For the Woman in Black challenge on HPFC, this is my Andromeda Tonks nee Black fic.

You stare around the fancy resturant, a cliche in every sense of the word. Chandeliers, tuxedos, and the long black dress with a slit from the knee down, clutching to your body in a somehow modest, but seductive manner.

You walk with your head held high, trailing behind gorgeous Bella, who has one LeStrange boy on each side, million galleon smile on her face and twirling an elegant lock of curled, jet black, hair on one finger.

You don't say a word, because you just realized something; you don't belong here.

You aren't meant for the glitz, and the glamor, the resturants, and the candles. You'll never be good for this world of lights and money and scandals.

And while we're on the subject of not good enough, you've never been good enough for your parents.

You've bent backwards, done flips, and ran the almost split tightrope for them, tried to be the perfect eldest for them, but it's never enough, never good enough next to brilliant Bella and amazing Cissy.

And then, you come to another realization.

They stuck you in this circus of theirs, a place to show off their perfect pureblood daughters, but the thing is, it's not you. And, baby, don't you realize? This ain't no circus, it's a freakshow, for perfect girls to do flips and bend backwards and smile million galleon smiles for the crowd, and listen to the jeers of disapprobval if they miss one step in the complicated mess of needing, thirsting for, craving approval. This is a punishment for living in this society.

You ran one hand over the silky black dress's skirt as you sit down, Rosier on one side and Lucius Malfoy (Lucious Mouthful, you snicker internally) on the other. You don't say a word, no matter how much either tries to flirt.

All they want, you think, is a pretty trophy wife, a pureblood woman to keep on display and be under their thumb.

But that's not you, baby, and you know it. You don't want to be a trophy housewife, to bear the children and be a socialite, you want to work with your hands and do something good.

(and you almost snort at the idea, because honestly? a Black doing something good is rarer than the creatures Xeno Lovegood rambles on about, or a good joke from Lucius)

You stand up, wordlessly, and you may've muttered something about going to the bathroom, or maybe you didn't.

The long black dress sweeps behind slightly, and you stare at the girl in the mirror, long and hard. Her face is covered in ruby red lipstick, and black eyeshadow. She's all dolled up, a little socialite for sure.

She's not you, she can't be.

"Who are you?" You murmur, because this girl is not you, will never be you, she's only a reflection of what her parents want.

just. like. you.

You'd make an awfully good mirror, honey babe, with the fantastic way you reflect opinions.

The woman in all black sweeps out of the bathroom and into her perfectly cliche circus (freakshow's more like it.).

You smile and pretend you belong there, flirt a bit with Lucius and twirl your hair in a Bella-esque fashion, and pretend you're having a good time.

(You would make an amazing actress, baby girl)

This dress of yours makes an amazing metaphor, babe. You are a woman, cloaked in black, and you're hidden among the Blacks and the pureblood society they lead, pretending to be their perfectt socialite daughter.

(Maybe you're adopted- that'd make sense.)

So hide in the Blacks, baby, and all the black, and maybe the socialite society won't grab you. Atleast, not until you break after bending backwards so much, and babydoll, it'll happeen, and it'll happen soon.

That's a promise, woman in (the) Black(s).