Author's Notes: So another one-shot side piece to Birds become Dragons. This one actually stands perfectly on its own. If you are reading BbD, then this is somewhat parallel to chapter 21.
I feel like I should mention that nadasnape is to blame here, for getting my plot bunnies to run wild.
She has been sitting in her kitchen for a while.
She had seen her sister the other day. Her demeanour, majestic and high-above-all-commoners, never failed to draw attention. Her pristine figure and pale blonde hair did the rest. All eyes noticed her. That was the way of Narcissa.
She had not seen the child with her.
She had seen her sister and simply carried on. There was too much pain to deal with, a pain she had buried years and years ago when she had decided for the love of a wizard over the love of her sisters. For the loving of a wizard over the traditions of her family, too.
A long time ago, when the first war ended, and her older sister was incarcerated, and her younger sister forgiven, she had dwelled on the possibility of gathering once more. A long time ago, she had decided that choices were choices and hers had been made. She chose to be a Tonks, and that meant Malfoys would never welcome her and that Blacks would curse her. She let her ties go.
Not so very long ago, her older sister had been released, and her younger sister recovered her place at the side of darkness, and their side had come for her family. Her husband died because of it. Her daughter died because of it. The man she loved died by her side. That was the day she severed her ties, all her ties, even the ones she kept secret from the world.
No more longing in her eyes at the thoughts of the three of them, playing, fighting, growing, learning, always side by side. Always together. NO more longing for the sisters she loved and lost.
There is longing in her eyes again though. Not for her sisters, but for her daughter. Her precious Nymphadora. And for the future her little boy had been denied. The future all of them had been denied, even her.
Because the child with her sister is the same. Orphaned.
Not really orphaned. But what good is a Father incarcerated for life in Azkaban? Good as dead.
Two orphans of war. Born at opposing sides and yet sharing so much.
The longing is gone at that.
There is one thing they do not share. Her.
There is one thing they will never both have. Her love.
For she might pity the girl, but she is so vividly reminded of her mother she feels like she hates her already.
To hate a girl of not even eight because of her mother. That is what the girl's mother had left for inheritance. Hate. Fear. Ghosts of loved ones. Hearts as rocks. Her girl would know plenty of it, even if she couldn't remember her.
To love a boy of not even seven because of his mother. Instead of his mother. That the girl's mother had left too. A boy for her to love alone because all her family was gone. Oh, there are others to love him too, but they are not family to her.
Her sister had always had a way of entering a room and being noticed. It wasn't pristine poise and light bright hair. It was dark curls cascading down her back; it was her predator like walk, both a warning and a lure, a dark panther just below her skin. All eyes noticed her. Even his eyes had noticed her. She had raised her grey eyes to him and sealed her faith, given herself over to the Dark. That was the way of Bellatrix.
Born of a pureblood and blood-proud mother. Born of a pureblood and blood-proud father. Born in the midst of a war for purity. Or so they claimed it to be. Born to the most dangerous darkness, second only to their general. Nurtured in darkness, and pride, and wealth, and expectations.
She had already developed her own way of being noticed. It's right there on the front page. A mixture of her sisters. A pristine little panther, walking demurely with dark curls cascading down her back. That would be the way of this girl. Delphini.
A tie never to be knotted on her heart.
There are no places left, the tearing of others left nothing but gaping wounds that bleed profusely at the slightest disruption.
She doesn't long but she wonders. What if they were to meet again, some other day? What if they both had their children of war with them? Would they greet each other? Would they do it with her wands? Their last conversation, the night before she left Grimmauld Place, had been bitter, and magic had sparked between them. Narcissa didn't mean to hurt her that night, just to stop her from going. Would she mean it this time?
No, sweet and proper Narcissa wouldn't raise her wand against me. She would remember her manners. But were I to raise my wand first...
She drops such thoughts. It hurts too much. Even more than dwelling on could-have-beens.
She smiles at the sight of a blue haired boy playing in the garden. Where a pink haired girl once played.
She had never be noticed when she entered the rooms in her own house. Her sisters took all the attention. She took all the disdain.
She looked like Bella but could never think like her.
She moved like Cissa but could never live like her.
She was somewhere in the middle, lost but finding her own way. Similar, but not the same; able to control her appearance, able to choose a different life.
She would always gather attention when she spoke though. Where Bella was praised for her skill and her beliefs and Cissa praised for her manners and her diplomacy, she was scorned.
And so she fortified her heart, built her armour. It wasn't how she behaved, it was how she loved. Wholly but never letting go of herself.
I loved so many, where are they now?
A path chosen that would be walked to its end.
How many people did I leave in this path? How many farewells?
That was the way of Andromeda.
No welcomes left.