Only because I know you won’t play unless you think you can win.”

His brother didn’t seem to know what to do with that. For a moment, there was something
vulnerable in his face, lip trembling—something that made Regulus’s heart ache.

Did you really not know? He wanted to ask, Did you really not see that I was letting you win?

But then Sirius’s face hardened, jaw setting stubbornly, as though he’d come to a decision.

“I don’t care if you don’t trust Dumbledore,” he said, “I can get you out. You can stay with
me at the Potters.”

Regulus felt like screaming. It was like he hadn’t even fucking listened, hadn’t heard a single
word that he’d said—

“I’ll—I’ll break you out, if I have to, I can—”

“Break me out?”

In his throat, his heart had gone still. Sirius’s eyes flashed with determination, a familiar
expression. When they were little, it had made Regulus feel safe. It had meant that his big
brother was there, and nothing was going to hurt him.

“I can do it, Reg, James had this whole plan last summer—if we came at night, James has a
way to sneak in, I can’t explain how, but we wouldn’t be caught, and if we brought our
brooms—”

“No.”

Regulus stared at him, cold horror sinking in as he listened to Sirius speak. You bastard, he
thought, furiously, You stupid fucking bastard. But Sirius wasn’t listening. He was never, ever
listening.

“It’s really not that far to fly back to the Potters’, we’ve looked it up, and if we had a head
start—”

“I don’t want to go.” Regulus forced the words through his teeth, and Sirius finally stopped
speaking.
“What?”

He spoke slowly, enunciating each word. “I. Don’t. Want. To go.”

It had been silly, really. Naïve, to think that anything good could come of—this. He should
have known what would happen—should have known that his brother, his stupid, reckless
brother, would try to play the hero. Regulus could picture it, so clearly: Sirius, crashing
through the door like a shooting star, all bluster and misplaced confidence, something already
dying, something that could only burn up or burn out.

They’ll kill you, he thought, If you come back. They’ll kill you, you fucking idiot.

“Reg…” Sirius breathed, staring at him like he was the one who had left, like he was the one
who’d turned his back, “If you stay, you know they—they’ll—”

Regulus wanted to scream. I know what they’ll fucking do! He wanted to shout, I know it—I
know fucking all of it, I know more than you ever have. But there was no point in screaming.
Sirius never listened.

“I don’t want to go.”

“But—why? You—I thought—”

It hurt, the way his brother was looking at him. Like this was some sort of—betrayal. It was
never going to be both of us, Regulus thought, watching Sirius search for words. An heir and
a spare.

Sirius was never going to let this go. He could see that. He could see it in the way that his jaw
was still stubbornly set, in the white-knuckled fists at his sides. Because Sirius couldn’t let
things go, could never let things go—because he was always standing up, always talking
back, always stumbling around, looking for a sword to fall on. Leaving everyone else behind
to mop up the blood when he ripped himself open.

“You really are pathetic, aren’t you?” Regulus said. You bastard, he thought, You stupid,
heroic bastard.

Sirius looked like he’d been slapped. Regulus kept talking.

“Just because I don’t enjoy seeing you tortured doesn’t mean I want to run off and play house
with your filthy little blood traitors. Unlike you, I have no desire to disgrace and degrade our
family name. I’m not a failure.”

“You don’t mean that,” Sirius whispered, watching him.

He won’t let it go, Regulus thought, He won’t give up. Not as long as he thinks he can win.
But that was alright. Fourteen years in the Black family had taught him how to go for the
throat.

“You’re despicable, Sirius. You had every opportunity, and you wasted it, threw it all away to
chase some compulsive need to feel like a hero. You made your entire family into an enemy
just so that you’d have something to fight against, because you can’t accept that there’s
nothing inherently righteous about your stupid fucking self-destruction. You—you either
abandon the people you love or you pull them into the crossfire, and you’re too fucking
selfish to even acknowledge that that’s what you’re doing. So no, I don’t want to go with you.
I don’t want to live with you. I hate you.”

It was true. All of it—it was true. That was how to make it hurt; by only saying the things
you believed.

But Sirius wouldn’t give up. He took it, absorbed each of the words like physical blows, and
stayed standing, fists clenched. “I’m still your—”

“Shut UP, Sirius!” He was shouting, now, emotion rising dangerously once more. “Just stop
it!” Regulus sucked in a breath, and thought of James Potter—his easy smile, his braying
laugh, the way he’d throw his arm around Sirius’s shoulder, and they would smile at each
other, like they had never been happier anywhere else.

Regulus forced himself to say it: the worst the truth. The one that hurt the most.

“You aren’t my brother. You haven’t been for a long time.”

Sirius sagged, like all the air had been punched out of him. “You don’t mean that,” he said, in
a voice that was far, far too fragile.

I do, Regulus begged, silently, Please just—leave. Please don’t make me do this.

“Reg, I can get you out. Just—let me get you out.”

Please, Regulus thought, desperately. But Sirius stayed, standing in front of him. For once, he
stayed.

“Do you know what mum says about you?” Regulus heard his own voice, as if from far away,
“What she’s told me? She rattles on and on about it, when you’re not there. How depraved
you are. How impure.”

Sirius looked like he’d been gutted. Regulus knew, watching him, that he would hate himself
a little for the rest of his life.

“You disgust me.” He sneered, smiling cruelly, sharply, “Do you really think you’re fooling
anyone, with your little mudblood girlfriend?”

It was enough—it had to be enough. Regulus didn’t know how else he could hurt him.

When Sirius didn’t speak, he continued, strangling the desperation in his chest.

“Just go away, Sirius,” he begged, “You’ve already left. If you’re really so desperate to do
something for me, then stay away. Don’t ever come back. It makes me sick to look at you.”

Regulus didn’t wait to see if his brother would respond, just moved to the door, fighting
nausea. He had almost escaped when Sirius spoke, from behind him.
“You never answered my question.”

Regulus hesitated.

“What?” It was more statement than question. Dead-voice, emotionless.

“Why you’ve been following me,” Sirius said, flatly, “I want to know why you’ve been
following me.”

For a moment, he nearly crumbled—nearly fell to pieces in the doorway, imploding with all
the answers that scrambled up his throat.

Because I miss you. Because I want to see you. Because when I close my eyes I can still hear
you screaming, and I need to know that you’re okay.

Regulus clutched the chess piece in his fist.

You can’t play a pawn like a king.

“It doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again.”

 Narcissa: August 1979
Chapter Notes

cw: suicide mention, blood, self-harm (kinda?), + general grief over a dead relative

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Dear Narcissa,

The letter read,

Dear Narcissa,

If you’re reading this, then I am already dead.

She had to stop there, for a moment. To press her eyes shut. To breathe.

Outside, the sun was shining, still heavy with summer. September was just around the corner,
but August was fighting her all the way—kicking and screaming against the chill that had
begun to creep in with the evenings, hinting at fall.

I know that it’s selfish of me, to be writing you. I know that. And I’m sorry, I really am—
please believe me when I say that the last thing I want is to put you in danger. I have no idea
what you might hear about the circumstances of my death; I’ve done my best to ensure that
the family will be safe, should the worst happen. If I know it’s coming, I’ll tell Kreacher to
make it look like a suicide.

Walpurga had screamed, when they’d found the body. She’d screamed, and she’d kept
screaming; she’d cursed anyone that tried to come near her; she’d waded into the pond
herself, in silk robes, clutching his bloodless face to her chest. That black hair, floating like
seaweed in the murk…
I think it will be better that way. Safer, at least.

Narcissa stood, letter clutched in her fist, hands trembling. She walked forward a few steps;
then stopped, swaying. I’m going to be sick, she thought. For some reason, it almost felt
funny.

Please, don’t look into it. Whatever story they tell you, I promise, it’s fine. That isn’t why I’m
writing this letter.

The carpet beneath her feet was a family heirloom, passed down for generations. It was
delicate; sensitive; magic woven into every thread. If she vomited now, she could destroy it.
She could ruin it forever.

I just need to say goodbye.

Lucius would be angry. But he was always angry, these days. And it would be the perfect
opportunity, wouldn’t it, to tell him—

I need to say it to someone. And I’m sorry, Narcissa, I truly am, that it has to be you.

The last time they’d spoken, he’d been holding a glass of wine. “Are you sure…” he’d asked,
in that hesitant way that made him look younger, made Narcissa feel like they were still just
kids, scrambling through flowerbeds, playing hide-and-go-seek, “Are you sure that you want
it to be me?”

She still had the wine bottle, in the kitchen. He’d brought it over tipsy, already half-drunk,
pleading, “Fly with me, Cissy—c’mon, don’t you miss it? Just this once—don’t we deserve
some fun?”

She had laughed at him, shrugged him off. “I don’t even know where I put my old broom—it’s
up in the attic, somewhere.” A lie; she knew exactly where it was. She still snuck up,
sometimes, to polish the handle.

Narcissa walked to the kitchen slowly. The bottle was there, shoved into the back of a
cabinet, somewhere that Lucius wouldn’t accidentally stumble upon it. She was pretty sure
Regulus had bought it from a muggle grocer, and that alone made it worthy of hiding;
besides, it was cheap shit, undeserving of the wine cellar. (“You have to stop punishing
yourself, Regulus,” she’d said, reading the label. She’d meant it as a joke-but-not, and he’d
laughed-but-not, pressing a glass into her hands. “Drink with me, Cissy. If we can’t fly, at
least we can drink.”)

Narcissa stared at it. Foggy green glass, ugly pink label. She could drink it, now, if she
wanted to. She could drink the whole thing.

I know I made promises. I said I’d be there, and I want to—Merlin, Narcissa, you know I
want to. I hope you never have to read this; I hope I come home and burn it and never think
of it again. But this is bigger than me; it’s bigger than all of us. I wish I could explain why,
but I can’t—not without putting you at risk. And I know what you would say to that; I know
you don’t need protecting. But if you’re reading this, then I guess you’ll just have to trust me.

“Not Bellatrix?” He’d asked, searching her face, “Me? Are you sure?” When they were
younger, she’d towered over him; that night, they’d stood eye to eye.

“Bella’s my sister, and I love her,” she’d said, swallowing her guilt. “But…I trust you,
Regulus. I think you’d do a good job.”

Narcissa picked up the wine bottle, holding it with both hands.

I know it’s not fair of me to say that, but. Well. I suppose there’s nothing either of us can do
about it now, is there?

She wouldn’t even need to use a glass—just a snap of her fingers, and the cork would be out.
She could drink straight from the bottle, fingers wrapped around its neck.

I’m sorry that I won’t get to meet them. I want to, Cissy, I wish that I could. I’d love them to
death. I know you will, too. And I know that I have no right to ask it of you, but I need to ask
anyway.

Half a bottle of wine. Half a bottle of wine would get her properly drunk, get her sleepy and
slow, get her warm and floating and blissfully disconnected. Half a bottle of wine and she
might even forget, for a second, that he was dead.
Promise me things will be different for them, Cissy. Don’t let them get tangled up, not the way
we did. Leave, if you have to—promise me. This war is eating you too, I can see it, and we
can’t let it happen again. It has to end, somewhere. If what you asked me meant anything—let
it mean that. Promise me.

“I can’t drink that,” she’d said, and he’d said, “What, not refined enough for your delicate
palate?” And she’d thought, This is it. This is where I tell someone.

Narcissa smashed the bottle against the wall.

She smashed it again.

And again.

The wine dripped like blood towards the floor.

I don’t want to die.

Her hands were bleeding.

But if it means something—if it gives someone a chance. I have to believe that it will be worth
it.

The glass was everywhere, glittering and green.

I’m sorry, Narcissa.

She walked over it, barefoot. She tracked blood on the floor.

Your cousin,

Regulus
 When Lucius came home, he found her in front of the fire. She was sitting on the rug, staring
straight ahead, into the flames. They danced.

“Narcissa?” He frowned, setting down the briefcase that he used for his work at the ministry
(There was a separate briefcase, for his other job. The one he took to the Dark Lord’s
meetings). “Merlin, what—” he froze, staring down at the carpet in horror. “Is that blood?”

Narcissa said nothing, staring blankly ahead. Once, she would have greeted him at the door.
Once, she would have smiled, and kissed him, and taken his cloak. Once, he had been her
entire world; she had risked her life, simply to have him. Narcissa still remembered that girl
—defiant, eyes shining, staring down her entire family as she dared them to try and take him
from her. Her single act of rebellion, in eighteen long years.

Now, that girl felt like a stranger. Narcissa still searched for her sometimes, in the mirror. But
she never found her, not anymore.

“This was a wedding gift, Narcissa—do you have any idea how many generations this has
been in my family?!”

Ask me whose blood it is, she begged, silently, Ask me why I was bleeding.

“How could you be so careless?! This is hundreds of years worth of magic, and you’ve
ruined it! I don’t even want to think about what my mother will say when she sees this—my
father—”

Ask me, she screamed, without opening her mouth, ask me, ask me, ask me.

“—even listening to me?! What were you thinking? How could you do this?!”

He paused, breathing heavily, waiting for a response. In the fireplace, ashes lined the grate,
grey and smooth as silk. If she stuck her hand in, they’d be soft to the touch.

“Godfather?” Regulus had said, like she was breaking his heart, “Me?”

“Narcissa? Are you listening to me?”

She turned to look at him, and it took her by the throat. Merlin, she thought, But he’s still so
beautiful.

“Narcissa?”

Lucius was waiting. She opened her mouth.

“I’m pregnant.”

Chapter End Notes

ok ignore this if u don't care about plotholes

one of the things that bothered me about regulus's death is like...how did people know he
died?? if he got dragged down in the cave and drowned, wouldn't....nobody ever find the
body? and if they did, wouldn't voldemort have known that reg tried to get the horcrux
and checked on it or something?
so the headcanon i'm using to patch over that is that kreacher was somehow able to
return to the cave and retrieve his body (magic exists, let me have a deus ex machina)
and then staged it so that it looked like regulus had purposely drowned himself. so that's
that explanation just felt the need to clarify here
 Emmeline: Spring 1981
Chapter Summary

this chapter is set chronologically just before chapter 171 of atyd/atyd sirius pov

Chapter Notes

cw: two very minor/side character deaths, and also there's some sort of iffy/coercive sex
stuff that i'm not entirely sure how to tag...no SA and absolutely no details/nothing
graphic; but while it's all technically consenual there are a lot of other factors at play. i'm
going to include a description in the notes at the bottom explaining what happens, so if
this sounds like it could be a concern for you please check that out first!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“I’m going to be away for a while,” Dorcas called from the bathroom, buttoning her shirt.
She’d left the door open; Emmeline watched her, in the mirror.

“Oh,” she said, “Ok.”

Dorcas glanced up, and their eyes met. She’d cropped her hair, recently, curls tight against
her scalp. It made the rest of her features stand out – cheekbones sharper, eyes rounder, brows
thicker. Emmeline thought about standing, about going to her, about kissing the back of her
neck and undoing the buttons and asking her to stay.

But that wasn’t something they did.

“How long will you be gone?” She rolled onto her side, hair spilling over her shoulder,
enjoying the way Dorcas’s eyes leapt to follow the line of her waist in the mirror before
turning back to the buttons.

A shrug. “Not sure.”

“Where will you be?”

“Can’t say.”

“Dangerous?”

“Probably.”
“Will you miss me?”

Dorcas looked up again, the ghost of a smile playing over her lips.

“You know I will.”

She spoke softly, and Emmeline felt a tug in her gut—go to her, go to her. So she laughed,
and rolled onto her back, and stared up at the ugly stucco ceiling.

“They always do.”

She said it flippantly, with the smug little smile she had perfected over the years—the one
that said I’m gorgeous and I know it, that said You’re lucky I’m here, that said Did you really
think you were in my league? Emmeline had broken hearts, with that smile. She had brought
men to their knees.

Not Dorcas, though. Dorcas only rolled her eyes, and finished getting dressed, and plucked
her bag from off the dresser where she’d left it.

“I’ll see you later,” she said, casually, before walking out the door.

She was always the first to leave.

* * *

It had started when they were both still at Hogwarts, over three years ago, now. A drunken
kiss in the bathroom at a party—Emmeline didn’t even remember who had started it. They’d
both been complaining about boys, because somehow each of them had been stupid enough
to date one of the bloody marauders (honestly—who the fuck nicknames their friend
group?).

“At least you knew what you were getting, with Sirius,” Dorcas had giggled, leaning
drunkenly against the sink, “He always acts like a right dick. I thought Peter was nice, but
he’s just as bad as the rest of them—”

“Nuh-uh,” Emmeline smushed a finger against her lips, shushing her, “Nobody is worse than
Sirius Black. That bastard made me feel properly shit—me!” She gestured to herself, as
evidence for what a horrible crime this was; Emmeline Vance had been told her whole life
that she was one thing, and that was beautiful. So she was supposed to have immunity against
boys acting like dickheads, because boys were supposed to like you if you were beautiful.

Except that that had all been a load of utter tosh. Turned out that being beautiful just meant
boys wanted to fuck you before they treated you like crap.

“I can’t believe anyone would make you feel like shit,” Dorcas had said, still giggling—
except there had been something else in her eyes as they ran over Emmeline, a spark that
made her stomach do a little flip.

“Well,” she’d leaned in a little, as the hand she’d had pressed against Dorcas’s face slid to the
other girl’s shoulder, “No one ever will again, that’s for sure.”

And Dorcas had asked, “Yeah?” And Emmeline had breathed, “Yeah,” and then they’d just
been staring at each other, something happening that Emmeline couldn’t quite place her
finger on—and then they’d been kissing. Just like that.

They went back to the party, afterwards, and re-joined their separate groups of friends, and
acted as though it had never happened. Until Valentine’s Day, when Emmeline had a very
loud argument with Roman Rotherhide in the hallway, and then in Divination Dorcas passed
her a note that said, ‘no date on V-day?’ with a little frowny-face drawn next to it, and
Emmeline snorted and looked up and their eyes met, and the next thing she knew they were
back in her dorm room, tearing their robes off and twisting fingers in hair and running hands
over skin and under skirts.

It happened a few more times, after that.

Every time it felt sudden, hungry and rushed. Every time, they would straighten their clothes
and button their shirts and return to classes or friends or schoolwork without talking about it,
hardly speaking to each other until the next time one of them caught the other’s eye, with that
familiar glint…

It was perfect, and fun, and everything they both wanted: no strings attached. They would
mess around and go back to their lives and when the term was over they would both leave
school and go their separate ways and look back on it fondly, one more memory of all the
good times at Hogwarts.

Except that school ended, and Emmeline showed up to that first Order meeting, and Dorcas
was there. And she hadn’t known what to say—they’d never actually talked about what they
were planning to do after school. It wasn’t like they were friends, not really.

So she hadn’t said anything, aside from standard small talk and a polite greeting. When the
meeting ended, they both left, and didn’t speak again for weeks.

Sometimes, Emmeline wished that they’d never spoken again at all.

* * *

“Will I see you again?” He asked, hovering awkwardly in the hallway as she reached down to
slip her heels on.

Emmeline shrugged. She was drawing a blank on his name—it was something bland,
forgettable. John? Paul?
“Er—I could call a cab? Or if you’re close I could walk you…”

George…Ringo…?

“I’m fine.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Emmeline sighed. This was why she tried not to revisit—one-night-stands only, it was her
personal rule. But she’d just happened to stumble across him in the bar – a friend of one of
her older brother’s friends, who she’d met over the holidays a few months earlier at
someone’s party. They’d had a good bit of fun on New Year’s Eve, and he’d clearly been
happy to see her again, so she’d just figured – why not?

As he watched her grab her purse with that kicked-dog look that was becoming so familiar,
Emmeline reminded herself that this was why not. Men were all so fucking needy; sleep with
them twice, and suddenly they wanted you to meet their mothers and come home for Sunday
dinner. No thank you.

She reached for the doorknob, and he tried one more time.

“Do you have a phone number? Just—so I can call, make sure you get home safe…”

Emmeline pressed her eyes shut, irritation crawling through her gut. Then she plastered on a
bright, pretty smile, glancing over her shoulder.

“Sure!” She chirped. He scrambled for a pen and paper, then scribbled eagerly as she rattled
off the number for her second favourite Chinese place. It got him off her back, finally, and the
moment the door had shut behind her she apparated away.

Back in her own flat, she kicked off her heels and ran the shower, letting out a relieved sigh
the moment she stepped beneath the hot spray. Her muscles unwound, slowly, and she tugged
her fingers through her wet hair, letting them snag on the tangles.

Dorcas still wasn’t back yet. It had only been a week since she’d left—nothing to worry
about, really. They’d both been absent for longer periods of time, off on jobs for Moody and
Dumbledore. Still, Emmeline had spent half the last Order meeting scanning the room,
watching the door, waiting for Dorcas to slip in silently and squeeze into the back of the
crowded space. She was so good at that—going unnoticed.

“Sometimes, I feel like you’re the only one who sees me.”

The memory rose, unbidden, as Emmeline shut her eyes – the words breathed against her
lips, foreheads pressed together. She remembered the broken noise that had slipped from her
own throat as Dorcas touched her, the desperate hunger in the other girl’s voice as she’d said
Open your eyes, Em—look at me, I want to see you, want to see when you—

Emmeline shut off the water, grabbing a towel and stepping out of the bathroom. She had a
meeting with Moody in two hours; she had to get dressed. She had to focus.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from remembering as she rifled through the closet, as she sat
down to brush her hair. When she grabbed the brush, a single pearl earring went skittering
across the top of her dresser; for a moment she froze, staring at it.

They’d avoided each other, at first. Emmeline Vance rarely felt off-balance, but around
Dorcas…well, she didn’t know how to act. What to expect. Their thing at Hogwarts had just
been fun; they’d been kids, messing around at school. And now, suddenly, they were adults,
fighting a war – going to serious meetings and risking their lives and learning more about
dark magic than either of them had ever thought they would. It wasn’t as if they could just act
like they had back in school. And they’d never been friends, exactly, so why would anything
change that now?

Halfway through the summer, Moody had sent them both up to Glasgow for a reconnaissance
mission which mostly involved sitting around in cars and crouching in bushes, trying to
figure out if the death eaters were conducting any operations out of the city – they already
knew about a base in Edinburgh, but Moody suspected that there was at least one hideout in
every major city, and he was determined to find them all.

It was excruciating. Emmeline kept finding her eyes drawn to the line of Dorcas’s throat as
she swallowed, the parting of her lips as she breathed, the slide of long braids over her
shoulders. Every memory of their frantic encounters at Hogwarts—pressed into broom
cupboards, tugged into empty classrooms, shoved back behind parted bedcurtains—was
suddenly burning at the forefront of her mind; around lunchtime, Dorcas had pulled an
orange from her bag and begun eating it, juice dripping down her chin. Emmeline felt as
though she might go mad.

They’d barely spoken two words to each other the entire day, watching and waiting in silence
from their various hiding spots. But when they checked into the run-down muggle motel
where they were spending the night, Emmeline had been on Dorcas the instant the door shut,
pressing her up against the wall, fingers twisted in her shirt.

“Tell me to stop,” she’d said, and Dorcas had smiled.

“It was the orange, wasn’t it?”

And—well. There was no going back, after that.

* * *

“Vance,” Moody barked, gruffly, as he slid into the seat next to her, “You’re doing well, I
trust?”

She shot him a wry smile, running a finger through the condensation on her glass. “As well
as any of us, I suppose.”
Moody grunted in response, gesturing to the bartender.

It was a muggle pub, but the owner was a Squib—sympathetic to the Order, of course, and he
often let them use the location for private meetings, ensuring that patrons steered clear of the
end stretch of bar and saying nothing when Moody cast his barrage of silencing and illusion
charms, to keep off prying eyes and ears.

The two of them waited for the bartender to bring over a pint for Moody; Emmeline sipped
her own drink, patiently. Mad-Eye hadn’t told her what this meeting was about, but she had
some idea of what it might involve. At least – she knew the sorts of things he usually wanted
to talk about, when he called on her outside of Order meetings, away from the rest of their
allies. Somewhere they could speak without being overheard.

“We have an…opportunity.” Moody said, carefully, once he had his beer. “A target.”

“Ah.” Emmeline nodded, taking another sip of her drink. She’d suspected as much.

The problem with fighting for the Order of the Phoenix was that it was full of good people,
people who believed in noble causes and grand gestures and love and freedom and peace and
all the bullshit they were fighting for. People who believed in heroes and villains, and clear
lines between them.

Emmeline had believed it all, too. At first. But she had always been more strategist than
idealist, and she’d realised quickly that war wasn’t about heroes and villains – it was about
soldiers. And fighting for the greater good was still a fight. You couldn’t win unless you were
willing to get your knuckles bloody.

Moody understood that. Dumbledore did, too. They also understood that the Order had an
image to maintain; the noble heroes, fighting darkness. They understood that good people
needed a cause to believe in, that good people could only go on fighting if they believed,
somehow, that their violence was good. That they were fighting a clean fight. That a clean
fight could exist, in the first place, in the middle of a war.

Emmeline didn’t care about a clean fight. Maybe she had, once—but not anymore.

She cared about surviving. She cared about winning. Moody knew that. It was why he’d
asked her to meet him.

“Abraxas Malfoy,” He said. Emmeline nearly choked on her drink.

“Malfoy?” She frowned, dropping her voice to a furtive whisper despite the silencing spells,
“I thought he was untouchable.”

“He is,” Moody said, grimly, “That’s why we need to take him out. He’s got too much sway
at the Ministry—the entire Department of International Magical Cooperation is in his
stranglehold.”

Emmeline nodded, slowly.

“You want me to kill him, then.”

Moody held her gaze.

“Yes.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d asked it of her—not really. A year into the war, Emmeline had
begun to notice the nature of her assignments shifting, slightly. She still went on raids, still
stood guard, still assisted Caradoc in breaking curses (until he disappeared, of course—but
she tried not to think about that). But she found herself being selected, more and more often,
for missions that required…a heavier hand. A quicker wand. Less hesitation.

At first, she thought it was a reflection on her duelling skills; she’d been happy to be noticed,
proud, even. But eventually, she began to realise that it wasn’t because she was more skilled,
necessarily, than wizards like Potter or Black or Evans. It was just that she was willing to do
the things that they couldn’t—the things that they didn’t.

“How?” She asked Moody, without batting an eye. He smiled at her, grimly.

“It needs to happen quietly, and it needs to look natural. Malfoy’s association with the death
eaters isn’t public knowledge; if his death were to be traced back to the Order, it would ruin
us. It’s why we can’t strike against him directly.”

He paused, withdrawing a small vial from the pocket of his robes and setting it very, very
delicately on top of the bar.

“There’s going to be a…meeting, of sorts, amongst some of the politicians from the
Department of International Magical Cooperation and a delegation from the French Ministry
of Magic.” Moody’s voice was low, furtive, “It’s a boys’ club, really, and there are always
certain…entertainments…provided.”

“Let me guess,” Emmeline said, mouth twisting sourly, “You want me to…infiltrate?”

Moody smiled, dryly. “You’ll go as the date of the assistant to the French Minister of
International Wizarding Relations. He’s already been confunded. You’ll need to use the
opportunity to get Malfoy alone—by whatever means necessary.”

Emmeline swallowed. “Abraxas Malfoy is married, if I remember correctly.”

Moody continued to stare at her, shamelessly. “His wife won’t be there.”

“Right,” Emmeline released a sharp breath through her nose, looking down at the bar, “It’s
that sort of meeting, then.”

“Look,” Moody said, impatiently, “This is a political circle-jerk. It’s a group of old, powerful
men getting together with other old, powerful men to puff out their chests and brag about
who’s got the bigger prick, alright? And it’s our best shot at getting Malfoy alone.”

He gestured to the little vial on the bar, dropping his voice back down, “This is a form of
weaponised dragon pox.”

“What?!”
“It’s been in covert development for several months. Very few in the Order know of its
existence—and no one outside of our ranks. Once you have him alone, find a way to place at
least three drops on his skin, without letting it touch you. After you’ve done that, you’ll have
twenty minutes to get out before the disease takes hold and he becomes contagious.”

Emmeline swallowed, feeling vaguely sick.

“You know what you’re asking of me?” She said, once she was sure that she could keep her
voice steady, “You want me to…”

“I know.” Moody said, cutting her off. For a moment, his face softened, and there was
something like guilt in his eyes.

“You’re a brilliant witch, Vance. And you have demonstrated a dedication to this cause far
beyond many – I am only asking you to do this because you’ve already proven to me that you
can.” He sighed, heavily, “I wish I didn’t have to ask it, but I do, and I won’t insult you with
empty apologies for that. We both know that sacrifices have to be made if we’re going to win
this war.”

Emmeline swallowed. After a moment, she reached out, picking up the vial.

“Alright,” she said, “I’ll do it.”

* * *

Dorcas arrived just as she’d finished zipping up her dress, apparating into the flat with an ear-
splitting CRACK.

“Dorcas?” Emmeline lowered her wand, shocked, “What—how did you—”

She was going to ask How did you know my address, considering that neither of them had
ever visited each other’s homes—they met in hotels, or motels, or sometimes the grimy
bathrooms of muggle clubs. Impersonal places, places they could both leave behind without a
glance back.

She didn’t have a chance to finish her question, though, before Dorcas was on her, one hand
on her hip, the other tangled in her hair.

“Em—Em, fuck—”

She was kissing her like it was air, like she couldn’t breathe. Emmeline kissed her back,
melting, the way she always did when Dorcas touched her.

“Cas, what—”
“Sorry,” Dorcas gasped, shuddering, dropping her head down to Emmeline’s shoulder, “Sorry
I just—close call, it was a close fucking call, and I…I…”

“Shhh,” Emmeline hugged her, tightly, “It’s okay, it’s alright, you’re back now.”

“Yeah,” Dorcas muttered, words muffled where she had her head buried in Emmeline’s neck,
“Yeah, I’m sorry, I just thought…” She pulled back a bit, finally, and rubbed a hand across
her face. “Sorry.”

“You thought what?” Emmeline whispered, before she could stop herself. Dorcas’s eyes shot
up, locking on hers, like a deer in headlights.

“Nothing,” she said, after a moment, “I just…wanted to see you.”

Emmeline pressed her lips together, swallowing the bitter taste that crept up her throat.

“Alright.”

She pulled back, too, turning back to the mirror, twisting her hair into a coil on top of her
head. In the reflection, Dorcas frowned at her.

“Where are you going?” She asked, taking in the shimmery silver dress, the sparkling
jewellery, the makeup.

“Mission,” Emmeline said, shortly. Dorcas’s brow furrowed.

“Dressed like that?”

Emmeline laughed, mirthlessly. “I’m off to seduce a politician.”

“…what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No…what? Are you serious?”

“And here I thought I looked rather fetching.”

“I’m not—you know that’s not what I meant. What d’you mean, you’re seducing a
politician?”

Emmeline snapped a final clip into her hair, frowning at the mirror. When she didn’t answer,
Dorcas scowled.

“Em, please tell me that Mad-Eye isn’t…using you like—”

“Like what, Cas?” Emmeline spun around, anger curling hot through her veins, daring
Dorcas to finish her sentence. The other girl’s jaw hardened, eyes flashing with anger of their
own.

“That’s sick, Em.”

Emmeline couldn’t help it—she laughed, a sharp, bitter thing.

“He’s already asked me to kill. Is it so much worse if they need me to fuck someone?”

Dorcas blanched. “He didn’t—did he really ask you to—?”

Emmeline shrugged, bending down to tug on her heels. “I’ve got to get him alone ‘by any
means necessary.’ Not exactly hard to figure out what that means.” She straightened up. “I
have to go.”

Dorcas reached out, grabbing her wrist. “Em, you can’t—”

Emmeline spun around, tearing her arm away, anger pounding like a heartbeat in her chest.

“Why not, Dorcas?!” She demanded, glaring, “Why the fuck do you care?”

“It’s not right—”

“Oh, come on!” Emmeline shook her head, even as shame curled down her spine, “It’s just
sex. Not like it fucking means anything.”

Dorcas recoiled, hurt bleeding into her eyes, and Emmeline felt a vindictive thrill. After a
moment, Dorcas broke her gaze, looking away, eyes landing on the dresser behind them. A
strange expression crossed her face.

“That’s my earring.”

Emmeline stiffened, hesitating for just a moment too long.

“Is it?”

“Yeah,” Dorcas took a step forward, and now she was staring at Emmeline again—eyes on
her face, searching, “I thought I lost it. The last time I had it was—”

“I’ve got to go,” Emmeline blurted, backing away.

“Em—wait—”

CRACK

She was gone.

* * *

“I like the earrings,” Emmeline breathed, fingers working at the buttons on Dorcas’s shirt.
“Yeah?” The other girl smiled against her lips, curling a hand around her waist, thumb
pressed into her hip, “They were my mum’s.”

Emmeline groaned, pushing the shirt back. It got stuck on Dorcas’s elbows; she had to twist
her arms back to get it off. “I take it back—I do not want to talk about your mum right now.”

“No?”

“No.”

“And why is that?” Dorcas grinned, mischievously, reaching around to unclip her bra,
“Something else on your mind?”

Emmeline stared at her, shamelessly. “One or two things…”

Dorcas laughed and pushed her back onto the bed, straddling her. She reached up to take out
the earrings, placing them on the little bedside table.

“Do you know how pearls are made?” She asked, sliding her hands under Emmeline’s
sweater. Emmeline shut her eyes, arching her back.

“Tell me.”

“It happens when something gets inside an oyster,” Dorcas said, one hand working the hook
on Emmeline’s bra, the other sliding down to the hem of her skirt, “Something that’s not
supposed to be there. The oyster has to protect itself, of course.”

“Of course,” Emmeline gasped, as Dorcas drew slow circles on the inside of her thigh.

“So it creates layers,” Dorcas leaned down, breathing into her ear, pressing kisses to her
neck, “Over, and over, and over again.”

“Cas—” Emmeline begged, “Please—”

“Like an obsession,” Dorcas breathed, fingers moving higher, “That it can’t get rid of.” She
drew back, suddenly, yanking the sweater up—Emmeline arched off the bed, twisting, but it
still got caught around her arms. Dorcas tugged them above her head, and Emmeline flopped
back, panting. For a moment they only stared at each other.

“Until it makes something beautiful,” Dorcas whispered.

* * *

Moody’s plan worked well. Incredibly well—a few ‘accidental’ touches, a few well-placed
looks, and Emmeline had Abraxas Malfoy’s attention the entire night. He found her on the
balcony, in a strategically shadowed corner, approaching with a hungry smile.
“Champagne?”

She smiled back at him, accepting the glass.

“I don’t believe we were introduced.”

“Belladonna,” she said, smoothly, “Martin.”

“Martin…any relation to Gabriel Martin?”

Emmeline laughed, the light, breathy one that usually got the best results with men like these.
“I believe he’s a distant uncle.”

“I see. And you came tonight with…?”

“Hugo. I think you may have met him earlier? We went to Beauxbatons together.”

“Beauxbatons? You don’t have an accent.”

She laughed again, as though he’d said something utterly delightful. “My mother is English.
It’s my first language. But my parents felt that Beauxbatons was a bit more…discerning, in
terms of the students they accepted.”

Malfoy inclined his head, eyes gleaming. “Indeed,” he murmured, “I myself am a man of…
discriminating tastes.”

He had a private residence, he told her, not far from where they were. Separate from the
family estate, for when he found himself caught late in meetings and it was more convenient
to stay in London. She went with him—of course she did. It was the entire reason she’d
come.

He brought her past the wards, the house’s defences. He led her to his private rooms, leering
all the while, completely oblivious to any threat. Seeing nothing but a pretty face.

She did what she’d said she’d do.

* * *

Afterwards, Dorcas began to stand, moving towards the side of the bed like she always did.
Leaving.

Before she knew what she was doing, Emmeline had reached out, grasping her arm. Dorcas,
who had one leg off the bed already, stumbled. Her hip bumped into the side table as she was
pulled back onto the mattress; one of the earrings rolled off the edge, onto the floor. Neither
of them noticed it.
“Stay,” Emmeline said.

Dorcas bit her lip. “Em…”

“Just one night,” Emmeline whispered, “Just one.”

Dorcas stared down at her, eyes flickering with some indecipherable emotion. Finally, she
nodded, and Emmeline released a breath.

“Alright,” she whispered, lying back down, wrapping an arm around Emmeline’s side, “I’ll
stay.” Emmeline curled into her, and Dorcas pressed her lips once, gently, to her temple.
They fell asleep like that, limbs tangled.

In the morning, Dorcas was gone.

But the earring was there, on the floor.

* * *

Emmeline waited until he was asleep—truly, deeply asleep. She rose quietly, pulling the
small vial out of her purse. Three drops, directly onto his skin.

She dressed, and left.

The moment the door shut behind her, Emmeline released a breath, preparing to apparate.
Until—

“Emmeline?”

She turned, going cold with horror.

“Elliot?”

“Yeah!” The boy smiled up at her, a familiar dopey grin. Elliot Crane—he’d been in her year
at Hogwarts. They’d had Herbology together.

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” he said, gesturing to his uniform, “Private security. My shift just started.”
Then he paused, taking in her smeared makeup, her tangled hair, her rumpled dress. “Er…
what are you doing here?”

Emmeline swallowed.

“I’m really sorry, Elliot,” she whispered.

“Wh—”
“Expelliarmus.”

He blinked in shock as his wand flew out of his hand. Emmeline caught it, pointing her own
wand at his neck.

“Emmeline?” He asked, eyes wide, “What are you doing?”

She shook her head, blinking away the tears. He’d recognised her—he’d recognised her. If
she left a single loose end—if her actions were somehow tied back to the Order…

Fear bled into his features, eyes darting between her wand and her face.

“Emmeline? Please don—”

“Diffindo.”

The gash appeared across his throat, quick and precise. He choked, blood welling instantly,
and stumbled forward. She caught him, murmuring,

“Shhh…shhhh…”

Avada Kedavra would have been kinder. At least it was quick, painless. But if her wand was
examined, it would condemn her instantly—diffindo could be used for any number of things.

He clutched at her shoulders, eyes wide and blinking, terrified. She struggled to hold him,
stumbling back into the shadowed bushes, and the blood dripped onto her hands, her arms,
her chest.

It was over quickly. She whispered an immolation spell, and watched the body burn into ash.
She transfigured the bones.

By the time she apparated away, all that was left was a small pile of stones.

* * *

Dorcas came when she called. Emmeline didn’t know if she would.

She hadn’t made it to the bathroom. She was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around her
ribcage, shaking. Dorcas fell to her knees in front of her.

“Em? Em?? Hey, what happened? Em?”

“He shouldn’t have been there,” Emmeline whispered, staring past her, eyes glazed, “I should
have checked…I shouldn’t have just—walked out….”

“There’s a lot of blood, Em. Are you bleeding?”

Emmeline blinked, eyes focusing.

“It’s not mine,” she whispered. Dorcas held her gaze for a moment, mouth pressed into a thin
line.

“Alright.”

She hauled Emmeline to her feet. She brought her to the bathroom. She ran the bath. She
unzipped the dress, slid the soiled garment from Emmeline’s shoulders. Emmeline remained
silent through all of it, didn’t utter a word as Dorcas guided her gently into the tub, pressing
down until she was submerged up to the shoulders in water. She remained silent as Dorcas
lifted her hands, running a damp cloth gently over her fingers and wrists, until every trace of
blood had been erased.

Afterwards, Dorcas took her to bed. She wrapped her in blankets and lay down beside her.
She lifted Emmeline’s hands to her mouth like they were something precious, something
unstained and beautiful. She kissed every fingertip, every knuckle, the veins on her wrists.
She stayed until Emmeline fell asleep.

In the morning, she was gone.

* * *

They didn’t speak for two weeks. There were more missions, more close calls. Emmeline got
drunk at muggle pubs; she went home with strangers. Abraxas Malfoy died – dragon pox. A
tragedy.

At the next Order meeting, Emmeline caught Dorcas’s eye from across the room. One look,
and suddenly they were in a hotel, clothes on the floor, skin on the bed.

Afterwards, Dorcas stood. She reached down, picking up her jeans. Emmeline watched her.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she said.

Dorcas froze. Her shoulders were a tense line; muscles bunched beneath the smooth expanse
of skin.

“Em…”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Emmeline said, “Because I’m in love with you.”

Dorcas turned to look at her.

“Don’t,” she breathed.

“I love you, Cas,” Emmeline whispered, desperately, “Say it back. Please.”

 “Em,” Dorcas looked away, voice hard with some bitten-off emotion, “We can’t. We can’t—
how do you think this ends for us? We—we’re fighting a war. I’ve almost died—you’ve
almost died—how many times—”

“I don’t care,” Emmeline said, “I love you, Cas.

“I can’t do this,” Dorcas shook her head—there were tears, now, running down her cheeks,
dripping from her chin, “It’ll break me, Em. If anything happens—I can’t.”

“Stay with me.”

“Em, please—”

“Stay with me.” Emmeline was on her knees, now, cradling Dorcas’s face, wiping tears from
her cheeks, pressing their foreheads together. “We’ll get a flat. I’ll make you breakfast.”

Dorcas sobbed, pressing a fist to her mouth. Emmeline kissed her knuckles.

“I want to come home to you,” she whispered, “I want you in my arms, every night. I want to
wake up with you.”

Dorcas shuddered, and Emmeline held her. They stayed that way for a long time, silent but
for the sound of their ragged breathing. Emmeline waited until the tears had dried on
Dorcas’s cheeks, until her shoulders had stopped shaking.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said, softly, “For Europe. New mission.”

Dorcas swallowed, thickly. Her voice was raw. “How long?”

“Two weeks,” Emmeline said, “Maybe more.”

Dorcas released a long, unsteady breath. Emmeline kissed her, so gently.

“When I come back,” she whispered, “I want you to say it back to me. Okay?”

She pulled away, and Dorcas was looking at her the way she always did – like she was
praying.

“Okay.”

Chapter End Notes

okay CW from the beginning -- essentially, moody asks emmeline to kill someone
knowing that the only way she'll be able to get close enough to do so will be if she
sleeps with the guy. emmeline doesn't WANT to do it, but she AGREES to do it. the sex
itself isn't discussed or described in any detail, they go back to his place and it cuts to
the next morning.
okay now the actual end notes (this is gonna get long you've been warned):
hi! this ended up being about twice as long as i was intending it to be, it sort of got away
from me as i started writing. this was a relationship dynamic i really wanted to explore,
but also a wartime dynamic that i wanted to spend more time with--i know i touch on it
in my atyd rewrite, but i really wanted to spend more time exploring these questions of
like...how far do you go for a cause? where is the line crossed? can wars be won by
"good people" -- or is some level of moral corruption an inherent part of victory? and i
also wanted to think about the specific ways in which gender and war intersect + issues
of power when a woman's body becomes a means to an end--who holds the power in the
situation that emmeline is in? is she in control or being used or some combination of the
two?
also just wanted to write about lesbians <3
 James: Halloween 1981
Chapter Summary

sorry guys...i've had this written for literal months so we were always gonna get here

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

“Unhand me, you fiend!” James cried, falling backwards onto the sofa, “Back, foul creature
of the night! Your dastardly plans cannot thwart me, o villainous wretch!”

Harry giggled delightedly, crawling from his father’s lap to his chest and waving the mars bar
clutched in his chubby little fist even more vigorously. James gasped as it thwacked against
his shoulder, wincing dramatically.

“Don’t rile him up,” Lily tutted, hands on her hips, “I’ve got to put him to bed in a few
minutes!”

James grinned up at her, placing a hand on Harry’s back to steady him. Lily was dressed in a
blue gingham pinafore, buttoned over a white blouse that was horribly wrinkled from where
Harry had been grasping it earlier. Her auburn hair hung in two long plaits that were both
coming undone, strands of hair poking wildly out, and she had a smear of flour across one
cheek. James had never seen anything more beautiful.

“Harry,” he said solemnly, scooping the toddler into his arms as he sat up, “Were you aware
that your mother is the most stunning creature that has ever walked the face of this earth?”

Harry smiled a gummy grin, babbling excitedly and waving the chocolate around a bit more.

“Clever lad,” said James, nodding.

“His mother is about to be the most terrifying creature that has ever walked this earth, if you
don’t stop giving him sugar,” Lily plucked the sweet from the boy’s hands, kissing his cheek
to distract him as she did. Harry reached out and tugged the end of one of her braids, pulling
the ribbon free and unravelling it even more. “He’ll be up all night, at this rate.”

“Ah, that’s not true,” James smiled down at the boy in his arms, “Bit of rocking and he’ll be
out like a light.”

“You say that now…” Lily muttered sceptically, shaking her head. But she was smiling as she
looked at them, eyes warm and soft and so full of love that it took James’s breath away. He
wondered if there would ever be a day that he stopped feeling so miraculously lucky to have
her looking at him like that.
Despite Lily’s scolding, Harry indeed began to calm down after a few minutes of gentle
rocking. James swayed back and forth to the song playing over the radio, humming along and
smiling down at the toddler that was snuggled into his arms, dozing off against his shoulder.
Lily disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of wine, sighing as she settled
down into their well-loved armchair.

“You’ve got to pick up every stitch…” James sang quietly, pressing a kiss against Harry’s
fuzzy little head. When he looked up, Lily was watching them with a small, unconscious
smile. James caught her eye, smiling back.

“Must be the season of the witch…”

She ducked her head and rolled her eyes, still smiling, and for a moment there was no war—
no death, no darkness, no fear. For a moment, James could almost forget that they were
prisoners in their own home, that there was a homicidal madman searching for them, that
they had no idea when it would all end. For a moment, he was so happy that there wasn’t
room for anything else in his heart.

“Come on,” Lily whispered, draining the last of her wine and standing, “I’ll put him to bed.”
She held out her arms, and James passed their son over, careful not to jostle him too much.
He watched as his wife (his wife!) disappeared up the stairs.

When Lily came back down, James was standing in the middle of the living room, grinning
from ear to ear.

“Surprise!”

Lily jumped, head snapping up from where her eyes had been trained on the stairs. She
clutched her chest, gasping,

“Christ, James—you scared me!”

“Sorry.”

He was still grinning. After a moment, she frowned.

“Is that…supposed to be Remus?” She eyed the broomstick, clad in a threadbare wool
jumper, with a watering can balanced like a hat on top of the handle. “And…what have you
done to Snuffles?” Harry’s stuffed dog was propped next to James, spelled with an engorgio
charm so that it was the size of an actual animal.

“Padfoot,” James corrected, placing a straw hat at a jaunty angle on his head, “Or should I
say…Toto?”

He waggled his eyebrows. Lily stared.

“…Our Halloween costume?” With the hand not holding up broomstick-Remus, he waved
the polaroid camera that Sirius had given him just before they went into hiding.
I want pictures, Potter! It’s enchanted not to run out of film, so no excuses—I won’t have my
godson growing up without me! At least one photo, every day—okay? Promise?

Lily continued to stare. The de-ribboned braid had almost completely unravelled; one
shoulder was covered in a fan of long, red hair.

“Lily?....Love?”

Her lip began to tremble; abruptly, something crumpled in her face, and James watched in
horrified confusion as she sank to the floor.

“Lily?!”

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, sitting at the bottom of the staircase, head in her hands, “I’m sorry, I
just—” she sucked in a shuddering breath, voice hitching with tears. The broomstick
thumped against Padfoot-sized-Snuffles as James dropped it, crossing the room in two long
strides and abandoning the camera on the floor.

“Lily, love, what is it, what’s wrong?”

“I’m—I’m—” Lily sobbed, and he wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, I’m trying, I just
—” She pressed a fist to her mouth, and he pulled her into his shoulder.

“It’s alright,” James murmured, into her hair, “Shhh, it’s alright, I’ve got you, it’s okay.”

“I’m just—so sick—of this—war—” She hiccupped into his shoulder, and he rubbed circles
over her back.

“I know, love,” he murmured, “Me too.”

“God, James, I—” her voice cracked, and she sucked in another shuddering breath.
“Sometimes I wish we had just…left. I know it’s not—it’s not brave of me, but I wish—god,
I wish we’d run, that we’d gotten out—”

“Lily—”

“I know, I know it makes me a coward, I know there are more important things to fight for
—”

“You’re not, you’re not—Lily, you’re the bravest person I know.”

“But I’m just—” her entire body was shaking, fingers trembling against him, “I’m so scared,
James. All the time. I’m so, so scared.”

He pressed his forehead against hers, heart clenching painfully in his chest. Each tear chipped
like a chisel at his soul. James wished, desperately, that he could take it from her—the fear,
the pain. I could be strong enough, he thought, kissing the tears from her cheeks, I would
carry it for both of us, if I could.

“I’m scared, too,” He whispered, tasting salt on his lips.

Lily wrapped her trembling arms around his neck, breathing raggedly against his shoulder.

“I need you to tell me it’ll be okay,” she said, voice like shattered glass, “I need you to
promise me.”

“I promise,” he responded immediately, holding her, wishing it was enough to stop her from
falling apart in his hands, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

She was still crying, but it wasn’t the wrenching sobs of before—it was slower, softer.
Steadier. James continued to rub her back, pressing his lips to her temple. They had done this
so, so many times.

“Next year,” he murmured, when she was no longer shaking, “I’ll confund Petunia, and we’ll
take Harry treat-or-tricking with his cousin.”

“Trick-or-treating,” Lily mumbled, voice still thick with tears.

“That, too. I’ll let Harry eat so many sweets he’ll get sick, and you’ll be absolutely furious
with me.” He kissed her forehead, her neck, the shell of her ear, “You’ll pout in the kitchen
with Remus, and he’ll act like he’s taking your side, but secretly he’ll think that I haven’t
really done anything wrong.”

Lily huffed into his shoulder, and James felt himself smiling, brushing fingers through her
hair.

“Sirius will take my side, of course, so really it’ll be three against one—four when Peter
shows up. But even though they’ll all agree with me, I’ll know it’s you who’s really right, and
once all of our friends are acting like prats in the living room I’ll sneak back into the kitchen
and tell you so.”

He disentangled his arms from around her shoulders, leaning back slightly so that he could
see her eyes. They were swollen from crying, puffy and red and so, so heartbreakingly
beautiful.

“I’ll tell you that you’re brilliant,” he murmured, smoothing her hair into three sections and
beginning to re-braid it, gently, with clumsy fingers, “And courageous, and magnificent. And
I’ll keep telling you, every day, for the rest of our lives.” He drew the ribbon that he’d picked
up from his pocket, re-tying it as he finished the plait.

Lily stared at him with watery eyes, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek.

“I love you, James Potter,” she said, quietly, “So, so much.”

He leaned into her touch, glasses slipping down his nose. “I love you, too.”

They sat, for a moment, doing nothing but breathing together. And then Lily sniffed, reaching
up to rub the lingering tears from her cheeks. James stood, helping her to her feet, and tugged
her back into his arms, squeezing her close to his chest. When she pulled away, she was
smiling.
She squinted over his shoulder. “Where’s Peter? Isn’t he supposed to be the lion?”

James grinned. “That was part of the surprise,” he said, perking up, “Pete’s actually…
stopping by tonight.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Really?” she gasped, “Is it…I mean, d’you think it’s safe?”

James shrugged. “You know Pete, he’s cautious. If he thinks it’s safe, I trust him.”

Lily beamed, looking happier than he’d seen her in ages. “Then—that’s wonderful! I made
far too much shortbread, anyway—do you know when he’s planning to stop by? They should
be done in a few minutes…”

“Not sure,” he twined their fingers together, smiling, “Not sure if he’ll wear his costume,
either—think he was a bit offended when Sirius told him the lion’s supposed to be cowardly.
We could wait until he gets here to take the picture, though, if you like?”

Lily sighed happily, scrubbing at her cheeks one last time. “Nah,” she bent down and scooped
the camera off the floor, “Let’s take one now. We can take another when Peter gets here, if
he’s dressed up properly for the occasion.”

James chuckled, plucking the camera from her hand and kissing her cheek.

“I like the way you think, Evans.”

It took a bit of adjusting to figure out how they should pose—they ended up on the floor,
Padfoot-slash-Snuffles-slash-Toto on one side and Broomstick-Remus-slash-Tinman propped
at an odd angle against James’s shoulder, watering can dangling precariously. Lily climbed
onto James’s lap, and he leaned his chin on her shoulder, adjusting his straw hat so that it
wasn’t poking her in the face.

“Ready?”

She leaned back into his chest.

“Ready.”

He held the camera out as far as he could, struggling for a moment to press the button. The
flash went off, leaving them momentarily blinded, and then the camera whirred and spit out
their film. Lily plucked it off the floor, laughing.

“No idea if that’ll turn out,” James frowned, “I think my wrist was wobbling, a bit.”

“We’ll look at it later,” Lily said, setting it down on the sofa to develop. “Come on, I’ve got
to check on the shortbread.”

She had just started towards the kitchen when there was a sharp knock at the door.

“Oh, hang on,” James leapt to his feet, grinning. “Peter’s here!”
Chapter End Notes

i feel like this was actually pretty fluffy and happy, right?

right??
 Andromeda: November 1981
Chapter Summary

this oneshot is meant to go along with chapter 175 of "atyd - sirius's perspective"; it
takes place in the days following Halloween 1981, after Sirius is sent to Azkaban

Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes

Now

“I don’t understand,” she said, staring down at the paper.

SIRIUS BLACK SENTENCED TO LIFE IN AZKABAN

“It doesn’t make sense.”

In an emergency hearing early yesterday morning, Sirius Black was found guilty for the
murder of fellow wizard Peter Pettigrew, along with twelve muggle witnesses. Black was also
implicated as an accomplice to the murders of James and Lily Potter, and the attempted
murder of their son, the Boy Who Lived. The Wizengamot has sentenced him to life in
Azkaban.

“It’s not possible—he would never…”

Her cousin stared up at her from the paper, eyes wild and frantic, face twisted in maniacal
laughter as three Aurors pointed their wands at him. Behind him, the bodies of muggles were
sprawled across a cracked and broken street.

“He wouldn’t,” Andromeda whispered, staring down at the awful picture, the words printed
in black and white, “Sirius wouldn’t…”

“’Dromeda…” Ted murmured, quietly, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.
“No,” she stood, abruptly, shaking him off, “No—I need to speak with Alastor, right now.
This has to be a mistake.”

“Love…if the Wizengamot—”

“No, Ted.” She spun to face him, glaring, “It’s a mistake, do you hear me? It has to be—it has
to be.”

He held her gaze for a moment, with an expression that was far too close to pity.

“Alright,” he said, quietly, “We’ll call Moody.”

Then

“I can’t do it!” Bella stomped her foot, dark curls spilling over her shoulders as she shook her
head.

“Oh, come on, don’t throw a fit,” Andromeda grinned, poking her in the ribs, “You’ll get it
eventually little miss perfect, no need to pout.”

Bella huffed and crossed her arms, frowning. “You’re the one who’s perfect,” she muttered,
sourly, “If you’d had the decency to get anything below an ‘Exceeds Expectations’ on your
O.W.L.s, maybe mum and dad wouldn’t expect it of me…”

Andromeda laughed, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, let’s try it again.”

Bella sighed, but raised her wand, looking to Andromeda for her signal.

“One…two…three…”

“Expecto Patronum!”

They chanted in tandem, and Andromeda watched as the silver light burst out of the end of
her wand. It curled and coiled, coalescing into the familiar shape—the silvery snake hissed,
wrapping itself around her arm, sending a flood of warmth through her.

Beside her, Bella stared at the shiny mist leaking out of the end of her own wand. It
dissipated quickly, formless and abstract. She scowled.

“It’s impossible!”

“It’s not, Bella,” Andromeda sighed, “You just have to think of a happier memory.”

“I’m trying!”

“Well, try harder!” Andromeda snapped, losing patience. Bella turned to frown at her,
resentful and hurt, and Andromeda immediately felt guilty—it wasn’t Bella’s fault she was
struggling. Andromeda hadn’t been able to cast a patronus for ages when she was sixteen, not
until she’d met…

“’Dromeda?”

“Hmm?”

“I asked what your thought is.”

“What?”

Bella sighed, impatiently. “Your patronus thought,” she repeated, “What is it? You keep
saying mine needs to be happier, but I dunno what that means…”

Andromeda swallowed, and the silver adder on her arm flicked its tail, sending another spill
of warmth through her.

Ted, pressing soft kisses to her neck—“Marry me, ‘Dromeda. Say you’ll marry me…”

“That’s private,” she said, clearing her throat. Bella cocked her head, narrowing her eyes.

“Why?” She asked, bluntly, “We’re sisters—we’ve got all the same memories. Just tell me
what yours is, maybe I can use that, since mine isn’t happy enough…”

“No.” Andromeda shook her arm, and the silver snake dissipated, “You can’t just use
someone else’s patronus memory, Bella, it has to be something personal to you.”

“But mine isn’t working!”

“You’ll get it eventually, you just need to keep practicing.”

“O.W.L.s are in three weeks, I don’t have time to just get it eventually!”

“Oh, come off it, you’ll be fine.”

Bella glared at her, face screwed up. “Why won’t you just help me?”

Andromeda tutted, losing patience once more.

“I’ve been helping you—it’s not my fault you haven’t gotten it yet!”

“You just don’t want me to do it!”

Andromeda rolled her eyes, voice dripping with sarcasm as she said,

“Right Bells, that’s why I’ve been tutoring you for an hour every night—because I don’t want
you to get it.”

Bella’s frown only deepened, eyes flashing with the fiery temper that had become so familiar
over the years.
“You just don’t want anyone to do better than you—you always have to be the best,
Andromeda!”

“Oh, stop being so melodramatic for two seconds, will you? Of course I want you do well on
your O.W.L.s, but I can’t hold your bloody hand through them—at some point, you have to
suck it up and figure it out yourself!”

Bella opened and shut her mouth, looking as though she very much wanted to say something
else—but after a moment, she simply spun on her heel, storming out of the room and letting
the door slam shut behind her.

Now

Alastor Moody, as it turned out, was an incredibly difficult man to get a hold of. Apparently,
the Aurors had their hands quite full with all the death eaters they were suddenly bringing in,
rounding up Voldemort’s followers and shoving them into courtrooms and prison cells.
Eventually, Andromeda lost her temper and stormed down to the Ministry of Magic herself,
despite Ted’s protests. She planted herself at Moody’s desk and refused to move until he
showed up.

“Investigation’s closed, Andromeda,” he growled, glaring at her with one eye as the other
whirred in its socket, “Nothing more to say.”

“I have a right to know what happened—what evidence there was! He’s my family! Nobody
even told me that he was on trial—”

“Wasn’t a trial.” Moody grunted. Andromeda gaped at him.

“What?!”

“It was an emergency hearing,” Moody brushed past her, rifling through some papers,
“Expedited ruling by the Wizengamot.”

“But—surely that isn’t legal—”

“It is.”

“That—what evidence—”

“Eyewitness testimony,” Moody said, sharply, “Along with the man’s own statements—”

“What statements—”

“—and the testimony of Dumbledore, who confirmed that Sirius was responsible for the
attack on the Potters!”
“But he would never—”

“He did!” Moody barked, cutting her off, “If you really want to argue it, go to Dumbledore—
he’ll tell you what happened. I haven’t got time to waste on an open and shut case. Trust me,
Sirius Black got exactly what he deserved.”

And with that, he stomped off, leaving Andromeda reeling and alone.

Then

“Are you absolutely sure?” Ted asked, searching her face. Andromeda leaned into him,
wrapping her arms around his neck.

“They can’t stop me,” she murmured, “Not if I’m of age. Not if we do it fast enough.”

Ted frowned at her, something like guilt behind his eyes. “’Dromeda, when I asked you…I
didn’t realise…” He sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t want to make you choose between me
and your family.”

“It’s not a choice,” she said.

“But…”

“It’s not a choice,” she repeated, more firmly this time. “I want you, Ted. Not whatever
eligible bachelor my mother decides is a suitable match. Not a stranger I barely know. You.”
Andromeda pressed her head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted for myself,” she whispered, “You’re it for me.”

The way he looked at her made her shiver, made her feel like she could peel the rind from the
world and crush its pulp between her teeth; like she could swallow of all its sweetness; like
she could get drunk on it.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, too,” he whispered, and she grinned at him.

“Kiss me, then.”

And he did.

Now

“The fidelius charm,” Dumbledore said, serenely.

Andromeda stood across from him, arms folded, scowling furiously. He’d offered a chair, but
she’d refused it, preferring to stand.

A week. It had taken an entire bloody week to get a hold of him, a week in which her cousin
was in fucking prison, and nobody could give her any bloody answers about why.

“What?” She spat the word, sharp and cold.

“The Potters knew that Voldemort was after them,” Dumbledore said, infuriatingly calm,
“They went into hiding last summer. Using the fidelius charm.”

Andromeda blinked, brow furrowing. “The fidelius charm…”

“It is a powerful bit of magic, in which a secret is kept in the soul of one person—”

“I know how the fidelius charm works!” She snapped, mind whirling. “Just get to the bloody
point, will you?”

Dumbledore studied her, appraisingly.

“Sirius was the Potters’ secret keeper.”

Andromeda stared at him.

“Alright.”

“He was the only person alive who knew of their location,” Dumbledore said.

Andromeda shook her head. “That’s not…” She released a breath, as the pieces began to fall
into place. “I don’t…”

“I think you do, Mrs. Tonks,” Dumbledore said, quietly. “The only person who could have
shared the Potters’ location with Voldemort was Sirius Black.”

“But he wouldn’t—”

“And yet,” Dumbledore interrupted her, gently, “Voldemort somehow discovered the Potters’
location, and he used that information to attack them. He slaughtered James and Lily in cold
blood. He attempted to do the same to their son. It is only thanks to a miraculous bit of magic
that Harry Potter is still alive.”

Someone had stolen all the breath from her lungs. “But Sirius…he’d never…”

Dumbledore sighed, heavily, with a horrible, pitying look in his eyes.

“I understand your distress, Mrs. Tonks,” he murmured, “If I had believed that your cousin
was capable of the violence which he displayed on the night of Halloween, I would never
have allowed him to become their secret-keeper.”
“It’s not possible,” she continued to shake her head, back and forth, robotically, “I’m telling
you, it’s not. Someone else must have—there had to be somebody—”

“There was nobody else,” Dumbledore said, with an air of finality that brooked no argument,
“I myself oversaw the beginnings of the spell. The only people who knew about this plan,
aside from myself, were James, Lily, and Sirius.”

“…But….no….”

“Mrs. Tonks,” Dumbledore said, gently, “I know what it is to feel betrayed by those we hold
dear. I myself have fallen victim to the blindness that often accompanies love; I have failed,
in my own life, to recognise the growth of horrible darkness in those I was closest to. I
understand what you are feeling.”

She continued to stare at him, helplessly.

“Go home,” Dumbledore said, with a softness that broke her heart, “Go to your daughter, and
your husband. What’s done cannot be undone, no matter how we may wish it. But now it is
time to look towards the future—do not mire yourself in the past.” The words were tender,
gentle, beseeching. “Forget Sirius Black. There are many others more deserving of your
sorrow.”

Then

“This is what you’ve been doing?!” Bellatrix was screaming, furiously, eyes burning with
rage, “This is where you’ve been sneaking off to, what you’ve been—”

“Just wait—Bells, just wait, let me explain—”

“He is impure, Andromeda! Do you have any idea what father will do if he finds out? What
this would mean for our family? I trusted you, I looked up to you—”

“Fuck, Bellatrix, will you just shut up for two fucking seconds?!”

She grabbed her sister’s arm, jerking her back, forcing her to stop. They stared at each other,
both breathing heavily, both with the same dark anger in their eyes.

“Don’t tell them,” Andromeda said, desperately, “Please.”

Bellatrix scoffed. “Of course,” she said, acidly, “Can’t have mummy and daddy knowing that
their favourite daughter has been fucking some mudblood nobody like a common—”

“Don’t call him that!” Andromeda hissed. Her wand was in her hand before she’d even
realised that she’d moved.
Bellatrix eyed her, warily. “You do know that this could ruin us, don’t you? Any marriage
prospects—you would bring shame to our entire family.”

“Can’t you see how fucked that is?” Andromeda shook her head, “Bells, it’s not right. It’s not
fair.”

“It is our duty.”

“Well, I never asked for it!”

Her little sister stared at her like she was a stranger, someone unrecognisable.

“You have to stop.”

Andromeda set her jaw, stubbornly.

“No.”

“Andromeda—”

“No, Bella, I don’t. I won’t. I’m of age; mother and father can’t force me to do anything.”

Bellatrix stared at her, shocked. “What are you saying?”

Fuck, Andromeda cursed herself, silently, Too much—I’ve said too much. She had been so, so
careful, for two years—why now? She’d be leaving Hogwarts in just a few months—why
had Bellatrix chosen tonight to come creeping up to the astronomy tower?

When Andromeda didn’t respond, Bellatrix forced a laugh, high-pitched and humourless.

“’Dromeda, you aren’t…this isn’t…you can’t be serious.”

Andromeda continued to stare at her, wand still clutched in her hand.

“Andromeda,” Bella’s voice hardened, “Tell me you aren’t serious.”

Silence.

“If you—” Bellatrix shook her head, words bitten off, “You can’t—they’ll disown you,
Andromeda. They’ll kick you out.”

“I know,” Andromeda said.

“You know? You know?! Please tell me you haven’t been—planning this, planning to—run
off, with a—”

“Don’t.”

“—a mudblood!”

“I told you not to call him that!”

The wand was pointed, now. Straight at Bella’s chest. Andromeda’s sister stared at her, eyes
wide and horrified and accusing.

“They’ll never forgive you for this,” she whispered, as though she still couldn’t quite believe
it. Andromeda raised her chin, defiant.

“I know.”

Bella shook her head, mouth twisting, the way it always did when she was about to cry.

“I’ll never forgive you for this.”

Andromeda stared at her little sister, holding back tears in the middle of an empty corridor.

“You can’t know that,” she whispered, wishing it were true.

Now

Her sister was in the paper.

FIVE DEATH EATERS ARRESTED FOR THE TORTURE OF MINISTRY AURORS

She stared down at Bella, sneering and cold-eyed and older, so much older than the last time
she’d seen her.

“Ted,” she heard herself saying, faintly. He took the paper from her hands, and she watched
his features twist.

“No…” his hands shook as he read, “It’s—”

“Frank and Alice,” Andromeda said. Ted looked at her.

“Why?” She asked, voice cracking.

“’Dromeda…”

“Why?” She shook her head, as if that could dislodge the tears swimming in her eyes, “I can’t
be the only one, Ted—I thought—I thought—”

“Hey, hey, shhh, c’mere…”

“Just one of them, if I could just have one—”

 He held her, and she cried, wondering how it had all gone so wrong. How the kids she’d
grown up with could have rotted, rotted and festered and turned into something so
unrecognisable that it turned her stomach.

“My family—” She sobbed, “They were my family—I should’ve—why couldn’t I—how…”

How did this happen? How could a little girl who was scared of the dark grow up to be a
woman capable of torture? How could a little boy who begged for muggle music turn into a
man who would betray his best friends? How could the sister she’d read bedtime stories to
turn into a ghost with a son that Andromeda would never meet? How could the cousin with
the sweetest smile leave behind nothing but a name on a tombstone?

“Hey,” Ted murmured, stroking her hair, “Hey, you have a family. Okay? You have the
family you chose, love, the family we built together.” He kissed her forehead, gently. “You
have a family that loves you.”

Andromeda rubbed at her eyes, pulling back to look up at him. He was staring down at her
with the same tenderness he had held in his eyes since they were sixteen.

“I love you,” she whispered.

He kissed the words into her lips.

“I love you too.”

“MUM!” Dora’s voice, brash and bright, came booming down the stairs, “MUM, I CAN’T
FIND MY PINK SHIRT!”

Andromeda laughed, a weak, breathless sound. Ted stroked her hair, smiling down at her.

“Coming, love!” She called, untangling herself from her husband’s arms. She paused on her
way to the stairs, just long enough to drop the newspaper into the bin.

Andromeda Tonks was not a Black. She had stopped being a Black eleven years ago, the
moment Ted placed his ring on her finger. Her husband was right—she had her own family, a
family she’d made, a family she cared for with every fibre of her being.

The Blacks could rot.

Chapter End Notes

shoutout to whatever anonymous person on tumblr planted this idea in my head with
their message -- i think this'll probably be the last oneshot i write for a while just
because i'm in the home stretch on writing the main story and want to try and buckle
down and focus on that. but then again, the writing process behind all these oneshots so
far has just been: idea pops into my head and bangs pots and pans together in my brain
and refuses to shut up until i write it, so...i guess if inspiration grabs me by the balls i
just have to suck it up and deal
Please drop by the Archive and comment to let the creator know if you enjoyed their work!