Andromeda Tonks is involuntarily checked into a rehabilitation facility after her grandson goes to the Minister for Magic for help because she passed out, drunk and high. 5 years post-war, she needs to finally face her demons, for Teddy's sake... but what if she thinks her grandson - and the world - would be better off without her?
Companion to Stages of Grief (but you don't need to read that one to read this one).
Rated: M for situations and references related to sex, violence, child abuse, alcoholism, depression, mild self-harm, suicide discussion, drugs. Contains 'citrus.' Not appropriate for readers under 17. Some trigger warnings for drug use, overdose, and sexual situations exist in-chapter.
Pairings: Andromeda/Kingsley, Andromeda/Ted Tonks, Snape/Narcissa, Draco/Hermione
ANDROMEDA TONKS: LONG-TERM, ADDICT.
CHAPTER ONE:
END OF WEEK 1
Andromeda Tonks, formerly Black, was angry.
Furious. Cross. Livid. Fuming. Irate. Incensed.
Bloody raging – against the whole world, it felt.
She was angry with Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt for having her bloody committed. The humiliation of it! She'd be lucky if it didn't cost her the job she'd had at St. Mungo's since shortly after her grandson was born a little more than five years ago. Hell, she'd be lucky if it didn't cost her said grandson – Kingsley made it clear if she was unfit to raise little Teddy, someone else would be tasked with doing so. She was angry with Kingsley because in all the time he'd been fucking her – over two years – he'd never so much as indicated he thought her problem was too great for her to handle on her own. He'd conveniently looked away when casual drinking gave way to full-fledged alcoholism (yes, again). So what made this time different? Why this? Why now?
Because she'd added perfectly legal potions and perfectly illegal Elven Herb into the mix?
Because she'd injected her concoction into that thick blue vein in the crux of her elbow like a bloody Muggle?
Because little Teddy had been the one to summon him, to ask him for help, in the middle of his work day, interrupting what had surely been an important meeting with the Muggle Prime Minister?
He'd called her an addict.
An addict!
She could stomach being labeled an alcoholic. That was nothing new. She'd been an alcoholic for well over two decades, though she'd had several bouts of sobriety during that time, some of them impressively long.
But an addict?
It sounded like such an ugly word.
Addict.
It sounded dirty. Criminal. Classless.
Addict.
"Fuck you," she muttered, going from the hard-backed chair in her hospital-like bedroom at the rehabilitation center to the window overlooking a dreary courtyard. For May, it certainly was gray out there. Not raining, but looked as though it both had been and would soon.
She rubbed her thumb over the track marks along her inner arm. It had been a man who introduced her to this new way of getting potions into her system. She'd been seeking an alternative, as drinking was getting more difficult with her sister constantly 'stopping by' at all hours to check in and Kingsley monitoring what she kept in the house. She couldn't smoke Elven Herb as she had at Hogwarts when young, when she and the other Slytherin girls, led by Bellatrix (of course) could slip out into the Forbidden Forest and get high without their Head of House, Horace Slughorn, being any the wiser. She'd tried smoking it a couple of times in recent months, but the scent lingered in the air long after the fag was extinguished and couldn't be cleared even with magic. So she met a man down in Knockturn Alley, a man who'd supplied her with Herb in the past – long past. A man recently released from Azkaban: Thorfinn Rowle.
"You look like your sister," he said, leaning against the cool dark wall of the alleyway outside the last shop on the street, Cobb & Webb's, a curiosities shop where the owners turned a blind eye to illegal activities... for a price. "More now than you did at school. You don't have her mad eyes, but the rest of her–"
"I know," interrupted Andromeda, bitterness dripping from her voice. "The resemblance is uncanny, or so I've been told. And that's why my home has no mirrors."
"She was beautiful, but mad as a hatter..." He reached out a thick hand and stroked her cheek with his forefinger. She managed not to pull away.
"Did you bring the Herb?"
"You have a galleon?"
"Yes." She fished it from the pocket of her traveling cloak.
"Two galleons?"
"You said one."
He smirked, curling his lip just enough to reveal yellowed, broken teeth. Azkaban, despite the lack of Dementors, had not been good to him.
"That was before I knew you were the Minister's whore. Now I'm saying two."
"I am not his whore." Her cheeks spotted red, but with fury, not embarrassment. Though she and Kingsley kept their relationship – whatever it was – quiet, it was not quite a secret, and she did not appreciate the implication there was anything untoward about it.
"Two galleons," he repeated, smirk growing.
"You said one. I only have one. I may look like my sister, but I don't have her money."
"Your other sister does, though, doesn't she?" He turned, placing his body in front of hers, moving forward as she moved back until she hit the wall. He put a palm up to the wall beyond her shoulder, giving the impression she was pinned there though his body did not touch hers. "Narcissa Malfoy. That bitch has got money."
"Not anymore. Didn't you hear? She married Severus Snape. He runs an apothecary. Hardly lucrative. They reside in a modest home in a Muggle neighborhood." This was true, mostly. She had married Snape and he did run an apothecary, but they were not hurting financially.
Rowle didn't seem to be buying it.
"What happened, then, to all that Malfoy and Lestrange and Black gold? Disappeared?" He spat on the ground, a nasty habit that made her sneer. "Bitch, I know you can get another galleon."
"One galleon," said Andromeda insistently, never a woman to back down. "Or I take my business elsewhere."
"Nowhere else to take it, love." He brought his hand up to her face again, cupping her cheek. As much as she hated this close proximity she refused to show weakness by pulling away. "I've cornered the bloody market. But perhaps you could pay me in another way."
"I have nothing to give you. I am but a poor widow with a child to raise alone. I work at St. Mungo's. I sit at a desk and direct patients. You want what I do not have."
"I disagree." He removed his hand from her face, keeping his other against the wall, and then grabbed her left hand. He held it up, examining her wedding ring. "I'll take this. Real diamond?"
"You absolutely cannot have that." She wrenched her hand away, grasping it with the other, fingering the ring given to her by Ted the night they ran away together, leaving her pureblood supremacist family behind forever. She rarely wore the ring anymore, but every once in a while - usually when she was feeling guilty about something she'd done or was about to do - she'd slip it on.
"One galleon or I'm gone, Rowle."
"You'll work it off in other ways, then." He pressed forward. She considered melting into the wall or apparating away, but fuck – she wanted what he was supposed to be selling her. She needed something to help her escape the pain, stave off the nightmares, make her forget how much she hated herself. Thus she did not move or push him away, not even when he bumped his pelvis against hers and moved his mouth to her ear. "I always wanted a turn with your sister, but the Dark Lord denied me. He considered her his property and he did not like to share. But if you close your eyes, you'll pass for her in a pinch. And a pussy's a pussy – I'll not be too particular. You don't even have to shave."
"That's vulgar." Her wand hand twitched. She had her wand up her sleeve, as usual, and seriously considered using it to Stupify the great oaf. He had been a pig at Hogwarts and was clearly still a pig over thirty years later. "Aren't you married, Thorfinn? Does Euphemia know you offer a bartering system in lieu of proper currency?"
"I'll give you what you need today." He ground his pelvis against her suggestively for a second time and now she could feel the poke of his growing erection; apparently he was turned on by the disgusted expression on her face.
"Good," she said, wishing her traveling cloak covered more than her hair and shoulders. She wanted to be entirely wrapped in material, perhaps even under a veil, hidden from his view. The wolfish way he smiled at her turned her underfed stomach.
"Next time, Mrs. Tonks, once you're hooked, you'll do anything for more. This one's one galleon. Next time, two. From then on, five. And if you can't pay it in gold, you'll pay it on your knees or on your back; I don't much care how we do it." He drew back, dropping his hand finally, and looked her over, a hungry twinkle in his eye. "Fucking the Minister's plaything has a certain... allure to it."
"Allure? I'm surprised you even know that word." She pressed the galleon into his palm but did not release his hand, afraid he'd disappear with her money and this humiliation will have been for naught. "Give me the Herb."
"Here." He handed her a small leather pouch. "Go ahead, have a look, sample the merchandise. I'll wait. I am nothing if not an honest dealer."
She opened it, glanced inside, sniffed, and tasted a tiny bit. Once satisfied, she nodded.
"You received the instructions regarding how to mix it, what with, and the ways to possibly consume it?"
"I did."
The options, when it came to Elven Herb, were smoking (which was not an option), inserting (also not an option), snorting (no, thanks), or injecting. She'd try her hand with that last one. The directions did not seem too difficult to follow, even though it was the most dangerous method, in part because it involved consuming the most dangerous part of the plant.
"I look forward to our next encounter." Thorfinn Rowle shot her a smarmy grin. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to meet my Ministry-appointed Mentor. Part of my Death Eater rehabilitation program. Do you think I seem sufficiently punished by my prison stay? Do I appear remorseful?" He laughed. "Thank your boyfriend for me, eh? I appreciate his softened stance on crime and his focus on reintroducing my friends and me back into wizarding society." He tapped his forearm where she knew his Dark Mark was under his sleeve. "I'm hoping he won't regret it. Will he?"
"I hope not." A pang of guilt stabbed her through the gut. Kingsley was working so hard at keeping those who could be rehabilitated on the right path while keeping those who couldn't behind bars since the post-war executions were stopped and here she was, buying illegal substances from a man who clearly lacked remorse or the desire to do better, and what's worse, she couldn't even tell Kingsley about him without admitting what she'd been doing down in Knockturn Alley... plus, she had a feeling Rowle would be the type to try to blackmail her if he found himself in trouble and unwilling to return to Azkaban.
She left Knockturn Alley feeling sickened both by what she'd done and what she intended to do, a feeling of self-loathing that just made her want to escape all the more. And it worked. She brewed the concoction, injected it as previously instructed, and, for a short time, she felt better. Blissfully empty. Too fucked up to care about anything.
For months she managed to pay Rowle the galleons he demanded for more Elven Herb to mix into a proper concoction for the purpose of getting high. She got the other necessary potions ingredients from her sister and Snape, who either did not realize she was stealing from them or weren't yet willing to confront her about it. She used a syringe with a long, thin needle, which she'd procured from St. Mungo's new experimental magical cures department (they were trying to combine Muggle treatments with Magic, as some Muggleborns were not responding well to the old methods when suffering certain maladies). At first she only got high when Teddy wasn't home, when he was spending the weekend with Harry Potter and his wife, Ginny, or staying the night with nephew Draco and his girlfriend, Hermione.
But with Harry and Ginny expecting their first child and with Draco busy with his philanthropic endeavors and Hermione running the expanded second apothecary Severus purchased in Hogsmeade after his Diagon Alley one was immensely successful, she was finding less time to herself... and she was also finding herself unable to go long periods without it.
She started skipping work to do it, injecting the potion into her arms while her sister babysat during the days, and then she started doing it after putting the precious boy to bed at night, knowing she had a good seven-to-ten hours before she'd have to be functioning again.
She told herself she was doing this for him, too. Because she needed it. She needed the escape, something to look forward to, in order to properly care for him, thus they both benefited. That's what she told herself.
It wasn't long before she couldn't afford the necessary supply.
It wasn't long before she found herself cheating on Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, on her back in a seedy inn trying to pretend the vile man panting, thrusting, and sweating on top of her wasn't a violent murderous Death Eater who caused as much destruction and pain as her sister Bella.
She tried not to think about what her daughter Nymphadora would say if she could see her in this position, or what her late husband would think of her, how sickened and disappointed he'd be.
She tried to pretend it didn't mean anything, that sex didn't mean anything unless the person having it wanted it to, and she didn't. She tried to tell herself Elven Herb and injected potions were no worse than Firewhisky or gin.
She tried to tell herself that doing what she did was actually better than getting pissed on a regular basis, because at least she didn't have tremors and dizzy spells once the drugs wore off like she did when attempting to wean herself from the alcohol.
She was a liar.
She was lying to herself.
She was an addict.
That's what it said on the chart on the end of her bed. Andromeda Tonks: Long-term, Addict.
And Andromeda Tonks, née Black, was angry.
Furious. Cross. Livid. Fuming. Irate. Incensed.
Bloody raging – against the whole world, it felt.
She was angry with her daughter, Nymphadora, for insisting upon rushing out to Hogwarts in what ended up being the Final Battle of the Second War. She should have worked harder to keep her home, should have Stunned or Stupified her, should have offered to go in her place, leaving the young mother at home with her infant son. She was angry with her for becoming an Auror in the first place, for wanting to protect the greater wizarding world when the only people she should have been protecting were herself and her son.
She was angry with her sister's no-good werewolf husband, Remus Lupin, for taking Nymphadora's hand in his and promising – promising – Andromeda he would make sure the everyone they loved would return home safely when the Battle at Hogwarts was over. She was angry with him for letting Nymphadora fall for him at all, for getting her pregnant then feeling forced into marrying her, and for returning after he left, because the young witch was better off without him.
She was angry with her husband, Ted, for dying while on the run, even though that wasn't fair at all and she knew it. She knew he did his damndest to avoid the Snatchers. She knew there wasn't much anyone could do once Lord Voldemort decided to kill them. She was angry with him for being Muggleborn, even though that didn't make any rational sense either. It wasn't his fault and there wasn't anything wrong with being the son of Muggles, but she was able to tell herself if he had only bee pureblood like her, he never would've been taken away.
She was angry with her sister Narcissa for doing so damn well. For tackling her sorrows head-on and moving on with her life, for working through her husband's execution with the help of a book called Stages of Grief, for falling in love again and letting it last, for caring for her adult son and little daughter as a mother should, and for only needing one short stint in rehab to kick her own alcohol habit.
She was angry with her other sister, Bellatrix, for being brainwashed by the monster Tom Riddle in the first place, for pruning her blood-traitorous family tree by murdering her only niece, for following a mad man simply because he made her feel special, for buying into all of the pureblood bullshit their parents instilled upon them from childhood, for being a fucking sadist, for forgetting she'd once loved her younger sister, loved her so much she'd never let anyone hurt her, and then going on to hurt her worse than anyone else ever could, by taking away the person who meant the most to her.
She was angry with Kingsley Shacklebolt because he'd stopped saying he loved her after she turned down his marriage proposal. She was angry with him because he didn't stop fucking her, or caring for her... or drinking with her.
But most of all, she was angry with herself. Angry because she couldn't keep it together, couldn't pick herself up enough to be the parent her grandson needed, and couldn't keep going on as if she was okay when she was so fucking not okay.
In less than for twenty-four hours, it would be the five year anniversary of the day she lost her daughter.
And all she could think about was how much she wished she'd gone to fight and died instead.
Andromeda Tonks was an addict.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to fight her way free from addiction.
A/N:
This little plot bunny attacked me while I was trying to finish up the end of Stages of Grief and I had to let it out before I could move on. Thanks for reading! If you don't mind, please share your thoughts.
-AL