Author's Note: Caution- Spoilers for Deathly Hallows. I always thought Andromeda Tonks was the one who lost the most. Here is my attempt to make some sense of her loss and bring more attention to a character who is, sadly, underappreciated. Please tell me what you think. Comments, suggestions and critiques would be much appreciated. (Revised July 19, 2009.)
Disclaimer: The following is a piece of fanfiction. No money is made off this. There is no copyright infringement intended; all characters, concepts and backgrounds belong to J. K. Rowling.
Persevering Quiet
Her proud shoulders sagged, then, when he told her. I couldn't hear his words, but I knew. Damned bloody fool. As if he hadn't been an idiot enough, he tried then to take her grandson away from her. I could see how protectively she held little Teddy, soundly and blissfully asleep, her fingers tightening around his soft blanket until her knuckles stood out, white-hot points of agony.
"Let me take him," he insisted, reaching for the baby, ever so tactless. Couldn't he understand that baby was all she had left in the world? She shook her head, wordless in her grief. I'd seen enough.
"Horace," I said, more sharply than I intended. My voice rang out in the unnaturally still afternoon. "Poppy needs another batch of Murtlap essence. See to it, won't you?"
Two faces turned, and after a meaningful glare one beat a hasty, waddling retreat back to the castle. The other nodded at me and turned away again back to Teddy, clasping him even closer. Her back was painfully rigid.
"Miss - Mrs. Tonks," I ventured. I thought I heard a deep moan. I couldn't blame it on a wind; the air was still in anticipation, as if the grounds hadn't quite decided that the long battle was already over. Or maybe, I thought, another battle had just begun. Walking closer, I saw that her entire body was shaking, and I marvelled with an old woman's cynicism her strength. Would that such bitter strength was never needed!
"Andromeda," I whispered, and she came to life at last with a tiny, hoarse gasp. Quite abruptly, she sat down. I sat with her, disregarding the mud and filth of the battlefield. The dampness seeped into my robes. Her hand reached out to touch the dirt, rolling a clump between her fingers, crumbling it.
"It's true, then? Don't tell me it's true. Don't," she said, but I was not meant to answer. Her head bowed, as if her knowledge was a burden she could not take up any longer. "I won't believe it," she continued, voice shaking, and her eyes shut tightly as her ashen face contorted with pain. What could I have said to comfort her? There, there, everything's all right? There was nothing I could have said, nothing meaningful, nothing that would not hurt her with its insincerity.
"She died here," she said then. "Both of them." Teddy shifted uneasily in his cocoon of blankets. Unconsciously she adjusted him in the crook of her arm, and continued to touch the earth with an odd caressing movement.
I didn't want to say yes, but there could be no denials. Not with her. I could never lie to her.
"I wonder," she continued in that strange monotone, neither questioning nor answering, "I wonder. Was she hurting, when she died. My girl." She looked down at her bundled grandson. Her expression, when she gazed upon him, was one of angry bewilderment. I could see her thoughts, but only with difficulty. This worried me; I had always read her easily. Among her sisters she had always been the straightforward one, the open book. Her forehead sank into deep furrows, much too deep for one still in the supposed prime of life. Who is this man-child, she thinks, with the brilliant hair and the small nose just like my daughter's? What is he doing here with me?
"She was always clumsy, she was," she said. Her head bowed and her dark hair fell in limp waves to hide her face. I couldn't bear it. I couldn't let her go on thinking Tonks died because of a mistake. But wasn't that what her death had been? One lapse of concentration, one stray curse; that was all it took. One moment of desperation, one distracted heartbeat; that was all, and by the time I found breath enough to yell she had fallen.
"It was no fault of hers," I finally croaked. Why was I the one crying, I wondered in turn, when she, poor, brave Andromeda, had lost so much more? A husband, a daughter, a son-in-law she treated like her own, and even a sister. She met my eyes at last with the anguished gaze of a wife and mother.
"Tell me, how did she - did you see?" Was anyone with her? Pinned by that awful look, I made a feeble attempt at consolation. I took the coward's way out. But she saw through me, as usual.
"No - I...she..."
"Don't you lie to me now, Professor," she said quietly. It was more than a request; it was a plea.
Professor. I had not heard that from her lips in years. She, with absolute trust and without malicious intent, had cut me to the core with that simple word. I had not heard that from her lips in years. I remembered the years when I taught them, her and her daughter both. Maybe I hadn't taught her enough. Maybe I shouldn't have let her out to the grounds. I'd failed them, failed them both, and the only one who was thankfully oblivious to all this was young Teddy Lupin.
Once again I couldn't say a word but she still understood. Andromeda had always been too perceptive; sometimes, ignorance was a refuge.
"Forgive me," I whispered. I braced to expect her accusations, her anger and her outraged grief. I would be glad of them; to see any reaction at all would be a relief. But she shook her head, as if she was already too tired for any emotion.
"There's nothing to forgive," she said dully. Her blankness frightened me. I was used to storms and thunder, but this cold empty sorrow was more terrifying and sad than any fight I'd yet fought. Her eyes stared at the dirt in her hand as she crumbled them, over and over, grinding them into dust between her fingers. I placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. She flinched. But after a breath she accepted it, and her back hunched over as she began to shiver with shock. I wiped my eyes and rubbed circles on her back. She glanced at me, and I nodded. For a long time we sat there in persevering quiet. Peace, at last; but for Andromeda the price was almost too much.
Teddy woke. He stretched his mouth and yawned, making a precious innocent baby-noise, entirely unexpected on this battlefield. He began to fuss. Andromeda blinked and looked down at him, faintly surprised. I suspected she'd forgotten him all together. What will she do now, I wondered. Where will the boy go?
Gazing intently into her grandson's wide eyes, Andromeda lifted a trembling, dirt-stained hand, reaching for Teddy and brushed away a wayward tuft of his hair. Her fingers caressed his soft cheeks and ran over his smooth forehead, leaving a mud-brown mark. A baptism.
"Don't worry, Minerva," she breathed, more to herself and the baby, though her words were also meant for my ears. "I'll take care of him."
She turned to me and nodded determinedly as she spoke. There was a strange new light in her deep eyes. I reached for her and, impulsively, we embraced. Teddy was clasped safely between us. Only then did she finally cry, with grief-stricken howling sobs, and all three of us cried for all those we lost.
When we finally broke apart, having spent our tears, Andromeda blinked, sniffled hard and lifted her head. She turned her gaze to Teddy, who hiccupped and looked curiously back. Slowly she bent her head, and planted a feather-light kiss on his head. A blessing.
"Are you ready?" I asked softly.
"As ready as I'll ever be," she answered with some of her old fire, straightening with an age-old pride. She graced me with a pained half-smile. I nodded back. We turned our faces from the field towards the lights of Hogwarts, and together we began the long weary walk home.