The infant laid quietly in the cot, thumb in his small mouth, fast asleep.
Andromeda stared at her grandson lovingly and sadly. He was tiny, curled up, and swaddled sideways in his blanket. She wanted to stroke his darkening hair. He was dreaming, she could tell. His hair was rapidly turning dark from its previous ginger. She wondered when it would become turquoise again. There was no doubt in her mind that that would be his favorite color. Dora kept her hair pink when she was young like that too.
Dora...
She never knew how difficult a funeral could be. When the casket was lowered into the ground, she nearly dropped. It took all she had to not cry. She was raised with the idea that tears solved nothing and the belief will be forever imprinted in her. Harry, bless him, saw her grief and took Teddy after his pallbearer duty for Remus was completed, as she quietly broke down. There were never enough tears for her dead daughter, son-in-law, or husband. Never.
Stepping out of the room, she quietly closed the door to the nursery. When she turned to go to her room, she faced Dora and Remus's room. It was, of course, Dora's childhood bedroom, but when the Ministry fell, Dora and Remus moved in there. At first it was only Dora and then Remus appeared, practically begging for her forgiveness. She forgave him.
Opening the door, she stepped in. The bed was enlarged, due mostly to Dora's then expanding frame more than anything else. The window was open, allowing the room to capture a faint breeze. Their things were still out, clothes on the edge of the bed, the wardrobe open, and...
And Remus's journal still sat on the bedside table.
Andromeda walked forward and picked up the leather journal. She knew the last entry was the day Teddy was born. It saddened her that he would never write in it again. His hand would never again trace letters about his life, about Dora, or about their son.
When she left the room, she remembered Remus's last wish that he told her.
"If I don't come back, would you please place these with the others?" Remus's face was sullen and his voice broke. And though she denied it at the time, she saw the foreboding look in his eyes. He thought...no knew...that he wasn't coming back. All she could do was nod.
"The others are in the attic, northwest corner in a box with a lid." He paused. "And when the time comes...I want Teddy to see them. I want Teddy to know about me."
The steps up to the attic seemed steeper and larger than usual. This was her burden, her promise to Remus. This act was her apologizing for the harshness she inflicted on him at first. An apology that will never be answered.
She walked over to the northwest corner and found the box. It was plain and nondescript, but when she opened the lid she found multitudes of leather journals. She slipped the journal inside and replaced the lid.
Andromeda walked down the stairs towards her bedroom, looking in on Teddy one last time, and went to sleep. Eventually, she forgot about the journals. Eventually, she had a toddler, then a child, then a teenager. And when she tried to explain to the angry teenager why she never told him about the journals that belonged to his father, she didn't know what to say.
All Andromeda could think of was a saying that his namesake used to say all those years ago.
Out of sight, out of mind.