Andromeda Tonks, who hears the wireless announce her husband's death just moments after she's stepped into the kitchen with the cold tea tray.
Andromeda Tonks, whose world has been upended, who can no longer hear anything but a strange buzz in her ears and the crash of the china as she slams into a nearby counter.
Andromeda, who thinks that something's not right, something's wrong because Lee Jordan is a nice boy who wouldn't lie about this, wouldn't lie about things like this, but he must be because Ted can't…he can't have—
Then the buzzing stops and there's a strange wailing sound coming from the parlour…Nymphadora, Nymphadora.
Andromeda Tonks, who runs on unsteady legs back to the living room to catch her daughter before she falls to the ground, her tears hot and heavy and splashing against her mother's arms.
Andromeda Tonks, who sinks into the carpet she cannot feel and holds her sobbing daughter to her chest and rocks her as she stares unseeingly at the floral wallpaper Ted had always detested.
Andromeda Tonks, who has to keep it together for her daughter's sake—for her grandson's sake—even as her hands are shaking and her mind is numbing and her heart is breaking.
Andromeda Tonks, no, Andromeda Black now, who comforts her Dora until Remus Apparates to their door and all three of them hold each other until Dora's all but cried herself to sleep.
Andromeda Black, who feels only cold and numb but touches Remus' rough cheek in thanks when he cleans up the kitchen and brings Dora up to bed.
Andromeda Black, whose wall of dignity and grace from years and years of her family's upbringing finally collapses and she falls heavily on the couch because it's the middle of the night now but she can't she can't go back up to the bedroom full of his things or the study that still smells like him or even the kitchen because he'd bloody bought that tea set
Andromeda, who can no longer stop the tears and the screams she tries to muffle by shoving her fists against her mouth and the agony is too much and she can be there for her daughter and her son-in-law tomorrow because it is too much right now and she's panicking and gasping because she can't remember Teddy's voice she can't remember she can't remember—
It's many hours later before Andromeda's throat grows hoarse and closes up and she just stares across the dark room with tears still sliding down her face and Teddy's grin burned into the backs of her eyes.
Andromeda Black, who can hear many things: the cars passing on the street outside, Teddy's whoop of delight when he jumped into the lake that afternoon in their fifth year, branches tapping the windowpane, Teddy telling her he loves her in a voice that's raw and low and brittle as ice, a neighbour's dog barking at nothing, Teddy laughing laughing laughing
Andromeda Black, who finally gets up from her sleepless dark eternity on the sofa at six in the morning with tear tracks on her sticky face and teeth marks on her fingers, who goes to the loo and washes her face and fixes her hair, who rebuilds that wall of strength and quiet courage and no, she's not Andromeda Black, she's bloody Andromeda Tonks and Ted Tonks will always be her husband and their lives aren't over yet.
Andromeda Tonks, who marches onward for her daughter and her grandson and herself, who helps Dora give birth to a healthy baby boy, who squeezes her daughter and son-in-law's hands when she hears her grandson's name.
Andromeda Tonks, who goes back to that bedroom and that study—eventually—and tidies it up but just a little, even if just to remember the exasperated chuckle Teddy always used to make when she cleaned up after him.
Andromeda Tonks, who watches Remus Lupin come and go with more bruises and scratches and shadows under his eyes, and who then (after weeks of arguments) tentatively lets Dora back out because she trusts Remus to bring Dora back and trusts Dora to bring Remus back and they trust her to care for their son, their Teddy Lupin.
Until one day, that horrible day in May, where they go and they don't come back.
And Andromeda Tonks, who thinks she's been here before, been in this suspended state of buzzing and silence and horrible clarity, feels as though the ground is swallowing her whole as she stares at Dora's Lupin and her Dora, her beautiful beautiful baby girl, her darlingdearestdea—
Andromeda Tonks, whose legs refuse to let her fall even as she gazes at her daughter's peaceful face and thinks about how she's failed Dora, failed Ted, failed the baby sleeping in the other room that has Dora's mouth and Ted's ears and—
Andromeda Tonks, who sees only blurs, who accepts condolences without listening, who returns stiffly to the house that once held everything and is now empty and silent and cold.
Andromeda Tonks, who no longer has any more strength to give, who no longer has any more tears to cry, who no longer feels anything except the throbbing throbbing pain in her chest that's' never really gone away and is now threatening to crack her open because none of this was supposed to happen because being a Muggle-born wasn't ever supposed to be a bad thing and this war wasn't ever supposed to last this long and her sister wasn't ever supposed to kill her own niece and she wasn't ever supposed to have to outlive her own daughter, her own Nymphadora…
Andromeda Tonks, who finds that there are always more tears to cry, and this time when she collapses she's scared she won't ever be able to get back up again because all the walls of poise and dignity are down crumbling disintegrating and she won't bother building them back up again—she doesn't want to because it was that family that built them in the first place scorching them into her like a brand and that family that helped start this bloody war and that family that took away her entire world
Andromeda Tonks, who this time is silent in her grief, Andromeda Tonks, who is drowning in the feeling of her chest caving in and her mind screaming and her heart a writhing living broken flame burning and burning and—
Andromeda, who through the tunneling blackness her existence has now become hears the wails of the one person, one thing she cannot abandon, because her health and spirit and sanity would fail before she dared to fail him; her grandson, her Teddy, her Dora's pride and joy.
Andromeda Tonks, who claws her way out of the empty chasm with no answer and furiously shakes away the numbness, who pulls herself up on her shaking legs and can almost hear Dora and Ted telling her to get up get up get up
Andromeda Tonks, who makes it to her grandson and scoops him up and holds him to her chest and sinks to the parlor floor where she'd held her devastated daughter once upon a time, cooing and fussing and crying alongside him for a mother who won't ever return.
Andromeda Tonks, who remembers everything: Ted raising Dora above his head in the sunlight, the feel of his stubble in the morning, Dora's giggles as she turns her hair pink blue green, those canary yellow sneakers she adored, licking the ice cream off Dora's cheeks, Ted's horrible singing when they stargazed on the Quidditch pitch in seventh year, Dora's cartoons in the margins of her letters home, the three of them all together and hugging and laughing—and she knows she can be strong for Teddy and herself because she's Andromeda Black and Andromeda Tonks and she will be the very best of both because this is her daughter's son in her arms and their lives aren't over yet.
Andromeda Tonks, who has risen and fallen and risen again and who will keep on rising for herself and for this boy, her grandson, her Teddy Lupin, and remind him all the rest of her days just how much his mummy and daddy and grandpa Ted and grandma Dromeda would always love him and love him and love him.
A/N: This started off as just a bullet-point headcanon angst rant thing. Oh well. Also on AO3 (by wild_and_free)