Andromeda was in the library. Serious impending coursework deadlines aside, this was normally a rare occurrence. Whatever books she deigned to read ended up on a list which Mother periodically had ordered and sent by Father's clerk—every last tome on wizarding history and mythology, she'd already devoured. Classes themselves bored her too much for anything beyond the very minimum quota of studying. Yet there Andromeda was, creeping toward Madam Pince's desk, nervously wrinkling a scrap of parchment and readying her question.
It figured a Ravenclaw was behind this.
Remembering why she was there, Andromeda's heart beat erratically for a moment. Two insignificant conversations with him, and she was behaving in a completely hopeless manner already. Tonks was not Slytherin, not important, not pureblood—not any of the vital qualities Andromeda's family had repeatedly emphasized over the years. Maybe, she thought, attempting to rationalize, it was classic rebellion, a temporary passing fancy, drawing her to everything Blacks should avoid.
Or maybe it was vestiges of her third year crush, a fourteen-day period in which Tonks had occupied Andromeda's every waking thought, beginning the moment she noticed him and ending the moment his blood status was discovered. Less appealing, this possibility—it made her go vaguely rosy about the cheeks even now.
Dismissing the way she'd eased into conversation with him was simply easier, her forsaken boundaries now shameful given the pureblood upbringing which dictated constant attention to propriety. Ignoring exactly how flawlessly their personalities and interests had meshed after the starting clash was probably better, too. In fact, the way he'd caught Andromeda's eye that first night could be—
Andromeda's highly defensive inner monologue cut short at the pointed throat clearing, and she glanced up, cheeks reddening slightly at Madam Pince's sharp, expectant gaze. Oh, well—performance time. "Do you carry books on Muggle history?" She poured her remaining confidence into looking unperturbed, even bored. "I require one. For a—class project," she added, deciding the librarian would not be tracking actual enrollment of Muggle Studies.
Smoothing the now quite distressed parchment scrap, Madam Pince read it, eyebrows jumping up. She gave Andromeda the most peculiar look, of a sort usually reserved for mentally instable and the like, then pointed. "It's here, yes. Muggle literature and reference, shelf two—alphabetized by last name of author."
Andromeda thanked her quickly, rushing off between stacks of new potion handbooks and dusty charm indexes. She found the book in question easily with Pince's directions, checked the title twice, then headed with it for an unoccupied table, where she eased into a chair, laying down her new prize.
She had been overwhelmingly relieved when her frustrating argument with Tonks—about blood status, of course, it just had to be their first concern—not only ended suddenly, but with a recommendation in the one discipline which interested her, biography of a figure in Muggle history who, Tonks said, reminded him of Andromeda's family—it was strange, but nice. Things even progressed into discussion of mythology, which fed her steadily growing attraction, plus brought more recommendations. These ones, he would bring next Friday to Potions, but Andromeda could not wait to read his first suggestion, eager for more to discuss—a reasonable excuse to spend another class period fascinated by his looks, his voice, his stories, and his ideas.
Practically glowing now, Andromeda flipped the book open, starting to read a brief introduction. With every sentence, though, her joy melted, replaced by a stony expression. Looking at the spine, at the deteriorating scrap of parchment, at the spine, growing continually more enraged, she finally closed her eyes tight, letting out a near-silent, dangerous growl.
"That impertinent Mudblood," she hissed. "I am going to kill him." Storming from the library and ignoring Madam Pince's quiet exclamation of shock, Andromeda left the book without even reading a single chapter. Its pages flapped gently in a breath of wind from her swift departure, until its title was visible from a distance.
The Rise and Fall of Adolf Hitler