Here we are, the second of five parts. This one is less angsty than the last, which is probably a good thing

I'm planning on making the next one mostly fluff, so hopefully (hopefully) I'll have it up on Valentine's Day.

Enjoy!

Andromeda.

I: Taste

Ted made dinner last night. Pasta. It was awful.

It was overcooked, hanging limply from my fork, trembling at the slightest vibration. Sauce too watery – it just pooled at the bottom of the bowl. The cheese was all wrong. Parmigiano? Asiago? No – cheddar. Hot, stringy and yellow, refusing to sever when I pulled it up. Too much cheese, Ted! It shouldn't do that!

It tasted all wrong. Mushy, salty, wet.

I made it with love, he said, grinning.

The second bite was marginally better.

By the third, I was convinced it wasn't so bad.

Like it?

I love it, Ted.

II: Touch

Perverse curiosity led me back just once.

Quiet as a mouse, I crept through empty rooms.

The Family Tree hung as it always had – I wanted to see it.

Knees against the cold, hard floor, I ran my fingers over it, feeling the threads catch against my skin. Smooth ripples in the cloth. Down past our ancestors, to me.

Charred black. Empty space. Torn ends mocked my fingers with their gentle tickle. Warm, as if I had just been burned off.

I traced it, uneven edges crumbling.

It was cold, and I caught a chill that didn't fade for months.

III: Sight

I still sleep on green sheets. Even now, long after the Manor, after Hogwarts, after my family…

Green is the colour of death, they say. The colour of evil.

But I am not a harbinger of death. I am not evil.

Ted, my Ted, wanted me to change them early on. But I wouldn't. I couldn't.

After he…

Sometimes now I wonder if I ought to change them. For him.

But I never do.

Green is the colour of my past. It is the colour of living things and goodness.

There is no loyalty in green. It's only a colour.

IV: Smell

There are flowers in the garden, just under the kitchen windowsill. In summer, when the air is warm, I open the windows so that I can smell the roses.

Sweet and gentle, their perfume floats on the cooling breeze.

I take a long time with the dishes, doing them the Muggle way so I can feel the roses' tender kisses envelop me.

The sun warms my cheeks, but my greatest pleasure comes from the scarlet flowers that perfume the temperate air.

I do not choose to remember the garden at the Manor, by now just a wild disarray of thorns.

V: Sound

It's always noisy. Outside, inside. Everywhere.

I wake up and fall asleep to the sound of motorcars and children's shouts. Midday is punctuated by twelve tolls of the churchbells a few blocks away.

I love it.

I can't remember ever hearing so many sounds at the Manor. There were the gently twittering songs of birds to wake us, the soft buzzing of crickets and the quiet patter of tiny elf feet to put us to bed.

I like to think that noise heralds my new life.

But sometimes in the very early morning I miss hearing the birds so clearly.

I do love reviews, you know.