and sometimes we freeze in spring
BEATER 1: Virgo — Write about a character(s) striving to attain their concept of "perfection." Additional Prompts: (emotion) regret, (phrase) holding your head up high, (dialogue) "if the grass is greener on the other side, you can bet the water bill is higher."
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August 21, 1972
Andromeda leaves in mid-August.
It is the kind of summer that is all sunburns — sticky-hot sweat that drips down perfumed necks even in magically cooled ballrooms. Her mother is at a gala with Narcissa somewhere in the city, having only left her behind because she feigned having the flu. Bellatrix is off the deep end with a group of her fellow pureblood fanatics, and her father is at the gentlemen's club near the least seedy part of Knockturn Alley, so Andromeda simply slips out the window with her unborn daughter in her stomach and disappears into the night.
It should feel like a victory, but it doesn't. It just feels like leaving and leaving tastes like giving up on her tongue.
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August 30, 1972
There are small mixed towns, in rural neighbourhoods and suburbs, places where Muggles and magic users live alike, coexist.
There is a small magical town called Norton Heights, deep in the valleys, where the citizens don't ask too many questions about those who pass through, even if they're aristocratic teens with more skeletons than smiles.
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September 10, 1972
Andromeda buys her first home in Muggle cash from a man who is already drunk at noon and doesn't care about his tenant's livelihood unless they could potentially earn him a higher paycheck.
"Pretty lady like you, must have quite a story," he says, leering at her. His breath smells like alcohol. "Maybe you can repay me in some other ways."
Andromeda hexes him, lets his body hit the floor with a thud and forgets to feel bad about it. When she tosses him off his balcony, she forgets to check how soft the landing is too.
This is all for you, she thinks to the unborn baby in her stomach that night, lying curled up on the old mattress that had come with the place. My child — when you tell people your boundaries, they will listen. I will ensure it. You have no idea what I am capable of.
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September 12, 1972
When you are born into empires like the Black family, details are irrelevant.
When you are alone and a runway, even the finest details threaten to bury you alive.
"Do you have any qualifications or previous experience?" the owner of the inn asks, her lips pressed together in a manner that indicates disapproval. The bun on her head is so tight it seems as if it were pressed directly on her skull.
"No, ma'am." Andromeda looks around the tastefully decorated living room of the McGonagall Inn, and prays, silently and hopefully for the ground to swallow her. "But I am a hard worker, and I have a daughter on the way. I… I need this. I am more desperate than I care to admit."
The owner hmphs. "I'm not fond of hiring runaways without documents, Ms. Smith, though I rather doubt that is your true name. But I will take this chance on you. Don't make me regret this."
Ms. McGonagall gives her a starting time and a uniform that day, and another stern glance.
Are you proud? Andromeda asks her child on her walk home, snuggling deeper into her flimsy winter jacket but holding her head up high. You will never be like me. I will give you a safe home and a bed and a parent with a job that doesn't involve blood money. We will never be wealthy, but it will be enough. It will be everything I have ever wanted for you.
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September 18th, 1972
Marlene McKinnon looks at her like it takes all the effort in the world to not look right through her, and at the minute exactly, Andromeda adds 'co-workers' to the list of things she cannot seem to comprehend.
"So, what's your story?"
"Excuse me?" Andromeda manages to get out in surprise, her eyebrows furrowing. "I rather think that's a very personal question to ask a stranger, Ms. McKinnon."
"Well, I'm saving up so I can leave this town. Most of the staff are Muggleborns whose Muggle side of the family didn't approve and now they're tryna make it on their own... 'course, you don't seem much like a Muggleborn, so I thought I'd ask. I don't see what's wrong with that. You do realize you can just say no right?"
It's odd, the way a simple statement can be more terrifying than a wand pointed directly at her throat. Marlene McKinnon claims she can say no, but there is a precedent that shows that is a lie. There is a reason Andromeda has build her soul on secrets.
"I am having a child. They will need food, a bed, and schooling, and I intend to provide that for them," Andromeda says, tense but polite, the remains of her etiquette lessons on full display.
Marlene pauses, reassesses her. "You're a Pureblood, aren't you?" She says, with all the subtlety of a loaded gun. "An arranged marriage, I presume?"
"You presume wrong." Andromeda's smile shows her teeth, shows danger and a subtle threat. Don't go any further. "My child's father is a cruel, rich man who committed a crime against me. Does that answer your questions, Ms. McKinnon, or shall you prefer all of my life on display?"
Marlene lets out a whoosh of air. "I'm sorry," she says, "you didn't deserve that. If you ever need a babysitter, I have nothing better to do in this town.."
"Thank you." Andromeda pauses. "You have little worth apologizing for. As the Muggle says — the grass is greener on the other side, is it not?"
"If the grass is greener on the other side, you can bet the water bill is higher," Marlene jokes, still uncomfortable, but clearly putting the effort in. Andromeda forces a laugh, a quiet acceptance, and then they work in silence.
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October 2, 1972
The closer she gets to her delivery day, the worse it gets. There are days Andromeda can barely get out of bed, days where the morning sickness leaves her hurling before and after her feeble attempts at breakfast.
Work at the inn is difficult: she scrubs pans and learns to polish floors with her wand and cooks Muggle food she has never seen before and collapses into bed every night, only to do it all over again the next day.
"You are due to give birth in December, Ms. Smith?" Ms. McGonagall asks, her shrewd eyes seemingly baring into Andromeda's soul. Andromeda nods distractedly, her eyes already starting towards the next room she has to clean. "I will give you sixteen weeks off with pay, starting November, and then you may return afterwards with your child, and I will help you figure out babysitting."
Andromeda freezes. "You will do that for me?" She says incredulously. "But you barely know me, ma'am."
Ms. McGonagall looks at her with equal surprise. "Did you not think your hard work would be rewarded, Ms. Smith?"
No, Andromeda wants to say. No, because no one has ever cared how hard I've worked or what I've really needed. No one has ever truly cared for me.
"Thank you," she says instead.
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October 29, 1972
The first thing Andromeda feels when she opens the door is a rush of cold air. The second thing she feels is Marlene's shoulder bump her own as the other girl walks in, balancing an oversized bag of groceries on her hip and a backpack on her back.
"So," Marlene says, popping her gum, "I think it's time you moved in with me."
"Yes," Andromeda says, and there are no warning bells in the back of her head. For the best or the worst, Marlene does not feel like danger to her.
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November 1, 1972
"You know, for someone who isn't baby-proofing this flat, you have an awful lot of complains," Marlene teases.
Andromeda lets of a soft huff from where she lies on Marlene's threadbare couch. "I hope my child is quieter than you," she teases back, but she doesn't mean it.
There is a snowstorm outside, and the cold air goes through the cracks of their poorly shut windows, but Andromeda has never felt quite so warm as now, curled up on a friend's couch while she totals up her savings.
"I hope my daughter understands," Andromeda says quietly, but Marlene overhears it, nods, understands.
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November 28, 1972
Andromeda Smith has six thousand dollars worth of savings, exactly one friend, six hand-me-down toys from Marlene's siblings, and a growing hope that one day, there will be a child of house Black who does not have nightmares.
Andromeda Black died on a warm summer night where a rich man took her to a dark corner, had his wicked way, and then asked her parents for her hand in marriage, ignoring her cries of no.
Andromeda Black is dead, but Andromeda Smith lives.
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December 21, 1972
Nymphadora comes into the world on the winter Equinox in a small town hospital. Her official name is Dora Smith; she has no dynasty behind her. If she ever learns the words Toujours Pur, it will be over Andromeda's own dead body rotting six feet under.
"Is there anyone you want here, hun?" the nurse asks. Her smile is wobbly, she seems concerned. If there is anything Andromeda can bet on, it's that she isn't the first young girl with a baby that the nurse has helped.
"I'm fine alone, thank you," Andromeda whispers, feeling her daughter's heartbeat against her skin. Marlene is still at work, but she will be here soon, and yet, it does not feel enough.
Outside of their room, the hospital is bustling with life, but inside their room, the silence is maddening. In another world, she knows that she would not be alone in this, that her mother and her sisters would be bustling by her side, that her father would be stunned with awe at the sight of his newest granddaughter. Instead, all Nymphadora gets is a broken mother and a customary bag of baby supplies the hospital gives.
The time for regrets has long since passed, but Andromeda pictures her daughter's empty family tree in her head, and just for a minute, shatters in her regrets.
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December 21, 1973
On the eve of Nymphadora's birthday, Andromeda watches her daughter blow out candles on the floor of a bedroom that does not smell like narcotics or alcohol. There are toys on the floor, left over from presents from people who know her as something other than an ex-Black, and a job that has never come at the price of others' lives.
Dear Mother and Father,
I know you will not be able to resist opening this letter, for you would never pass up an opportunity to mock the choices I have made. However, this letter is not for me, or even for you. This letter is for a granddaughter you will never, ever know; a granddaughter who does not bear your name or shoulder our familial burdens. Nymphadora leads the life I have always strived to give her, the life I have always thought perfect for her. The kind of life I deserved, instead of one where my own parents would marry me off to a man who has shown me nothing but cruelty.
I promise that I have made none of your mistakes. No one will ever touch my daughter against her desires, she will not bear a child she did not plan for. I love my daughter, but I will never forgive what you have done to me, mother and father. Nymphadora will have nothing but toys and dreams and a chance to be a child and not a pawn in the games of heartless socialites.
Regards,
Andromeda Smith