Andromeda Tonks was knitting socks and gloves for young Teddy, fast asleep in his crib, while nervously waiting for her daughter. The left sock of the current pair she was working on had just been haphazardly thrown on the table, and the right sock was being mended. Due to her anxiety, she had ruined the design — that of a howling wolf that didn't look much like a wolf at all, though no one said that knitting was her forte — and had to redo it all over again.

She had not slept since her daughter had left the house to participate in the war. She could not drift into an easy slumber while she had no knowledge of what was going on. It wasn't as though she hadn't tried, but even Dreamless Sleeping Draughts could not decrease a mother's anxiety for her daughter's safety. In the end, she merely decided to keep herself occupied while she waited for the news.

It was almost midnight, and the dark clouds that had crept upon the skies was clearing up, though only just. Still, there was no word from the participants of the war.

It made her worry. It made her wish that she had kept the little magical radio she and Ted used to own, in case news was heard in the air, but she had given it to Nymphadora at a time when she needed it more.

What if…?

Quite viciously, the speed of her knitting increased. No, she wouldn't think of such horrible things — she promised herself that, promised Nymphadora that her first and foremost priority would be the safety of her grandson. Ted was right, he was always right — her daughter was an Auror, one the best there ever was, just as strong as they believed her to be, and intelligent, resourceful.

Beautiful, wonderful Nymphadora — she would be alright. She had to be.

Suddenly, someone knocked on the door.

She dropped the sock she was holding — almost finished, almost. Her face scrunched up in mild horror as the visitors knocked again. With one hand ready to pick up her wand in her pocket, she stood up quickly and quietly and laid ears on the door, trying to figure out who was outside. No one but members of the Order could enter the sanctity of their home at the moment, but she wanted to make sure.

"Who's there?" she asked softly, and her voice luckily did not shake.

"It's me," said a clear, soothing voice in the silence of the dawn, tired but unyielding, and her heart skipped, her eyes widened, and she opened the door so quickly, too quickly, to see the face of Kingsley Shacklebolt, his eyes weary and solemn as he inclined his head to her.

Her heart dropped, and her muscles slackened as she stood there like a frail weed.

No.

"No," she whispered, brokenly, softly.

"The war is over, Andromeda," said Kingsley, and there was much sympathy in the way he spoke, and she didn't know whether to be angry — at her daughter, who insisted on fighting despite the danger, at her son-in-law for allowing it, at everyone else, at Kingsley for being here - or break down at the sight of such a usually calm man standing before her with grief etched on his face. His lips trembled but a little, his hesitation palpable in the thin, cold air, but he continued on. "I'm afraid there have been many casualties…"

They had won, yes, Andromeda surmised as much.

But.

"They're dead, aren't they?" she said quietly, stricken, and her knuckles were white and her eyes looking at anything but Kingsley's face. "Nymphadora and Remus? They're both dead?"

"…Yes," answered Kingsley grimly, softly. "I'm sorry."

She gasped, a delicate hand covering her mouth as she uttered a soft cry, her tears on the brim of her eyes. She closed them, willing a tear to slide down her cheek as she let her grief pass through her like a waterfall — strong, overpowering, overwhelming. First Ted, who had been killed mercilessly by Snatchers; and now, her daughter, Nymphadora, the only child she had, the one she had lived for alongside the man she loved, the one she fought for against her family, the one she left her son for, was dead.

Gone.

She couldn't believe it. She had felt it in her heart - a mother's instinct, if you would - but she kept the dreadful thoughts at bay, keeping an optimistic mind in as much as she could muster… And now those same thoughts were pushing through, flashing before her eyes — scenes of Nymphadora's death, curses flying in every direction, her soft eyes losing the life they had always had…

Ted's eyes…

No, she thought bitterly. No…

She feels a firm hand on her shoulder, and an arm snaking around her back as Kingsley's warmth enveloped her, and didn't need to open her eyes and look at him to know that there was compassion and understanding in his eyes, and she breathed out shakily, a scratchy sob escaping her throat as she leaned into that embrace and rests her head on his shoulders.

It was Ted who always comforted her when she was at her lowest, who would always whisper sweet words, comforting words, who would wrap his arms around her and kiss her temple and tell her it was going to be alright, they were going to get through this, that it would all be over soon. He had told her once that grief was but another part of a person's life, and as painful as it was, as heavy the burden was, they had to overcome it, and the mark it would leave behind would become their symbol of bravery, of strength, of love.

But it was Kingsley now, because Ted wasn't here. Ted was dead, and she did not know if she could accept that. She did not know if she was strong enough.

She suddenly remembered that Kingsley was here to deliver her news, not stand there to comfort a grieving woman, and it must be so uncomfortable for him to be there, watching her struggle with herself, so selfish of her. She leaned away, pushing herself off him lightly, her hands trembling, restraining the tears that wanted so very much to fall. She looked up and tried to smile at him, though she knew it would come out faint and phony and shaking. At the moment, she suspected that he already knew that, because he was looking at her as though she was going to break.

"Thank you," she said.

He lowered his hands, and nodded.

She hesitated. She wanted nothing more than to shove him away and tell him to leave her alone, but that was hardly polite, and years and years of highborn upbringing could never be undone. "Forgive me, I shouldn't - shouldn't leave you out there, standing out in the cold." She breathed in , a huge gulp of air, a way to cope. "Would you like to come in for a moment…?"

She motioned for him to come inside their — her — home, and if her voice wasn't shaking, she might have thought that she had outdone herself this time. Kingsley looked mildly troubled, as if this was not a part of the plan, and perhaps he had expected a woman like her to break down and cry in front of him, not give him a hospitable treatment frosted with the struggle to be strong. Nevertheless, his face cleared and he nodded, stepping inside in deliberately slow steps, looking around her small cottage as though he had not been there himself before. He had, of course, done numerous visits to the place due to his friendship with both Ted (they went to school in the same year) and Nymphadora - but this was different. This time he was here for her.

She did not want to know whether that was a good thing or not.

She led him to the small dining room, and gestured for him to sit on one of the chairs and begin levitating a pan and some utensils to begin her work. He looked as though he was about to say something, but she cut him off quickly. "I've yet to have supper, and I'm sure neither have you, what with all the excitement happening outside," she said, fleetingly. "A breakfast plate would be more appropriate at this hour, however, wouldn't you say so?"

Silence, and then: "I agree," he replied softly, perhaps knowing that even if he turned down her offer, she would cook him a meal regardless, perhaps surprised at how much control she had with her magical and physical capabilities, when it was obvious to the both of them just how much she was shaking, and Andromeda could not even hide that fact from so sharp a man as Kingsley.

"How would you like your eggs done?"

"Scrambled," he muttered. "If you please."

"Worry not."

"I do worry," he said clearly, shortly, though not in anger or irritation. It was a statement of a fact.

She did not acknowledge it and continued on with her task, and neither spoke another word until there were crispy bacons, eggs, hash browns, and toast on both their plates. He gave her a swift 'thank you' as he accepted a fork from her and began eating his way through the silence that Andromeda's obvious despair had imposed.

After the first half-hour, however, Kingsley paused in his meal, startling her a little, and he turned to her thoughtfully. "You can asking me anything, Andromeda, and I will answer them to the best of my abilities."

She searched Kingsley's kind eyes, and knew that any question she asked would receive clear, if not good, answers. Kingsley always had a knack for reassuring others, whether it was by his voice, his strength, his talent, or his mere presence in the room. Andromeda had noticed it the first time she had ever met him, back at Hogwarts, and she was noticing it again this time.

The first question, of course, was the one nagging in her mind the most.

"Who - who killed her?" she asked, almost pleading.

Kingsley did not answer for a long moment, giving her a piercing glance behind that dark eyes that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, prickling her, before uttering, "It was Bellatrix." The look on Andromeda's face must have alarmed him, for he raised his free hand and quickly added, "She is dead as well, Andromeda, you do not need to worry."

Andromeda stilled.

Bellatrix.

Her sister, Bellatrix.

"Bella," she breathed, looking up at Kingsley, who, once again, had a sympathetic look on his face, only this time, it was mingling with guilt, realizing quickly that he probably had said those words a little too casually. He merely meant well, she was certain, yet had forgotten that it was not just the victim who was related to her. She could not explain it now, and perhaps she would not be able to do so at all in the future, but the death of Bellatrix struck her in a way that she did not expect. Kingsley seemed to understand, by the look he was giving her.

It was true that they had begun truly hating each other after Andromeda made it perfectly clear that she intended to marry Ted, and leave the family behind. Nevertheless, before Andromeda Tonks, there was Andromeda Black, and she had not always been the black sheep of the family that she was labelled as now. She could still remember, in her distant childhood, the genuinely smiling face of the young, brash, and strong Bellatrix Black. It had been years since they had played together as children, talked to each other, taken care of one another.

They had been closed, with Bellatrix only one year older than her - almost inseparable in their younger days as they played every childish game they could in what was once their home. They had been Bella and Andy, and with Cissy, they were the three Black daughters that held the world at their fingertips — all beautiful, all clever, all strong, all pure of blood. But Bellatrix begun associating herself with those fully delved themselves in the Dark Arts, and later joining their cause. Narcissa had fallen in love with the dashing, and then heir to the Malfoy legacy, and Andromeda concentrated on her studies, and on a Muggle-born wizard who had taken a sudden, if not odd, interest in her.

To hear that she, as well, had died in the war… it tore another piece from Andromeda's heart — a piece she thought she had already left behind.

"Who killed Bellatrix?" she whispered, a hand placed gingerly on his face. Her tone was brittle, and for some reason, she was still shaking. A husband, a daughter, a son-in-law, and now, a sister.

When will it end?

"Molly," said Kingsley pensively, watching her with what she thought to be worry, or rather, distraught. "Bellatrix almost killed her youngest; the curse bypassed her by mere inches. Molly duelled against her and hit her on the chest." He looked as though he was about to say more, but he shook his head. "She fell and died, and her body is being taken to the Malfoys, for her sister to bury."

Andromeda pursed her lips, and harsh words spewed from her lips before she could stop herself. "Why do you give her such luxury? With all that she had done, she does not deserve a proper burial. She deserves to rot, and her body to be mangled by dogs." Tears prickled the corners of her eyes once more, but she stopped herself, looking down and away from Kingsley's prying eyes. "She killed so many, broken so many hearts and so many people. I can never forgive her."

"Can't you?"

"I would have killed her myself!" she snapped.

"Would you?"

Andromeda glanced at him, her eyes flashing with an unreadable emotion, and her teeth grinding together in an effort not to say anything hurtful any longer as she refrain to dignify his question with answer. She did not even know the real answer herself.

Would she?

Bellatrix had killed her daughter — that alone was enough on an incentive for her, revenge for a loved one lost. With a start, she remembered the Bellatrix had also killed Sirius, her favourite cousin, and the man who gave her smiles when no one else could understand the pain she had gone through, what with leaving the family behind, leaving her name behind, and settling for another. In the heat of the battle, if she were there, she knew that she would remember that, and she would have been so furious, so sorrowful, so determined to get what she wanted.

An eye for an eye, a life for a life.

But would she, really?

Kingsley took her silence as a response to his enquiry, and returned to his food, and Andromeda wondered if his assessment was agreement, or disapproval, or neither, or he simply did not care for what she might have said and merely wanted her to think. Either way, Kingsley would not judge her, she knew, almost as certainly as she knew that Ted loved her with her fibre of his being.

Eventually, they began talking of other things, relevant things and lighter topics, and a comfortable stalemate when it came to her family and his involvement in the war, and Andromeda found herself comforted, if only slightly, by his presence, and the way he spoke to her.

"Thank you for - breakfast," he said, yet again, as she escorted him to the front door. They sun was rising, a faint glow of light peeking from behind the dark clouds that were slowly fading away, giving way to a new day, with new light. It was symbolic, in many ways, but Andromeda could not find it in her heart to sing it praises.

"It was nothing," she replied. "Thank you, for coming here. I know that you are busy… and incredibly so…"

"Andromeda," Kingsley began, with slight exasperation in his tone, but he paused as he looked at her solemnly, as if thinking what he wanted to truly say to her. "I know that this is a hard phase in your life, and it will take a while before you…"

He glance at her piercingly, and she she looked down until she had looked away.

He put his hands inside his pockets. "Well, what I'm trying to say is that if you ever need help, I'm always here —"

"Thank you, Kingsley," she said, and for the first time, her smile, though incredibly small, was real. 'Touched' was too simple a words to describe the warmth in her voice. She looked at him fully in the face, for the first time. She examined the lines of his face, the traces of worry in the dark edges of his eyes, the solemn downturn of his lips. For the first time, she saw Kingsley in a very low point in his life — he had just lost many friends, and despite the victory, he did not look any last defeated.

He looked very much like how she felt.

She probably was not the only person that he had to visit. This was war - there would be many, many casualties, sacrifices to the greater cause. It was a hard burden, to tell all these families that their loved ones had died in battle, and he still chose to do it.

She wondered why.

"I would not want to bother you," she began, "but —"

"You're no bother," said Kingsley, his eyes sincere. "We are friends, aren't we?"

In truth, Andromeda had never considered him a friend of hers. He was Ted's friend, a long-standing companion since their early days at Hogwarts, that not even Ted's Gryffindor scarf that clashed with Kingsley Ravenclaw tie could separate; Sirius' friend, even, that he, too, have known since their Hogwarts days, and was one of the first to believe Dumbledore's defence with regards to his innocence; and quite possibly Nymphadora's friend as well, for they have worked together on a number of missions, both within the ministry and not; but not her friend, specifically. They were merely connected by association, acquaintances through other relations. She had never given him birthday or Christmas presents that were not in a bundle with her family, never sent him friendly letters asking him how he was, never made plans to hang out with him, never talked to him outside the comfort zone of her family's bubble.

"Yes," she said firmly. "Friends."

Kingsley gave her a fleeting smile, nodding before he Apparated a few steps away from her door. She stared at the spot for a few more moments, realizing that, for the first time in a very long while, she was once more alone.

She didn't know why, but her mother's voice suddenly floated in her mind, and a memory once forgetten resurfaced from the depths of oblivion.

•

"Crying, child?" her mother snapped crisply. "Not again. Wipe your face and hide your tears, Andromeda. People will assume that you are a weakling, and no Black child will be called as such, especially not in our own home."

An eight-year-old Andromeda quickly wiped her tears away with the white handkerchief offered to her. Under the stern gaze of her mother's beady eyes, her tears had simply stopped flowing. They were situated near the back of the room, almost invisible to the sea of black that gathered in the hall. They watched as visitors entered their house and expressed their condolences, saying how dreadful it was for Mister Pollux Black to have died, and hoped that he passed on with a smile on his face, and other mundane things offered so emotionally, one would think that they were sincere about it all. Andromeda knew they were not, because Pollux Black, while a wonderful grandfather to his grandchildren, was a stern man, ruthless and cunning, and used every mean he possessed to gain a satisfactory end. Indeed, he had died with a smile on his face, tried in the very last years of his life to bring more glory to the House of Black, at the expense of other people's comforts.

She knew all these because she listened to her parents talk, watched with a child's eye how everyone revered and feared him in a way she would ever not, because he had nothing but smiles to share for her. He was an odd man, her grandfather, but he was wonderful, and she loved him. She would miss him.

But even crying out of love was a fault to her mother, and weaknesses, she knew, were something not tolerated in their society. Pureblood superiority must be upheld, in every sense of the word.

"Yes, that's it," she said tersely, pulling the handkerchief away from Andromeda's fingers and Vanishing it with a flick of her wand. "Why were you crying, child? Because you grandfather is dead?"

Andromeda nodded mutely, and she saw her mother purse her lips.

"Foolish girl," she said, with a trace of dislike in her tone of voice. "Every man and woman will die when the time comes - not even magic of the highest and strongest form will save them from the grasp of death. It is the only thing that we wizards have not over, and will probably never do so, as disheartening as that sounds. It is an inevitable fate. In the end, every man will be left with nothing but himself, meant to be alone."

Andromeda looked up at her mother, her young face showing her confusion — and fear.

"Are you frightened, Andromeda, at the prospect of being alone?" she guessed correctly, though Andromeda did not answer for fear of what her mother would do if she did. Druella Black eyed her daughter prudently, the wrinkles on her face now more prominent, disapproving of her daughter in a way that it had never had before. "Listen to me, Andromeda —"

She grabbed her daughter's small wrist, sinking her nails in her skin, and Andromeda wanted to cry again. She blinked the tears away as her mother continued to speak.

"This world is not kind," she said quietly, but there is a growl in the undercurrents of her voice, a predator's sound. "Everyone is fated to die someday — some will die before you, others will die right beside you. In the end, even the person that you treasure the most, whoever that person may be, will disappear from this word, nothing more than a fleeting memory. There is nothing more depressing, more regretful, but you must accept your fate when the time comes. When it does, little one, you will be the only person left to take care of yourself."

•

She was right, her mother.

She was alone.

Andromeda closed the door delicately, and rested her head on it after she had heard it click shut. A second later, and the tears were falling, and she was crying, whining, sobbing - for what, she didn't know any longer. Her grief overpowered her and she slumped to the floor, clutching the door handle as tightly as she could, holding on for dear life.

It was all just too much.

•

Published: October 13, 2009

Note: It's my first venture into the Harry Potter fandom, as a writer, and it's also for a pairing no one else has written for. It was an accidental shipping - a friend and I argued over the type of women the men of the Harry Potter has fallen for, and while Remus is the kind to fall for a younger, spunkier woman, she said that Kingsley probably had already fallen for a married woman (or, as in the case of this story, a widow), and that was why he's still single despite his age.

Anyway, I want to know who is interested in this Kingsley/Andromeda pairing — I mean, it's already almost nonexistent as it is, but I want to know if it's interesting enough to be continued, and if there are any suggestions as to how we can get them both together in the end! I'm always open to suggestions.

•

Edited: October 10, 2012

Note: Spelling and grammatical errors have been corrected, and some parts of the chapter have been either expanded or contracted, depending on how important they are. Certain history between certain people have been slightly rewritten, defining relationships a bit better than it had been before. Things that don't make sense or clashes horribly with another idea have been changed as well. All in all, nothing too drastic.