Author's Note - I am borrowing from JK Rowling. I thought of this fan fiction idea randomly and I just HAD to write it. I hope you enjoy it.
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Dromeda was late; she was never late. I paced the worn carpet of my living room floor, the fire crackling loudly and the flames leaving a dim glow throughout the small room. I was sure that Dromeda had her reasons for being late; she would have told me if she couldn't make it. Perhaps that was why I was feeling so anxious; she was over an hour late and I hadn't heard a single word.
My thoughts immediately turned towards Dromeda's family. They called her Andy. She wasn't Andy to me, she was Dromeda. Andy and Dromeda were two completely seperate and different people; Andy was the perfect, pure blood daughter. Andy was the one who would see right through me when accompanied by her Slytherin friends or her sisters. Only to mouth a 'sorry' to me when they weren't looking. Dromeda was my love, my reason for living. She was beautiful, with long, silky, chocolate brown hair; her shiny brown eyes that matched her hair colour; her pale, flawless skin that forever glowed in any kind of light; her soft features made her resemblance to her sister, Bellatrix, much less noticeable. Her features would have been overlooked by men that went for women for their looks only; but to me she was perfect. Dromeda was mine, Andy was theirs. And my Dromeda was torn between me; a muggle born and so far out of her league that I'm surprised, even now, that she chose me over a dozen pure blood men, and her pure blood family that treated her more like a show dog than a daughter.
I never understood why Dromeda was so eager to please all of those pure blood snobs that she had the misfortune to be related to. If I was related to people like them, I would have wanted out as soon as possible. But Dromeda and I were different, in so many ways that the idea of us as a couple seems almost unreal, she was a Slytherin, I was a Hufflepuff; not the most likely pairing, is it? And I knew that if Dromeda's family ever found out about us, we'd both be severely punished. The chance of them accepting me was the same as an ice cubes chance in hell, meaning, impossible.
My life was so much simpler before I met Dromeda; I didn't have the constant worry that she would leave me, telling me that she couldn't pretend anymore, that she couldn't lie. On nights that I laid alone in bed, wondering whether she was giving me a seconds thought when she was off being the perfect daughter; I resented her, hated her, even. I would tell myself that she wasn't worth all of this heartache, when I could find someone that wasn't pretending to be two people at once; but those feelings would disappear instantly when I saw Dromeda the next day; when I saw her warm, beautiful smile when we would be by the lake at Hogwarts; or in Hogsmeade; or when we would meet in the second floor broom cupboard that we had claimed as 'our place'.
I pulled back the curtain; hope filled my heart when I saw a girl with dark hair walk past the window; only for it to be a muggle college student, who was around the same age as Dromeda. Annoyed, I roughly pulled the curtain closed and sat on the sofa, burying my face in my hands. I didn't even care why she was late anymore; I just wanted to take her into my arms and hold her.
It was a further twenty five minutes of dread and pacing before the fire when I finally heard the sound of knuckles upon wood as there was a sharp knock at the door. I resisted the incredible urge to run to the door and wrench it open straight away; I waited for several moments; no second knock came, but I knew that she was waiting. I couldn't stand the silence any longer; I had to see her. I stood up and checked myself in the wall mounted mirror before walking to the front door and pulling it open.
There she stood, but I knew without delay that something was wrong. She stood on my doorstep in a long, violet dress, her hair tied up into a long ponytail, held in place by very expensive looking amethyst hair slides. The whole effect looked lovely, but there was no smile on Dromeda's face; she just stood in silence, staring blankly at me. I stepped aside to let her in; she strode into the small hallway and closed the front door behind her. I didn't know what else to do, so I did the only thing that felt natural; I took her into my arms and held her, she buried her face into my shoulder; I could feel her shaking, she was evidently trying to maintain control. I brushed the hair away from her shoulders and kissed her neck tenderly, whispering soothing sounds into her ear. I steered her into the kitchen and sat her down on one of the rickety chairs. She still remained silent. With a sigh I filled the kettle and waited for it to boil, wanting nothing more than for her to talk to me.
