Title: Before the Storm
Author: Shadow Padawan
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Antonin/Bellatrix, Andromeda/Ted, Lucius/Narcissa, Rodolphus/Bellatrix, various others
Word Count: 30.133 (To be posted here in 3 parts)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Minor character death, some course language, mature themes (war, elitist political ideologies, etc), an instance of implied sexual coercion/dub-con, allusions to sex and/or sexual situations
Summary: Wizarding Britain is on the brink of civil war. But even as the political tension rises, life continues. The Blacks are ready to marry off their three daughters. Narcissa has found a match with Lucius Malfoy, Andromeda has been promised to Rodolphus Lestrange (never mind that he loves Bellatrix) and Druella, grudgingly, acquiesce to let Bellatrix marry Antonin Dolohov if he proposes. But all these well laid plans go to pieces when Antonin is sentenced to Azkaban forbr / killing an Auror, Andromeda elopes with Ted Tonks, and the war begins. As Bella turns to Tom Riddle for help and the Blacks frantically search for a way to preserve the family honor, choices are made that will define many fates, not the least of which are Bella's and Antonin's.
Author's notes: Written for the Het Bog Bang on livejournal. Thank you to all the people who were supportive of me through this large project and who helped it come to life. A special thank you goes to Slumber and my wonderful artist, firefly1344!
-PROLOGUE-
Consider the world in the pause before a thunderstorm. The air goes still as clouds slowly creep across the sky, throwing shadows along treetops and across the grass. The sun still shines, teasingly bright, on one edge of the blue expanse even as the other half is swallowed up by ominous grey. The crickets sing their symphony, alone in the stillness and silence as the air thickens and the heat condenses. Somewhere in the distance, breaking through the anticipation, rolls and rumbles a wave of thunder, broiling and brawling like a hungry giant. It crawls closer as more and more of the silky blue sky is conquered by the grey mass of cloud and the electric tension of the world continues to thicken. The colors brighten, glowing neon, hypersaturated in the last rays of a surrendering sun, then darken and smoothen out as the sun disappears. In moments, the wind will begin to blow, rushing powerful gusts rustling through the foliage and sapping twigs. The lightening will flash purple across the ash-covered sky and just before the tidal wave of thunder crashes down, the rain will fall. But that is still a few moments away. In the minutes before a thunderstorm, the world is bright and clear, electrified and sharp, beautiful in its awed suspense. Waiting.
-PART I-
Three ladies hats sit daintily on a hat wrack, soaking in bright sunlight that streams through a gap in the light, white curtains of the large windows overlooking a garden in full bloom. The hats – one powder blue, one foliage green and one forget-me-not violate – watch their mistresses twirl in front of the full length mirrors and help each other with the lacing, clasps and skirts of their dresses.
The powder blue hat belongs to the youngest girl, Narcissa. At seventeen she is only a year out in society but already with a prospective beau. Narcissa resembles a doll. An angelic porcelain doll, much like the ones she collects. Her hair falls over her shoulders and coils on her neck in soft, blonde ringlets that glitter gold in the sun. She has large blue eyes and full pink lips, lips that spend most of their time in a childishly sweet smile of elusive rapture. She is petite and slim, a perfect little statuette that floats with graceful steps across the room in a pretend waltz, skipping between her two sisters, flaring out the skirts of her sky-blue dress.
The violet hat belongs to the middle sister, Andromeda. Andromeda just out of Hogwarts, is perhaps the most serious and reserved out of the three sisters. She is more like her older sister than Narcissa, with dark brown, almost black, hair that she twists up in an elegant braid that rings around the back of her head and out of her face and dark, seemingly bottomless eyes. She stands patiently fixing the ribbon on her corset that has come undone, re-tying the knot and bow with long, nimble fingers. Her eyes are locked squarely with her twin in the mirror, as though challenging the girl reflected there to tell her something, but the reflection merely stares back.
The third, green, hat belongs to the eldest sister, Bellatrix. Bella, perhaps the most desired bride of wizarding Britain, is in a lot of ways the opposite of Narcissa. Although both girls are beautiful and seem to glow from within, they are vastly different. Where Narcissa is light and angelic, Bella is dark and fiery. Her dark ringlets and bright features seem to suck in the surrounding light and saturate her with it. Where Narcissa glows and glitters like a sun bunny, Bella seems to burn like a flame, a flame that burns brighter and hotter with every breath of life she takes. As Andromeda finishes tying her bow and continues to seriously examine herself in the mirror, Bellatrix turns to Narcissa and grabs her hands. The two girls twirl across the room, giggling with excitement.
Narcissa lets go of her sister and picks up her hat. She puts it on her head and turns back to Bella. "So? Do you think he will like it?"
Bella laughs. "I think he likes everything about you."
"Meddy?"
Andromeda breaks her staring match with the mirror and glances over her shoulder at Narcissa. "Cissy, you're lovely."
Narcissa and Bella exchange knowing looks. Andromeda doesn't like visiting days much. She has been promised, and every fiber of her being seems to revolt against the idea. Her sisters both begin to answer, Narcissa to offer encouragement, Bella to put things sharply in perspective, but they are interrupted by a house elf.
"Mistresses," the creature squeals in his high-pitch soprano. "The Messieurs Malfoy, Lestrange and Dolohov are here."
Andromeda purses her lips and walks across the chamber to take both her sisters' hands. "It's time."
Druella holds visiting days on Tuesdays and Saturdays, much like her mother once had. Lately, these dates have become of extreme interest to her. Her daughters, the three blooming flowers of the Black Family, are now all of marriageable age and Druella keeps an eye out for possible suitors with the watchful vigilance of a spider that weaves its web and waits for a foolish fly or two to get caught up in its intricate design.
Today she is expecting all three young suitors and her best china has been set out for tea. She is in the drawing room at ten till the hour, sitting primly on the embroidered sofa, stiff and focused, attempting to envision in her mind how the afternoon will run its course. Most likely, they will walk in the garden first, given the good weather, splitting off into pairs. She can imagine Andromeda and Rodolphus not bothering to go further than the benches and sitting down to chess or some other activity. Druella can imagine Narcissa with her flighty, girlish smile, flitting between the flowerbeds, luring Lucius further and further from the house like a nymph lures a lad into the depths of the enchanted forest. What Bellatrix and Antonin would do, Druella has a hard time imagining, but she doesn't think she would want to. It isn't that there is anything very wrong with Dolohov – he is Pureblood, well mannered, handsome, talented and perspective, after all. The fact that he is not an Englishman would not count against him were he wealthy, but the Dolohovs had always been a family of modest means by Pureblood standards and had lost their landed estates in the immigration. Yet, Bellatrix is set on marrying him, him or no one at all and Druella, knowing her oldest daughter's fiery temper, has tactfully retreated. Better a respectable marriage to Dolohov than a disgrace.
Next, it will be time for tea and they would all sit in the drawing room and make polite conversation, Cygnus will talk to the young men of politics and affairs. Druella can already predict the bored look on Narcissa face, the strange expression of being choked that Andromeda seems to get every time the issues of the day come up, and the warning looks she will have to shoot at Bella, like an archer at an apple, for the girl's inappropriate involvement in something that is clearly a men's topic. Once she has had enough and taken pity on Narcissa, Druella will ask the girls to sing. Andromeda will play the piano, running her long fingers lightly over the heavy oak lid, opening it slowly and trying out a couple of chords before plunging into a romance, and Bella and Cissy will sing duet as they have always done since they began their singing lessons in the golden days of their childhood.
Lastly, there will be kind words and polite excuses before the men depart. Druella has gone through this routine before and she cannot foresee any problem. Unless Rodolphus forgets himself and shows favor to Bella too openly. Or Antonin, the audacious boy that he is, stays too long, talking to Bellatrix, making the girl blush and laugh, allowing her to slap his arm playfully with her fan. Or Andromeda decides to introduce one of her "progressive thinking" ideas into the conversation. Perhaps the last is the most troubling, but Druella tries to hope for a smooth afternoon. The large grandfather clock in the corner strikes one in the afternoon. "Cooooo," draws out the little clock bird, then disappears again inside its wooden prison.
Cygnus appears in the doorway, twirling one of his long, bushy whiskers. "Is it time, dear?"
"Any minute now," Druella says quietly, unfolding her fan and flourishing it for effect. "I'd see one of our flowers in white, walking down the isle this time next year."
Cygnus laughs the hardy laugh of an old, good-natured fool. "Of course dear, of course. I've just talked to the Lestranges the other day. They are quite satisfied with the match. They want their heir married."
Druella sighs and waves tiredly at her husband. "Your daughter is impossible sometimes. I just hope she sees sense."
"Meddy is as much my daughter as yours, Dee," Cygnus chortles. Clearly, he is not worried one bit. "They're fine ladies," he continues more seriously. "Andromeda is a very smart girl. In fact, I am least worried about her out of the three. Cissy is too pliant and Bella too fiery, carried away too easily on the tidal wave of her own passion. But Meddy? Meddy will do what is best."
Druella purses her lips and doesn't answer. She hopes he is right.
Antonin hates the small talk part of calling most of all. If he had to only deal with Cygnus, that would have been half the problem, but Druella never fails to play the part of the good hostess, going on and on about silly, empty things. All Antonin can do is nod, smile and pretend to listen. He often finds himself studying Druella's face unceremoniously in search of Rosier traits. She has Rosier eyes and the soft curve of the Rosier mouth and chin, the delicate bone structure. All of these traits Druella has transferred smoothly to Narcissa.
Actually, Druella can be quite frightening. Antonin's own mother was always soft spoken. He has tender childhood memories of Maria Dolohov in a salad-green dress and white apron, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, with a smile on her face and an apple pie in her warm hands. She took his little sister out on walks in the neighborhood park and always gave treats to the incoming owls. Before his father disappeared, Antonin would often find his parents dancing in the sitting room, or even on the terrace on warm summer nights, to tunes they hummed in unison. He honestly can not imagine Druella Black doing any of these things. She is the sort of woman who should be feared most of all – an aging, wealthy socialite with too many daughters to marry and no sons to give her peace of mind. Antonin often compares her to an owl out on a hunt, swooping silently over fields until the prey is located, and then a dizzying dive downwards. The poor field mouse never stood a chance. Therefore, the rustle of skirts in the hall and Cygnus' pleasant, "Ah, my daughters, gentlemen," are a relief.
Antonin looks up toward the door and feels a fluttering in the bottom of his stomach that is silly and unnecessary. He never felt this way at school. At Hogwarts the rules were much less stringent. He and Bella could run across the grounds chasing each other, her hair flying behind her in the playful breeze. There, they could roll in the grass or fly on one broom without a thought, floating high in the darkening sky, watching the twilight fade. At Hogwarts, Bella's knee length skirt and light blouse, her House scarf and uniform robes, were so simple and undemanding, that Antonin could pretend that there is no dance that must be done around her and her family, that there are no rules binding them. Sometimes he wondered if, perhaps, he could simply sweep her up in his embrace one evening, after a victorious Quidditch match, and carry her off to the stars.
But this is their reality. Here in Druella Black's drawing room, under her old hag's watchful eye and Cygnus Black's nose. Etiquette and formality first, everything else last. As the three sisters enter, Antonin has a vague association with watching a parade of expensive enchanted dolls, the lewder variety of which are sold in Knockturn Alley under the slogan "For a Witch-less Wizard's Needs…" Despite the difference in the color of their hair, eyes, dresses, the Black sisters seem to all be molded in the same standardized way in which antiflu potions are made for medishops. The dresses are similar in style as are the hats that bob attractively and enticingly on their heads. Their expressions are the same – carefully pleasant. Their steps seem to almost be choreographed – float to the middle of the room, curtsey to their father, take three more steps, curtsey again to the guests. Bella had once told him that Druella calls her and her sisters "my flowers." Antonin can honestly say that Druella has the right to be proud of her garden, then, for it blooms and behaves perfectly, not a weed in sight.
Bella meets his eyes and offers a small quirk of a smile, her eyes promising Merlin only knows what. A hot spark flies between them, burning them both so that Antonin can hardly stand in one place. He feels Rodolphus' eyes on him and keeps still. Poor Roddy. Antonin was never Lestrange's best friend but they were classmates and Antonin always feels a little guilty, a little uncomfortable, when he, Roddy and Bella are in the same room together outside of Hogwarts. It is a secret to no one that Rodolphus wants to marry Bellatrix and not Andromeda.
Poor Andromeda, for that matter. She doesn't even get a choice.
"Mr. Dolohov, it's such a pleasant surprise," Bella draws out liltingly, tipping her head to the side so that it's a wonder her hat doesn't fall off. His appearance here is certainly not a surprise but Bella uses it as an excuse to offer him her hand.
"A walk in the garden, perhaps?" Narcissa asks in her ringing, girlish voice, looking rapturously at Lucius who suddenly gets the most unusual glint in his eyes, like he's back in second year and about to play his first prank on a professor.
Andromeda and Rodolphus merely stand before one another for a long time without even acknowledging each other. Rodolphus has his eyes fixed on Bella, on her lips and the low, generous cut of her gown. Andromeda is looking down, not wanting to see the man who is to be her intended, if thing's work out Druella's way, devouring her sister with lustful eyes. Finally, Rodolphus takes Andromeda's hand and kisses it, then gestures to the garden.
"Are you sure it is wise, Dee?" Cygnus asks quietly as the three couples make their way outside. "Rodolphus loves our Bella and Meddy obviously cares nothing for the boy either."
Druella sighs and gives her husband a good smack with her fan. "Cygnus, marriage and love do not have to go hand in hand. A tie with the Lestranges is very advantages. I would have Bella marry the boy, but she's…" Druella pauses, searching for the right word. Finally, floundering, she admits, "Bella is very hard to control, you know that. Besides, how am I supposed to argue with her on the matter? Simply because Dolohov is not quite her social equal doesn't outweigh the fact that he is both eligible, strictly speaking, and her chosen match. I don't exactly want to make my daughters unhappy." There is another reason that Druella is not quite honest about. She wants Andromeda married – quickly. The girl is too quiet, too separatist in thinking, too unlike her sisters. She has begun to keep secrets, Druella knows, and she fears what the nature of these secrets might be. Society still talks of Lola Greengrass in whispers, though it has been many, many years since her elopement.
Bella's dress is the color of thick foliage. This is convenient, because between her green dress and Antonin's dark robes they can easily melt in the depths of the garden, unobserved and undisturbed. Here the carefully pruned rose beds give way to large exotic lilies and poppies and the neat lawns with their intertwining white and peach stone paths that wind and intersect like ribbons on a silken petticoat are replaced by shady trees and thick groves of berry-bearing bushes. In the isolated corners of the garden, the sunlight seeps through lush foliage and large, bright leaves, bending and twisting into sun bunnies and blotches of light that fall onto Bella's face and Antonin's hair, bringing out the copper strands in the thick chestnut mass. The warm summer day welcomes in colorful, vibrant butterflies of all colors and the songs of shrill, trilling birds.
In the quiet, they are finally alone.
Antonin stops, watching an ant scurry between the cover of a bush and a mound of dirt, lost in a moment, feeling her presence with his back. She watches him carefully, dark eyes catching every tensing of his shoulders, every small movement of his hands.
"Touch me," she says suddenly, almost breathlessly.
Antonin jumps, startled by such a brash request. He turns and looks at her, clasping both hands behind his back to not lunge at her in the most unseemly manner. "Ms. Bella—"
"Merlin! Don't call me that. Not when we're alone." Bella takes off her hat and tosses it aside. It lands neatly atop a lily, scaring the resident butterfly into a soaring flight. "A month, Tony," she breathes, her eyes bright. "Where have you been, damn you? When Lucius disappears for a month, even Narcissa doesn't think to worry. Everything about those two just screams propriety. But us—"
Antonin cuts her off, finally losing his self control and pulling her into him, his lips descending on hers with all the force of a tidal wave, sucking her in with his heat. Bella's eyes fall closed, long thick lashes fluttering as her hands find his strong wide shoulders and she digs her fingernails into the soft fabric of his robes. He cradles the back of her head with one hand, the other woven securely around her waist. The hand at the back of her neck finds her curls and tugs at them gently. Antonin wishes her hair was down now as she often wore it at Hogwarts so he could run his hands through its inky depths, burry his face in the ebony coils that smell of expensive French perfume and never surface again.
"Bella," he mutters against her mouth, nipping gently at her lower lip and smiling at the way her body lurches forward, her breasts pressing against his lower chest. "I'm sorry. I should have at least written. I was busy; there has been so much work. You mentioned Lucius—"
"Oh, not now!" she cries, still clinging to him. "We can talk politics later, with my father."
"But you must know, Bella." He suddenly seems very serious, tilting her head up so that she must look at him. Bella wants to not listen, to simply drown in the misty grey of his eyes, lose herself behind his veil. "The elections this fall, the campaign, everything seems to be coming to a standstill. I think Lucius is in a hurry to marry your sister and I think that is because he knows something is brewing. Something is brewing, Bella, can't you feel it?"
She can, sometimes. In the evening, just after the sun has set and the cold has begun to seep into the air. Sometimes she will sit in the garden or stand on the balcony and watch the sun disappear, and in that moment of change from daylight to dusk, the feeling of inevitability, of something beyond her comes to her, grips her around the shoulder, constricts her throat so that she can't breathe. She hates that feeling, that sudden unsettled peace of her idyllic, youthful world. "Tony," she pleads helplessly, the fire in her eyes melting. "Why is everything spoken in whispers now? Why is Lucius jumpy?"
"I'm not part of their party or, rather, Organization, as Augustus and Lucius call it. Riddle's party, you know? They say the right things and want the right things but how will they get them?" Antonin has a vague idea, in fact. It is the things he hears from his closest friends that put him in the loop and simultaneously keep him on the defensive. They don't tell him everything because he's not in the Organization, not part of this Inner Circle that they have formed around Riddle. Antonin feels a strange duality in his behavior, in his desires. On one hand, he feels like Riddle has the right idea – muggleborns pollute wizarding society with the muggle customs they bring into the pure world of magic, the power of Old Magic is being reduced because of the invasion of muggles and muggleborns and dilution of the bloodlines, the definition the of Dark Arts needs to be re-evaluated so that powerful magic, now restricted, can be used for the good of science and society, academic research should not be subject to such tight censure, the Aurors department – as well as certain other departments – should be restructured and purged of their inherent corruption and so on and so forth. The only division in the ranks, and one that Antonin considers significant, seems to be the way the party wants to handle the outside muggle world. Some are for the "liberation of magic," which includes the repeal of the Statutes and consequent, necessary, subjugation of muggles. Which also would mean massive warfare. The other half of the party wishes for complete isolation. Antonin, personally, sees this as a more achievable platform, practically and politically. After all, it is much more reasonably to stop accepting muggleborns into their world than to wage war against a population that outnumbers them significantly, even if they are only muggles. Riddle's answer seems to be a sort of middle way – focus on the latter platform as a starting point, a way to reorganize everything in their world first, and then think about the outside muggle population later. But either way, the movement is radical, separatist even, and brave, from what Antonin has seen, and will likely meet with harsh opposition everywhere. He wonders, sometimes, though, if his forebodings of war are merely a paranoia developed from being not quite on the inside but just deep enough to catch snippets of ideas and plans, ripped carelessly out of context. This is why he poses the question to Bella, in a sneaky rhetorical form, yes, but he is certain she will answer it.
Bella locks her hands behind his neck and considers the question carefully. Her mind is slowly returning to its normal sharpness after the retreat into mush while they said, what she considers to be, a proper hello after almost a month of separation. "I don't know. I've heard whispers of war. But do you think that's possible?" Her eyes flicker to his face and them away. "Do you think Riddle will risk civil war? You know, my father has been thinking of holding a ball and inviting him as a guest of honor of sorts."
"That's why I'm not in the Organization. I'm…I don't wish to go to war. With all of my support for their Cause, I simply don't want to get caught up in something where I will be in over my head. The ideology I agree with, but I'm not about to risk my family or throw away my life. Our life."
"Our life?" Bella tightens her grip on him a little, her whole body tensing as her heartbeat speeds up. In the distance, she can make out Cissy's joyous laughter and the splashing of a fountain. Bella can almost see the glittering droplets of water, how they fall around Narcissa, painting her into the perfect summer picture, and she can also imagine the adoring smile that lingers on Lucius' face for long minutes after the precious moment passes.
Antonin suddenly looks very uncomfortable. "Yes," he says finally after a long, heated, pregnant pause. He speaks firmly, as though having made an important decision. "Our life."
Bella laughs. She laughs with joy and amusement. She laughs because in the golden rays of the sun, tinted the slightest shade of green by the leaves, her world suddenly becomes crystal clear, painted in bright, vivid colors. Within those colors, that change and flow and meld with one another, she can, faintly, make out the outlines of her wedding day.
The rain drizzles lightly over downtown London, dripping down in a light sprinkling of drops, like confetti trickling from a hole in a just barely ruptured piñata. The water trickles down windows and over cobblestone in the alleyways and pavement on the muggle streets, blurring softly lit windows and obscuring the sharper edges of objects, making everything seem fuzzy. A young woman in a dark dress and a thin, lacy, purple veil that obstructs her face, stops at the entry to a bleak apartment building with peeling pain and graphite decorating the alley-side wall, beside the large trash bins. She looks around nervously, as though expecting to be watched or followed, then disappears in the dark depths of the lobby. She climbs the stairs after throwing a cautious, suspicious look at the elevators and stops on the landing of the fifth floor, rings the bell and waits.
"Coming, coming!" a young man's voice calls from the inside a moment before the door flies open and a slightly disheveled Ted Tonks appears in the doorway.
The young woman lifts her veil and smiles weekly, tucking a lose strand of hair behind her ear. "Hi, Ted."
"Meddy… Come in, quickly. Before the food burns." He ushers her in and closes the door behind her. "Take off your shoes, that damned veil – scared me with it – and, ah, do you need a blow dryer or something?"
Andromeda laughs with unconcealed amusement, kicking off her shoes and taking off the veil. "No, I'll manage," she says softly, taking out her wand and sweeping it down her body once, then again. Her dress lightens in color as it dries. "Those waterproof charms are no good when I do them. But I forgot my umbrella."
Ten nods. "I still forget sometimes," he says, flushing with embarrassment. He waves for her to follow him and walks into the kitchen.
"You really should put some of those housekeeping charms to use. Perhaps get a place in a wizarding area of town?" Andromeda follows Ted into the kitchen. He has all sorts of muggle things in his apartment, from electric lighting to a television, the concept of which still baffles and delights Andromeda. They really need something like that in the wizarding world. Another thing she likes about Ted's apartment is how it always smells of food, of honey muffins and strawberry pancakes, mushroom pies and spiced meatballs. Ted likes to cook and he especially likes to cook for her, but today she has come on a whim.
"Maybe I will," Ted answers thoughtfully, flipping something over on a frying pan. "My mum isn't big on the whole wizarding thing, though. Didn't want to send me to Hogwarts to begin with, thought it was all a bunch of hogwash. But she wants to move to America… Maybe once she's done that, I will."
Andromeda sits at the small kitchen table and stares a bit dazedly at the yellow lamp hung in the corner and the empty, crystal vase on the windowsill. She wants to put some colorful flowers in it, like the ones on the wallpaper. "I'm not intruding, am I?" she thinks to ask after a few minutes of silence.
"You're never intruding, Meddy." Ted closes the lid on the frying pan and begins to make tea for them.
"My mother had one of her visiting days today," she says softly, not looking up at him. She can feel Ted tense practically from across the kitchen. "Rodolphus was there," she continues in the same flat tone. "My sisters will be married soon."
"And you?"
Andromeda looks up. Ted has pressed himself into a corner between the counter and the wall. He is glaring fiercely at the teapot that gurgles and bubbles happily in response. "Ted. You know my situation."
He gives a disdainful snort. "Yes, I know your situation, Meddy. You made it very clear to me when we were at Hogwarts, that I was never to mention your visits, that everything between us was to remain in complete secrecy. As though we could really live our lives like that, always hiding and lying, always afraid. What good is it really?" He shrugs, still giving more attention to the teapot than to her. It comes to a boil and whistles mournfully, as though to echo Ted's listless expression. "I suppose your sisters will marry who they are told. "
"My sisters will marry who they love."
"And you?"
"I will marry who I am told."
Finally, Ted looks up. His expression is dangerously blank. Behind him the teapot is threatening to explode with exertion. "Then why the hell are you here?"
Andromeda slams her hand hard against the tabletop. The cups on it jingle and clatter in protest. "Why do you think I am here, Ted?" she chokes out, dark eyes flashing with pain and anger. How dare he doubt her when she risks so much every time she comes to see him?
He doesn't answer, instead turns and rescues the poor teapot. "You want black tea?"
Andromeda looks down, blinking away traitorous tears. She begins to play with her silver bracelet, watching her distorted reflection in the polished buckles. "Yes, please."
Ted pours their tea and brings it over in two large mugs, so unlike her mother's dainty cups that are pretty but hardly practical. Andromeda measures out a single teaspoon of sugar into her cup and begins to slowly steer it in, not looking up at Ted. "I love you, Meddy. I'm not trying to make your life hard. I'm just tired of coming home to an empty apartment, of seeing you only in secret, of feeling like a thief, like your dirty little secret."
Andromeda keeps her eyes lowered. She doesn't want to tell him that he is her dirty little secret and that he is a thief. After all, he did shamelessly steal her heart. She doesn't want to goad Ted because she knows how it infuriates him, that feeling of inferiority from being a muggleborn. That is not something she can help, just like she can't help her own pure blood. Just like she can't help her feelings for him. She didn't think she would ever find a man like Ted, someone soft spoken and yet with character, someone charming and decent, someone smart and funny, someone who understands her own tendencies. If there is something Ted doesn't seem capable, or willing, of understanding, it is her traditions, her attachment to the society she grew up in. It's hypocritical, she thinks. After all, he keeps a muggle television, so why can't he understand her natural inclination to respect her place as a Pureblood daughter, now a half-baked Pureblood bride? "I love you too," is all she can say, looking up to peer into his face with desperate honestly. "You and only you."
"I'm sorry, Meddy," Ted says with a heavy sight, rubbing a large hand over his forehead. "But you need to understand how I feel too. I was hoping…" he breaks off, as though afraid of the words themselves.
"Don't say it," Andromeda advises. "Why torture ourselves?"
"Because it's reality."
She laughs. It's a cheerless sound. "Sometimes my life seems hardly real, Ted. I'm like some princess, caught in a tower. I have everything I need, it seems. Except for the freedom right outside my window and that hole, that gap in my existence burns."
He reaches out and takes her hand, intertwining their fingers. "Let me be the one to save you."
She smiles sadly, looking down at their hands and gives Ted's a small squeeze. "If only life was a fairytale."
Andromeda is burning incense on the windowsill when Bellatrix and Narcissa come running into their large, shared dressing room. Frankincense, myrrh, rosemary, cedar and juniper make the perfect Samhain incense. She readjusts the charcoal blocks that make the foundation for the black and orange candles and stands to greet her sisters.
Narcissa twirls around, already undoing the ribbons on her black corset. "I'm so glad the formal rituals are over with, now we can prepare for the masque!" She stops in front of a mirror and picks out a straw that had blown into her hair from the altar during the formal rituals.
"We must honor our ancestors, sister," Andromeda admonishes softly, picking up Narcissa's masque dress and laying it out in front of her sister.
"Says the girl who has a hard time with the family tree more than three generations back," Bellatrix teases, easily unlacing her own black gown and allowing it to drop to the floor. Her masque dress is also black but of a much finer, silkier material and the cleavage is far more generous.
"Besides," Narcissa adds, donning her pink dress – she is to be a flamingo – and starting to lace up the corset with nimble, long fingers. "What is the use of a holiday without a ball?"
"Better yet," Bellatrix adds, smoothing down her skirt and reaching for the small cat ears head piece, "this is the one party where we will be allowed to run wild!" She laughs happily and spins across the room. "Andromeda, get dressed, we'll be late."
Andromeda nods and begins to dress. She is to be a ladybug. The amorphous black spots on her red gown shimmer as the fabric of the skirt folds and unfolds. When she is done, she helps Narcissa pin the pink flamingo feather into her hair.
"You and Lucius will made quite a couple," Bella teases Narcissa, looking at herself in the full length mirror from one side then the other. "Two birds! I'm ready to bet anything he will be a peacock!"
"They do fit each other very nicely, don't they?" Andromeda agrees. "You're so lovely, Cissy."
Narcissa giggles. "I would have died if I had to have stayed at Hogwarts for Samhain, it's so terribly boring. What do you think Antonin will be, Bella?"
She shrugs. "Oh, I don't know. I heard him saying something about a wolf? I think his patronus is a wolf." She straps on her black mask which covers the upper half of her face watches as Narcissa and Andromeda do the same. Narcissa's mask is pink with white glitter and Andromeda's is satin-red with large black dots to match the ones on her dress. "Come ladies," Bellatrix declares happily, holding her hands out to her sisters. "Let us go dancing and scrying!" The three girls hold hands as they apparate.
They land in a large field, strewn with colorful autumn leaves and peppered by bonfires around which girls dance with their chosen lads. Enchanted pumpkins and candles float through the air, circling the dancers overhead. On the edges of the festivities, older witches and wizards sell allspice berries, catnip, mountain ash berries, mugwort, mullein, rosemary, and other herbs. Divination professionals use cards and crystals, rune stones and special spells to try and predict the futures of young women and men. Most wish to know the name of their intended.
The three girls, still holding hands, approach the bonfires, smiling and laughing. They buy a cider each from the witches selling herbs and refreshments and watch the dancing. Suddenly, Narcissa lets out a joyous laugh and waves to someone in a group of young men.
Lucius' peacock mask is stunning – gold, green and royal blue. "It suits him," Bella comments. "He's just like a peacock every day."
Andromeda laughs and Narcissa giggles despite trying to look displeased. Another figure dethatches himself from the group – a grey wolf in silver robes with charcoal accents and a charming wolf mask – and follows Lucius toward the three sisters. Bellatrix's smile grows.
The wolf and the peacock exchange glances, then run to the three girls and drag Bellartix and Narcissa away with them toward the nearest bonfire. Andromeda laughs, watching as her sisters giggle and squeal with glee. They join the circle around the bonfire and a new round of dancing begins.
Lucius has one arm around Narcissa's waist from behind and holds her hand with his free one. Narcissa flares out the skirt of her pink-and-white gown with her free hand and allows the light fabric to fly on the breeze as they dance in a circle around the fire.
Antonin leads Bellatrix around and she tilts her head back until it is almost resting on his shoulder. "Shining bright against the sky, they never seem to fade or die. And as they glow throughout the night, round the world they go in flight!" they half-sing, half-shout with the rest of the group. On the last word, the men pick their partners up and twirl them around thrice. Narcissa clings to Lucius' shoulders. Bella spreads out her arms as though they were wings and as though she might truly fly away in that very moment.
Andromeda watches the dancing, wondering if she should join the group as the pairs break up and everyone holds hands in a single circle around the fire.
"Might I tell your fortune dear?"
Andromeda jumps, startled by the gravely voice behind her. She turns to see an old witch with graying hair standing behind her. She is wearing the traditional black Samhain dress and holding a scrying mirror. Her black, beady eyes watch Andromeda carefully. "No, thank you," Andromeda says, feeling a strange coldness wash over her. "I don't believe in divination much. It is a very…slippery form of magic."
"Ah yes," the old woman hums. "But on Samhain the veil between the living and the Otherworld is thinnest. There hasn't been a single Samhain prediction that has not come true." '
For some reason, Andromeda finds that she cannot say no. "Alright," she says and hears her own voice as though from a distance.
The woman calls two candles to her and has them hover behind Andromeda at eye level. She holds up the scrying mirror and whispers an incantation. "The mirror will show you..." she rasps out.
For a moment, nothing happens and Andromeda only sees her own reflection in the mirror. Then, the candles flicker and a cold breeze blows through her hair. She sees flashes of her two sisters dancing by the bonfire, though they are too far away to be reflected in the mirror. Then the mirror fogs. Andromeda's lips part slightly as the sounds around her dim and blur. She can hear echoes of laughter all around her and the mist in the mirror seems to grow. She can see hazy outlines in the mirror that morph into resemblances of people she knows.
She is in Ted's arms as he kisses her. Rodolphus and Bellatrix dancing. Bellatrix, wand drawn, screaming something. Screaming at her? Bright flashes of green and red. She is standing in a field of ash and fog—
The mirror goes black and Andromeda looks away, gasping for breath. When she looks back, there is, once again, nothing in the mirror except for her own reflection and the steady burn of the candles behind her. Andromeda looks over the top of the mirror at the old witch who is smiling thoughtfully and humming to herself. The old woman sends the candles on their floating way and apparates before Andromeda can get in a word.
"Meddy! Meddy, come dance with us!" Andromeda turns to see her sisters waving to her. She runs to them and grabs their hands. She looks between them and smiles, then loses herself in the swirling, wild Samhain dance around the bonfire.
"Why can't I go with you?" Curious brown eyes watch Antonin from a corner of the room where the old, plush armchair resides, hidden away in its snug alcove.
"Because you're not out in society yet, Nina," Antonin says patiently, holding up his dress robes and examining them critically. "This is a ball."
"But when can I go to balls?" Nina jumps up on the armchair and balances on the soft, somewhat rounded cushion.
"When you come out into society," Antonin replies, smirking in amusement, watching his sister's antics in the full length mirror
"When I'm sixteen?"
"Yes." He puts on the robes and begins to close the inner golden clasps, watching himself all the while. The new hairstyle looks well on him and Antonin can feel that bubble of anticipation growing in his stomach. The one he always gets when he knows he will be seeing Bella soon. Dancing with her. Holding her. Maybe even kissing, if they can get a moment alone. Merlin knows the Ministry of Magic isn't the most romantic place, but they'll manage.
"But that's an entire year," Nina nearly howls with frustration. She plops down in the armchair and watches him mournful. Antonin picks up the broach with the family crest and latches it onto the top clasp of his robes. He's been head of the family since his father went missing – died, according to the family tapestry – but he still feels that strange weight on his chest every time he bears the family crest on formal occasions. He didn't wear the crest until he came of age, since his mother was technically head of the family until then, acting in his name, but Antonin has always known his role as heir and head, long before it was official. "Will I have a coming out ball?" Nina asks after a long pause.
Antonin turns and considers his sister for a moment, then smiles tenderly at her. "Of course you will." He beckons her to him and she flits from the armchair straight into his arms. Antonin holds her close, her small frame fitting perfectly into his arms. She is so fragile, he thinks, that sometimes Antonin is almost afraid to hold her too tightly for fear of breaking her. Maybe it's her lack of magic. Nina may not be a squib but some birth defect, some illness, had affected her spell casting abilities. She has access to magic, she can even use a wand for very simple spells, but he and their mother had decided, when the Hogwarts letter came, that it would be better if Nina was to remain homeschooled. She cried, of course, when they told her. She'd cried and he'd held her and promised her that she was still the best witch in all of wizarding Europe as well as some other nonsense, none of which he could recall the morning after. "You will have a stunning debutante ball next year," Antonin promises. "You'll buy a new, bright yellow gown and I will escort you down the grand staircase and you will be the most beautiful and desirable witch there." It would be the first formal Dolohov ball since the family's immigration.
Nina giggles and presses closer into him. "It's too bad Papa won't be able to see me," she muses more seriously after a moment.
Antonin nods mutely, his mouth suddenly going dry. He wonders if Nina even remembers their father but doesn't ask. He thinks she does, even if vaguely. She was about nine then, after all. Antonin steps back from her, both hands still on her shoulders, and pears into the young girl's face with his usual smirk. "Do I look good, Nina?"
She giggles again and makes him turn around once, then again before declaring in her most proper voice, "Charming. This is all for Ms. Black, yes?"
Antonin laughs and swipes at her playfully. "Maybe it is. Now, you be good, alright? I will be late and Mama is at the Sokolovskis so she may be late or not even until tomorrow morning."
Nina sticks her tongue out, skipping along beside him as Antonin heads for the floo. "I'm not a little girl, Tony, I'll be fine."
He turns to reply and meets her eyes. For a moment, something constricts painfully in Antonin's chest but he can't put a name or a meaning to it. Suddenly, he wants to take her with him, to not leave her alone. But that's silly, Antonin tells himself, and takes a pinch of floo powder. "Just be good, Nina. Till tonight."
"Have fun!"
Antonin throws the powder into the flames and steps into the mass of writhing green tongues. "Ministry of Magic."
The Ministry lobby is unusually still and quiet when Antonin arrives. After the day's bustle, the lack of people and dimmed light seems like a terrible anomaly. From a distance, music carries through the halls and into the open space, just barely distinguishable over the gurgling of the fountain. They are playing a waltz. Antonin tugs somewhat nervously on the sleeve of his robes, fidgeting with the white cuff of the undershirt. Several people arrive, popping inconspicuously out of fireplaces and heading down the hall toward the music. They don't pay him any head accept for the couple who recognize him and nod. Antonin prefers it that way. He isn't the socially awkward sort, but formal events always make him feel slightly out of sorts. He isn't Lucius; this is Malfoy's environment, not Antonin's.
Antonin runs a hand through his hair, hoping that Bella has already arrived despite the fact that it is rather early. He peers into the basin of the fountain on his way toward the music, catching a flash of his own reflection. The water distorts his face, making it wrinkly and his hair far curlier and more unruly than it actually is. Antonin sighs and continues down the dimly lit corridor, his steps echoing slightly, the sound becoming less obvious as he nears the music.
"Tony! There you are."
Antonin looks to his left where the corridor branches off into another one. Lucius stands leisurely sliding his wand between his fingers. Antonin doesn't think he wants to know the answer to why Lucius has it out at all. "Hello. Are you stalking Narcissa?" He grins at his friend, noting the slightly smug look on Lucius' face.
"No, no, I wouldn't," Lucius purrs but his eyes are dancing. Antonin supposes he fancies the idea. "Come have a drink with us, Tony. Get your spirits up before the dancing. You'll be lighter on your feet."
"Us?" Antonin asks uncertainly, but takes a step toward Lucius anyways. He wouldn't mind a drink. Or two. Perhaps three, even. But that is it – three and no more.
"Augustus and I and Roddy. Edward, Theodore, Andre…must I list everyone?"
"Riddle?" Antonin asks with eyebrows arched slightly, but he is already walking toward Lucius.
"Perhaps." Malfoy is smirking in the most frustrating manner, but it makes Antonin smile fondly.
"Alright, lets have drinks," he gives in finally, taking Lucius' arm and half-dragging him toward the door that stands ajar at the end of the hall.
They don't know they are being watched by two Aurors lurking in an adjoining hallway.
"What do you think, Rafe?"
"I don't think anything, Malfoy and Dolohov are friends, everyone knows that." The older Auror shrugs and, conjuring up two glasses, begins to pour the whisky.
"Yes, but, did you hear all those names? And Riddle? You know Riddle's up to something, everyone knows Riddle's up to something. What with the whole Lord Voldemort stage act." He younger Auror takes his glass and gulps down half of it in one go. "I think it's shady, all of it."
Rafe sighs and drinks from his own glass, coughing when the burning liquid hits the back of his throat. "It's a free country, Robbie. If they want to make a party and spout bullshit, no one's going to stop them."
"Not if it's illegal bullshit – pour me another? – Riddle could win the elections. Then what?"
"Then…I don't know. As long as I can keep my job I don't care."
Robbie downs his second glass and rubs a hand over his eyes. Two years out of the academy and he is already chafing on all the indifference around the Auror Department. Did no one care that Riddle and Co. where spouting racist belligerent hogwash? It's like World War II never happened. Although, for all he knows, it didn't in the wizarding world. But what about Grindelwald? Everyone has to remember that, and yet no one is doing a thing about it. "Listen, Rafe, you don't get it, do you? They need to be stopped." Or perhaps the problem is that most of the people he works with don't have two muggle parents. Rafe is a half-blood, so of course Riddle's rhetoric interests him little.
"How do you plan on doing it then?"
"I'm going to get information," Robbie vows over another glass of whisky, drinking it to seal the oath. "I'm going to find out what these bastards are up to. Especially now that they have Dolohov with them. Maybe they're in league with the commies."
"The who?"
"Communists. You know? The Russians?"
"Ah-hah. You mean except the fact that the communists are all for equality, right?"
"No, seriously!" The younger man feels heat rising and spreading through his body as he remembers and the realization comes, falling upon him like a hippopotamus accelerated with a blasting hex. He can hardly stand still now. "Dolohov's father knew Riddle. Then he disappeared, and now his son is finishing what his father started!"
Rafe looks at him with an expression of exasperated boredom. "Robbie, why aren't we in the ball room twirling the lasses but are out here, in a dark hallway, getting drunk, doing hell knows what?"
Robbie sighs. Rafe is an idiot for a squad leader. "Did you hear anything I just said?"
"Yes. You want to get information about Riddle and his party and what they are up to. But how?"
Robbie smirks with utter self-satisfaction. "Dolohov has a younger sister."
"Oh, Merlin, don't go there, Robert. Moody will have my head if you get into trouble. You know what a pain he can be."
"Relax, mate. I can handle myself." The young Auror smirks and pats his partner's shoulder before stalking down the hall, a plan brewing in the back of his head. If he is correct, if his suspicions come to be not nonsensical babblings, well, then he would be worthy of all sort of praise and promotion. That would show certain stuck-up colleagues who wave their heritage around as though a pile of dusty bones has any influence on one's abilities and wit. Besides, it is proper that a muggle-born should stop the party of the elitists...
The room Lucius shows Antonin into is a spacious office with a long oak table in the center and a blazing fireplace. The room is warm and the bottle changing hands is attractive. Antonin looks around, marking the familiar faces of friends and acquaintances. This could be an evening at Malfoy Manor, all except for the rather business-like manner in which most of the room's occupants are studying the strips and squares of parchment laid spread out before them. Antonin says his hellos and moves away from Lucius before the latter can make some sort of awkward formal introduction. Antonin moves to the fire and claps for an elf who quickly provided him with a glass of brandy. The thick, brown liquid reflects the firelight, glowing an inviting orange. Antonin drinks and feels himself relax. He begins to listen to the conversation, leaning lazily against the wall beside the fireplace.
Tom Riddle sits at the head of the table, his eyes narrowed in concentration, although the rest of his body drapes leisurely over the armchair. He leans on one hand, knuckles firmly under his chin, dark eyes sharp and watchful.
Augustus Rookwood, Edward Parkinson, Brutus Greengrass, Andre Rosier and Theodore Mulciber hover on both sides of the table, pointing out different locations and naming various defensive spells. Lucius and Rodolphus, as well as a few others, hang back, drinking their alcohol and not bothering with the logistics of whatever project is being discussed. Antonin finds his curiosity peeked and he moves cautiously forward, edging in between Augustus and Andre to get a better look at the documents. They are maps of a building, blueprints with colored dots – red, black and green – representing types of people, that can be moved around with the tip of one's wand.
"If we set three lookouts here, here and here," Andre says, moving three black dots into various positions, "we can guarantee that we will be covered on all sides."
"Yes, but I want more men on site, not less," Riddle remarks in his low, thick tone that carried across the room without, seemingly, any effort from the man to make himself heard.
"But efficiency, sir?" Brutus puts in. "We don't want to look like we have something to fear, either. We need to pretend to be wide open."
"What is this?" Antonin asks suddenly, looking specifically at Rookwood, though he doesn't really care who answers him.
"They're strategy maps. This is our headquarters in Liverpool. We're trying to figure out how to remain best protected. The Aurors have their own headquarters there. We don't want… raids." Augustus throws him a meaningful look.
Antonin gifts him with a suspicious glance, then looks back down at the blueprints. "These don't look like defensive maps."
"What?"
"These aren't defensive maps. They're…the circle is all wrong. More men on site but spread out in a manner where they cannot be easily detected? Why? We're not at war, this is a political headquarters. Surely defensive wards and a couple of lookouts would suffice." He outlines two circles with his wand, one on the outer perimeter of the building and one inside, around the offices. "This is a double tire system. Either you're really expecting an attack or… you mean to provoke one and set an ambush." Antonin looks back up at Augustus in askance. His friend looks lost for what to tell him. Behind them, Lucius makes a move toward Antonin but Riddle quietly raises a hand. His dark, heavy eyes are now boring into Antonin.
"What if we are expecting an attack?" Riddle ventures, the words falling from his lips like bundles of dark velvet.
"Then," Antonin says, leaning back and focusing a heavy, searching gaze on Riddle, "then I would suggest you get rid of the outside tire and use warning and warding spells instead. Move the front tire back, give the enemy time to think they are not going to run into difficulties, then surprise them as you will have been forewarned." The silence is heavy and Antonin has a nagging feeling that he had spoken out of turn. Finishing off his glass, he sets it down on the table resolutely and backs up toward the door. "Now if you'll excuse me gentlemen, I think I will join the dancing. Good evening."
The room is quiet until the door closes behind Antonin. "Who is he?" Riddle asks, looking at Lucius.
"Antonin Dolohov, sir."
Riddle's eyes spark with something inherently predatory. "I want him."
The Ministry Christmas Ball proceeds with the same festive, grandiose air as always, with the high walls decorated with enchanted dancing angels and twinkling fairy lights. Mistletoe hangs there and here, confusing and embarrassing couples both young and old, both likely and unlikely. Champagne is passed around and Father Christmas, perched beside the ceiling-high tree, chortles happily, if somewhat idiotically, offering passers by champagne glasses and apple tarts instead of presents. The music flares and flits around the room, echoing from corner to corner, lifting couples into soaring, light steps across the polished floor.
Antonin spots the Blacks as they arrive, Druella on Cygnus' arm, her graying hair pulled up into a tight swirl on the top of her head, feeling quite in place with her strict dark gown. Cygnus is beaming as though all the men in the room were his cohorts. Of course this earns him a smack from Druella's fan and Antonin, who watches them from across the room, snorts into his glass, making champagne bubbles creep up his throat and tickle his nose.
Druella's daughters are dressed much more lightly then their mother. Except, perhaps, Andromeda, whose burgundy, velvet gown and large earrings seem to way her down. Narcissa is much like the soft, charmed snowflakes that float across the room, sometimes falling on top of the heads of the dancing couples or peppering the floor under their feet. Her silver gown and the matching tiara that holds up part of her hairstyle, glisten and seem to glow. Antonin is unsurprised that Lucius wastes no time to offer her his hand. She takes it, white glove falling on white glove, and they are instantly swirling across the floor, two snowflakes joined together with smiles warm enough to melt them. They're a blinding sight, and Antonin is earnestly happy for Lucius.
Bellatrix's gown is dark like Andromeda – except it is green and black – but the wide layered skirt, the laces on her gloves and neckline and the frills on the sleeves and skirts render her perfectly girlish. Their eyes meet and Antonin finds himself gliding across the floor toward her. He is stopped by Druella's firm gaze and can't help but feel a sting of indignation. Lucius was allowed Narcissa's attention without the added formalities.
"Mrs. Black, good evening," Antonin kisses Druella's hand. "Mr. Black," he says, turning to Cygnus. He can feel Bella's smile behind him and her eyes on the nape of his neck and he can't help the shivers that cover his chest and arms.
"You are looking quite flushed, Antonin," Cygnus tells him with a thoughtful smile and a knowing twinkle in his eyes. "All that dancing."
"Surely, it can't be drink with the night still so young," Druella adds, regarding him over her lacy, black fan. Antonin does his best to not scowl at her provocation. Instead, he ignores the comment completely.
"May I dance with your daughter?" he asks Cygnus.
The man nods and smiles good naturedly. Antonin waits no longer; he turns and offers Bellatrix his arm just as the round of quadrilles finish and a languid, slow waltz begins. Bella allows him to lead her out onto the dance floor before sliding her free hand, the one he's not holding, over his shoulder. He can swear her eyes are laughing at him.
"So is it the dancing or the drink that have you so flushed?" she asks as they begin to sway, unable to keep the laughter from her voice.
"You," he answers simply, but she only laughs more. A snowflake lands on her nose and glistens there for a moment before falling off. The music rises in a crescendo, then drops into low, staggering notes and Antonin switches their direction. "You don't believe me?"
She shakes her head, laughing. "No." A curl falls onto her face and he wants to reach out to brush it out of the way but his hands are busy. Her hand tightens on his shoulder as they continue to dance. The whole world is them. They are light and music, feeling and laughter. Bellatrix dances until she can hardly breathe anymore from the exertion. Here she is allowed what she cannot have in her father's house – the right to drown in his eyes, to laugh, to feel, to be free in a wild whirlwind of dance steps and touches that no one can distinguish.
"Are you happy?"
"Very."
Rodolphus dances a courtesy dance with Andromeda before retreating to the sidelines during the period of which they hardly said enough to each other to account for polite small talk. If Rodolphus tries, he can almost pretend she is Bellatrix – the two certainly look alike – but almost is never good enough. Andromeda does not have Bella's dazzling smile, her lithe movements, her fiery eyes. Andromeda is cool and collected, proud and reserved. He supposes she could be warm with others, with her sisters and friends, perhaps a man she loves, but Rodolphus knows he is not that man. He also knows that their wedding is inevitable. His father cannot wait to have the family heir married and a Black girl is a brilliant match. Rodolphus can't argue, of course, and he wouldn't even care so much for the lack of love in their relationship – he was brought up with the idea that marriage was about politics – if it wasn't for Bellatrix.
Every time he sees the eldest Black girl, something within him yearns to touch her. He is drawn to her as though with a sticking charm. Rodolphus can't remember ever being drawn like that to any other woman, no matter how beautiful. Seeing her in Dolohov's arms is unbearable. It simply is not fair. He knows, of course, that Bella and Antonin will be married, there is no other way. Even Dolohov has enough honor to not compromise a lady in such a way.
He breathes a sigh of hope when, after a particular dance, Bellatrix and Antonin make their bows. It seems they are ready for a break and Rodolphus sets aside his glass, meaning to draw Bellatrix away when the next dance begins. The champagne flute is almost knocked out of his hand by a curvy, short girl who has flounced off to the sidelines, waving a lewdly coquettish goodbye to the man who had just partnered her. Rodolphus is surprised to recognize her as Alecto Carrow. She is too young – only fifteen – to be at the ball. The Carrows had lost all shame apparently.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Lestrange," she sings out, nodding at his glass.
"Don't worry about it," Rodolphus mutters distractedly, his eyes still fixed on Bellatrix as she makes her way toward him on Antonin's arm.
Alecto fidgets with the skirt of her gaudy, shimmering dress, plump arms outlined with bright aquamarine gloves. She follows Rodolphus' gaze and her smile fades. "Oh," she murmurs to no one in particular, mousy-brown eyes blinking rapidly to hide Merlin knows what emotions. "They have been dancing all night haven't they?"
"Yes," Rodolphus answers automatically, not really thinking about what he's saying.
"Do say, Mr. Lestrange," Alecto says in a girlishly pleading tone, suddenly quiet and timorous. "How could I make your friend, Mr. Dolohov, notice me?" Her voice fades as Antonin and Bellatrix come into earshot.
Rodolphus glances over at her and tries to not laugh. Stupid little girl has harbored a crush on Antonin since her first year at Hogwarts. Jealousy is burning him up as well, and even though he could more likely relate to Alecto's feelings than not, what comes out is more cruel than he could have even intended. "Kiss him under the mistletoe," Rodolphus remarks lightly, and steps away from her to greet Bellatrix. "Ms. Black, a dance?"
Bella shakes her head. "I need a break," she says simply, offering him a pleasant smile.
"A drink then?" She nods and Rodolphus offers her his arm. "Antonin," he says, turning to Tony who is doing his best to not look too displeased. "Ms. Carrow would like a dance. Do oblige the poor girl."
Antonin sighs, watching Rodolphus lead Bellatrix away. He turns to encounter the burning gaze of Alecto Carrow. Antonin can't decide if he should pity her or not. He doesn't say a word, merely offers her his hand and she takes it, trembling visibly, the glove wrinkling from the clamminess of her palm on the inside.
Alecto is nowhere near as light on her feet as Bella. She is awkward and heavy, her young age, nervousness and bad genetics getting in the way of grace, but Antonin has to give her credit for sheer audacity. She is a girl of unfortunate looks, a bloodline not nearly as pure as the Carrows would like to believe, with a bumbling fool of a brother for a family heir, and a sweet disposition that allows her to not notice just how socially awkward she or those around her can be. The combination is pitiful if slightly endearing. As it is, Antonin is in too good a mood to be sharp with her and he treats her as he would treat a child of a girl as they dance.
"I feel you must find it very dull here with all the old Ministry loons," Antonin quips, twirling Alecto around.
"Oh no," she says breathily, eyes alight with something between childish excitement and youthful infatuation. "I enjoy the dancing. Especially when I'm dancing with you."
Antonin laughs, wondering at her nerve. "Ms. Carrow, is that a compliment?"
She tilts her head to the side and gives him a dopy smile and he gives her another turn before the music ends. Alecto seems to freeze for a moment, then takes a step back from him, then another. Antonin, a little uncertain as to what she is doing, follows her, offering her his arm pointedly. He needs to take the girl to her brother or father. Someone who would keep an eye on her.
"Mr. Dolohov," she says, taking his arm but not moving, peering up into his face with an unexpectedly shy smile. "You are a man of honor, true?" She looks up to somewhere above them and her smile widens.
Cautiously, feeling like he had just stepped into a trap, Antonin looks up and can barely hold back his frustration. A bright green mistletoe hangs above them. It glints in the bright light of hundreds of candles and sways slowly, seemingly laughing at the victims below it. Or, rather, one victim, as Alecto looks very satisfied with herself. "Yes, of course," Antonin says, a little stiffly. He leans down, his hand still holding hers, and kisses her fleetingly. She is more audacious than he had thought however, tugging on his arm hard enough to make him practically fall forward into their kiss. When Antonin finally manages to free himself of her grip and look up, his eyes meet dark, fiery ones and his heart skips a beat.
Bella is watching him from the refreshment table. Rodolphus is beside her, but he is now distracted by Lucius and Edward. Bella's eyes seem to burn into him, everything from hurt to shame to anger seems to writhe and burn within their depths. Then, slowly, deliberately, she picks up her fan and walks for the door, only breaking into a run when she reaches the first shadows of the hallway.
Antonin wrenches his arm away from Alecto. He suddenly hates her with her childish tricks, social inadequacies and poorly bred manners. He bows stiffly and sharply to her before turning and taking off after Bellatrix in long strides, then breaking into a run himself once he reaches the hallway.
He catches up to her around the corner where she has stopped to take long, ragged breaths that could almost be sobs. Antonin grabs her arm and turns her to face him.
"Let go of me!" she hisses, trying to pull her arm away. "I'm ashamed to have…you…in front of everyone, how could you?" The red blotches on her cheeks seem to be pulsating in the unsure light of the hallway.
"Bella, listen to me, you saw there was mistletoe. I couldn't do anything!" he whispers back vehemently, pushing her against the wall, both her wrists caught in his hands.
She shakes her head, black curls flying out of their bun, hitting him in the face. They feel like soft, silken ribbons, much like the ones tying the front of her corset. "Why should I believe you?"
"Why shouldn't you?" Antonin tries hard to not sound exasperated, or desperate. He could be either at this point. "She means nothing to me, Bella. She or any other woman." He releases her wrists and slides both hands up her sides, from the waist to her shoulders. She is looking at him with wide eyes, mouth open slightly, her breath hitting his lips and nose. He throws himself forward, devouring her mouth with his. Antonin presses his body against hers and moves to kiss her chin and neck. She whimpers and growls into his hair, clutching at his shoulders.
"Stop."
"No."
"We must not."
"I love you." He looks up and finds her baffled eyes. They brim with anticipation and as soon as he speaks again, they overflow with triumph. "Will you marry me?"
Antonin can feel her hands on his shoulders tighten even as she smiles. "Tomorrow. Ask my father for my hand."
"Then yes?"
"Yes, Merlin, Tony. Yes!" She laughs, an echoing ringing sound like the clinking of thousands of pieces of fine china. He picks her up and twirls her around. Her arms are locked around his neck, then cupping his face, and she is kissing him. Rapturously.
Antonin floos home in high spirits. His intoxicated brain is fixated on that first round of waltzes, on her delighted "yes," repeating it over and over again in his head. The warmth from the champagne he had consumed and the lingering sensation of Bella in his arms makes his fingertips tingle and he finds himself grinning lopsidedly even as he steps out of his home fireplace into a darkened room. Antonin thinks of the next morning, imagining how he will go to the Blacks and ask Cygnus for his eldest daughter's hand in marriage and Druella's sharp but satisfied look that she will drill him with. But it won't matter once Cygnus says yes and Bella says yes and they go running like bratty children through her garden to their small alcove in its very depths.
Antonin takes off his already unfastened dress robe, remaining in a tailcoat, and reaches for his wand to light the candles, his mind wondering briefly if Nina has already gone to bed. What stops him is a noise that sounds like something between a whimper and a cry. Then a gruff voice making a demand. Antonin freezes, listening. His heart speeds up, and his mind races. Nina, Nina, Nina!
Antonin begins to quietly make his way toward the voice, locating it around the dinning room. A man is demanding someone – Nina, who the hell else! – tell him something. Antonin can't hear her voice and his heart jumps up into his throat. No one else is home. His mother is out, the elves were given a holiday night…
Antonin bursts through the double doors, wand drawn. In one sweeping look he takes in the room. The chamber is dimply lit by the remaining candles. Broken glass is strewn across the floor and peaces of china plates and cups are scattered over the table and chairs. The table is stood at a strange angle, as though it had been purposefully but sporadically moved and some of the chairs have been overturned. Nina lies on the hardwood floor, her body twitching. Her mouth seems to have frozen in a scream, eyes scrunched shut, bright red blotches on her cheeks, limbs at awkward angles. A man in a crimson, Auror robe stands over her, his wand drawn and pointed, a fierce expression on his face. The Auror looks up when Antonin bursts in and his wand droops. He's surprised.
Antonin's vision goes red and he can't think. His whole attention if focused on Nina. The green light around her body flickers and fades. She twitches spasmicly several more times, then her body stills and she lies limp and lifeless on the floor at the Auror's feet. Antonin wants to scream but nothing comes out. Somehow he knows she is dead and that bastard, that fucking bastard, has used the Cruciatus curse on her.
The Auror comes out of his stupor and lifts his wand but Antonin is faster. Rage and grief guide his hand and before he knows what he's doing, Antonin casts the first spell that his railing, raging mind lands on. "Avada Kedavra!"
When the Aurors come for him in the early hours of the morning, they find Antonin as he had been for the past several hours, sat on the floor in the middle of the ransacked dining room, with Nina's body cradled in his arms and the Auror's crumpled form lying several feet away. When they read the arrest warrant, Antonin does not protest. He hardly says a word at all, except for a hoarse, helpless whisper, "Nina…"
In the mist of the early morning, the docks from which prisoners' boats are to sail several miles north to Azkaban are slowly emptying as they release the mournful vessels docked their into sea, one by one. There are three small ones that morning and they sail away in ten minute intervals from each other. There is a certain fear associated with putting too many convicts in one enclosed space for any extended period of time.
The grey sand beach is teeming with red cloaked guards, most of them Aurors, who oversee the dispatch of the boats. Among the red cloaked figures, relatives and close friends of the convicts are dispersed. Antonin's mother is there with Augustus Rookwood standing beside her, one arm awkwardly around her shoulders. Tony had asked him to look out for her, to make sure she didn't go into despair. How could she not, having lost both of her children? One to death and the other to the Wizengamont. Andre Rosier and Theodore Mulciber stand a step back, stoic and silent, as though at a funeral. Lucius is beside them, muttering sentiments along the lines of, "The Wizengamot isn't a trial court, it's a damn tribunal," and, "The bastards don't issue fair judgments, they issue death sentences." Narcissa, wrapped up in a long, warm robe with a fur color, has one hand comfortingly and steadying on Lucius' arm. Her eyes are fixed ahead, however, on her sister, who has gone as far as the barrier and is attracting more looks than necessary from the Aurors.
Bella stands at the magical barrier that separates the grey sand beach from the icy water. Her eyes are locked on a single shape on deck of the last boat. Wandless, already in the prisoner's garb, still grief stricken by the death of his sister and blind Wizengamot conviction, Antonin looks like a ghost. He holds one hand out, as though reaching for her, and she presses her hands against the barrier, longing to feel his touch. She still cannot believe this is happening. The trial had all been a hopeless blur to her. The Aurors always protect their own and the Wizengamot has long since answered to the Aurors. It's a disturbingly corrupted connection, but no one can reasonably do anything about it. Riddle is trying, but the party has still to make gains. After the lost election – stolen election, some say, implying that the Ministry rigged the results to not allow through Riddle's candidacy, considering him too dangerously radical – nothing has gone right.
Lucius had provided the best solicitors, who had filed detailed reports and argued eloquently. The problem was that they could not prove direct self-defense and the Aurors' representatives claimed that there were plenty of other, non-illegal, ways to stop an attack. Antonin himself had been in too much shock. He recounted the evening as he remembered it – honestly, without embellishments. That, in the end, had played against him. He was in for fifteen years, and that was with the crime degree lowered due to "mitigating circumstances of shock." Bella had wanted to stand up and shout that the entire trial was a pompous farce, but her father's iron grip on her arm had kept her in her seat.
The mist grows and condenses, slowly swallowing the boat as it drifts on toward the horizon. Bella does not hear a thing, she hardly can see for the tears clouding her vision, but she forces herself to stare past them, to viciously blink them out of her eyes so that she can peer into the distance and make out Antonin's fading silhouette. Watching him fade away is like ripping her own heart out one heartstring at a time. His eyes are locked on her face as he seems to try to memorize every line of her face and body. Soon she can't make out the features of his face anymore as he becomes a single, dark shape against the lifeless white mass of the mist. Several seconds later the mist has swallowed the boat entirely and there is nothing to make out except for the charcoal, brawling waters and the thick white mist.
Bella lets out a high-pitched, hysterical sob and sinks to the ground, hands fisting in the sand. Moments later, a pair of arms fold around her and she knows it's Narcissa. They stay like that for an immeasurable time as Bella cries silently against her sister's shoulder.
Finally, Lucius comes and apparates them both home.
The winter is a bleak time and the Black household is unusually quiet these days. Druella mourns such a scandalous end to what could have been an acceptable match for her eldest daughter. Cygnus is worried about Bella's fierce determination to not give up intermixed with moments of utter despair that she tries to hide but rarely succeeds. Narcissa has gone back to Hogwarts. Bellatrix spends half her time locked up in her room and half the time out Merlin knows where. As for Andromeda, she contemplates the strange uselessness of her life. Even Bella's grief seems fulfilling to her. At least she can go through an intensely emotional process. Andromeda can't seem to focus on a single thing. Her entire life seems to drift on without a certain end or purpose. She feels torn up and more a commodity than a person. Rodolphus' visits are painfully boring and her own rendezvous with Ted have become increasingly filled with a frustration that bleeds into everything they say and do so that she is unable to enjoy even those moments that they have together.
As she sits, watching the sky slowly turn lighter in the East, she thinks that perhaps if she had been someone else, she would be happier. Bella had been crying again and Andromeda knows to not bother her but she still cannot sleep. So she sites on the wide windowsill in her bedroom and tries to count the stars that fade slowly as the day draws closer.
Andromeda wonders if she could possibly feel as happy as Bella or as miserable as her. She wonders if something could lift the thick layer of ice that had settled over her soul some time so long ago that she cannot quite remember what it felt like to live without it, to be exposed to emotion and feeling. She thinks she knows a way; she remembers how it feels when Ted's lips meet hers and when his hands run down her body and slowly lift the dress of her skirt… Andromeda wonders if she could really have that joy or if perhaps she is meant to be stuck in a gilded ice castle. Perhaps that is the meaning of her life. She drifts off to sleep without realizing it, heavy eyelids falling closed and her thoughts jumbling up into a warm cocoon around her soar mind…
Andromeda wakes with a start, her stomach turning and a sick feeling of bile rising up in her throat. She rushes to the washroom as the nausea takes its toll. She emerges several minutes later, shaken and burning from the inside. Tears sting her eyes because she knows. She has known for perhaps a couple of weeks now, ever since the visit to the Mediwitch, but dear Merlin, she is deadly certain and she wishes that she could mold that certainty into a weapon.
Andromeda glides silently, barefoot, across her bedroom to the writing desk and stops, hands locked behind her neck. She watches the cold, watery winter sun wobble and waver over the far off horizon of trees. The first rays of light fall into the room and streak across the wooden floor, stopping at her feet. It is like the rays of sun are attempting to guide her, guide her away from her ice castle. She was wrong; she does know what it is like to feel utter joy and pitiful misery. Except she does not want to be miserable like Bellatrix, she doesn't want to run from her happiness. Bella had her love taken away from her, while Andromeda punishes herself.
She grabs a piece of parchment and a quill. Her hand shakes slightly as she writes out her short letter, her heart beating faster with every sentence she commits to parchment.
My dear Ted,
I love you with all my heart, I am sure you know this. You have told me countless times that there will come a time when I will have to decide between which two of my lives I want to lead. I want to lead my life with you, Ted. You and always you. I want to be your wife.
Don't hurry back when you get this. I know this trip is important to you and our love can be patient for a little longer. Besides, I cannot leave Bella and the rest of my family right now. I must wait over at least another month or so before abandoning them to more losses. Please understand.
Always yours,
Meddy
She summons an elf and instructs him to send her an owl from the owlry. As soon as the creature disappears, Andromeda seals and addresses the envelope. She opens the window, allowing the winter air to flood her warm room, and waits. Soon, an owl perches on her outstretched hand and she attaches the letter to his leg and sends him off.
Andromeda watches the owl fly away, both hands folded over her stomach. The cold air bites at her face, turning her cheeks rosy and the sunrays of a new morning flood her room, promising a new beginning.
