Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, round 9 for the Chudley Cannons for the Chaser 2 position.
GO CANNONS! And enjoy.
X
There weren't many times in Andromeda's life when she'd actually felt proud of herself, and the funny thing was that she didn't even know that wasn't normal. She just didn't know pride. As far as people went, she was a bit ignorant.
But that's the lovely thing about being ignorant. You can't possibly mind something if you don't know it exists.
She was painting that afternoon—well, painting was what she called it, or what she thought of it as, anyway, in that little seven year old head of hers, though it was really just more like spreading paint around, but nonetheless—and she felt happy. Of the few things that seven year old Andromeda Black knew, happiness was one of them. It was the feeling of bubbles in her stomach, and dark chocolate on her tongue, and in that particular moment, the sun through the window tickling the paint on her skin.
"What's that supposed to be?" said Narcissa, leaning forward with her nose pointed out so close it could have grazed off a layer of her sister's canvas. "It looks wonky."
Bellatrix, a little further off, said, "Wonky? Where'd you learn that, Cissy, the back alley?"
"What? What's wrong with 'wonky'?"
"It's a ridiculous word," she said. "Don't use it. Besides, I rather like Andie's painting."
"I didn't say I didn't like it," said Narcissa, crossing her arms. "Only that it looks strange."
"Plenty of people think you look strange, and they don't mention it, do they?" Bellatrix shot Andromeda a tongue-in-cheek grin.
"I don't look strange!" Narcissa cried.
"Oh, shush now, Cissy, you'll soil your new gown getting all worked up like that. I'm only teasing. Don't you rather like Andie's painting?"
More softly, she answered, "I always rather like Andie's paintings." And then, after a beat: "How do you do it, Andie? Could you teach me? Although I'd like maybe not to paint something so strange."
"Strange." Bellatrix rolled her eyes. "You, sister, need a new vocabulary. When Andromeda's a world-famous painter, what are you going to tell everyone, that her paintings are strange?"
"Well… but… they are!"
The older sisters shared another look and laughed, and when they realized Narcissa didn't understand why they were at all, laughed even harder. For Andromeda, there were few times in her life when she ever felt proud of herself, and in that moment, her pride was so diluted in her happiness that the two could hardly be distinguished between.
. . .
"What is this, Andromeda?"
She was standing before her mother, suddenly feeling very small. Her arms were pink and stinging still from hot water and too much scrubbing, yet there was still a line of white paint trailing from the underneath of her arm all the way to her elbow.
"It's a painting, Mother," said Andromeda. "I did it this afternoon with Bellatrix and Narcissa. It's all of—"
"This afternoon?" Druella said. "When you were supposed to be studying your Latin?"
Andromeda's cheeks flushed. "I did study."
"Did you?"
"I—yes, I… I made that for you."
"What?"
"The painting. It's of Narcissa, Bellatrix and me. We're, we're… see? There's Cissy's yellow hair, and Bella's curls…"
"Why did you do that?"
"Because I wanted to give you a gift, Mother. You looked sad the other day and I thought…"
"Well, enough of that," she snapped, and turned away. Within seconds she'd called for the house elf and the sudden of the apparition was ringing in Andromeda's ears. She watched as her mother ran her hands through her hair, and her eyes looked more tired and her expression more exasperated than she could have ever remembered.
"Lizzy, take Andromeda to the South Chambers, and bring her double her normal reading. Andromeda, finish it all by dinner tonight, or you won't be painting anymore."
Her mother disappeared down the corridor sometime after that, and Andromeda said nothing more as she went. She simply noticed her canvas where her mother had left it on the floor, face down and buried in the carpet. As her house elf led her away, she found herself feeling sort of like that painting, and the feeling sank within her chest every step she took away from it.
X
She was a little older now, but anyone that knows anything knows that time doesn't do much for age. They're sort of independent of each other, at least in the mind, where it counts.
"I don't think you ought to write to me anymore." She said this standing over him and felt strangely all too tall.
"Why do you always talk like that?" Ted asked, a hand behind his head, always casual and nonchalant even when she was in every sense breaking up with him. "All posh and proper English."
"I don't speak posh and proper English. You're just under the impression that I do because I'm a Black, and you've got this great misconception about everyone to bear the Black name."
"Hm." He tapped his chin. "Maybe that's it, you're right. What were you saying then?"
"I don't think you ought to—"
"Oh, no, that's right, I don't care." He hopped up so quickly he startled her with the closeness. "Look out for a letter tomorrow morning then, why don't you?"
"Ted."
"Come on, 'Dromeda. We're friends now. You call me Ted."
"I—" She blinked. "Oh. Do I? When'd I start doing that?"
"When you realized you fancied me." He grinned wickedly. "A while ago now, eh?"
"Oh, shut it. I'm serious. I don't think you should write me anymore. I'm fine with being your friend. You're a good laugh, as ridiculous as your hair might be—"
"My hair?"
"Yes, ridiculous. It's embarrassing to be seen out with you. I'm morbidly afraid of being associated with your hair. I have recurring nightmares about it, the mop that strangles me in my sleep and resides upon Ted's large head."
"My hair?"
"Yes, Ted, do you own a mirror? Anyway, I just don't know what my family will think when they know I even speak the same language as a muggle-born, and I don't want that to come round to you."
After recovering from her comments, he said, "What do I care? You're the one that should be worried. I mean, what will my parents think when they know I've asked a pureblood to Hogsmeade? It's terribly controversial, you wouldn't believe it."
Andromeda's face blanched suddenly. "You've asked a what to where?"
He smiled. "Hm?"
"You've asked a who to what?"
"A you to—Oh!" He laughed loudly, and Andromeda had to swat him in the arm to get him to quiet down before Madam Pince tried to expel them. "Did I get ahead of myself? Oops."
"Stop it," she said, and was trying not to blush. "You don't make any sense. Why do you purposely not make any sense?"
"Because I'm fun and exciting and I've got funny hair, and do you want to go to Hogsmeade with me?"
She choked on air, a bit too loudly, even though she'd sort of anticipated it and had tried—well, obviously in vain—to prevent herself from this embarrassment. But there she was, pink cheeked and suddenly all starry eyed and a little too unsure of herself.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Dro?"
"Okay," she decided all of a sudden. She'd been waiting for something like that, only she wasn't sure what it was, only that she liked that sound of that, how he'd put her thoughts into words, real, tangible things.
"Okay?"
"Yes. But don't call me Dro. That's awful."
"What about 'Dromeda? You liked that, didn't you?"
"No, dear Merlin, vanish those words from your vocabulary. They're horrendous."
But she was still blushing, so maybe she didn't mind it so much. Maybe it was like another "Andie," but different, but a boy who was going to take her on a date and do date-ish things with her that made her stomach go all bubbly and warm like it always did when she was happy.
There was a thing, though, about being happy, like a doctrine or a law of the universe or something unchangeable and fixed like that, that didn't let you stay too happy and warm for long. Winter always comes, no matter how hot the summer might be; night always fades in no matter how bright the day might have been.
X
A/N: As of this moment, this isn't entirely "complete"... I'll add onto it eventually. So come back... yes. Bye now.