Author's Note: Thank you again to Ladyfurie for beta-ing all of these chapters.
A/N2: Don't forget to follow keeptheotherone's In Living Memory.
Coming Up On Ten Years
May 1, 2008
"I know why you're here."
Andromeda Tonks stood in her front door, trying to suppress a smile. A gust of late April wind played with her graying hair, and she pulled her cardigan more tightly around herself. The tall man strolling up her walk doffed his hat. He smiled sheepishly.
"Hello, Andromeda," Kingsley Shacklebolt said.
"I'm not sure I warrant a visit from the Minister for Magic."
"It's coming up on ten years."
Andromeda looked past his shoulder. "Indeed it is. Come in and have tea."
Kingsley stepped over the threshold, but before Andromeda could close the door a sleek ginger body streaked in.
"Bloody cat!" Andromeda cursed. "It will take me a fortnight to shoo him out again."
Kingsley chuckled. It was a full-bodied rumble, smooth as whiskey on a winter's night. "If you stopped feeding him maybe he wouldn't come around."
"Did you want tea, or not?" Andromeda asked tartly.
"If it won't put you out."
Leading him into the sitting room, Andromeda busied herself with the familiar task of preparing tea. She always found comfort in falling back on etiquette when faced with unpleasant dilemmas. Not that Kingsley's presence was unpleasant, far from it. But they'd conducted this interview nine times before and it always left her feeling a bit hollow.
Levitating the tea tray into the sitting room, she set it on the table and busied herself with serving. Kingsley preferred Assam with milk no sugar. It was not that he was a frequent visitor, but Andromeda had been trained well. She always remembered how her guests took their tea.
"Perfect," Kingsley said after taking a sip. The dainty china cup looked absurdly small in his big hands. He looked at Andromeda for a moment, then his gentle smile slipped away. "We are commemorating the Battle of Hogwarts—"
"Yes. Just like last year and the year before and the year before that."
"Not quite. This is the tenth anniversary, quite a monumental event. The Ministry—I would like it if you would come to the ceremony this year."
Andromeda set her saucer on the table. "I'm afraid I must decline, but thank—"
"Andromeda."
"Should I be expecting Harry next?"
"Not on my orders. You'll let Teddy come?"
"I always do."
"If you don't mind my asking…. What do you do on the second of May, when we're all gathered at the memorial ceremony?"
"When the weather is cooperative, I set in my garden. When it's not, I drink tea and pet Tom."
"Tom?"
"The cat."
Kingsley laughed. "You've named the cat you hate?"
"Tom Cat is hardly original."
The blasted animal first appeared in her home the day they came to tell Andromeda her husband was dead. Snuck in through an open window, jumped on top of Ted's bookshelves and refused to come down. Tom and Andromeda had shared a contentious relationship ever since.
"And then," she continued, not really answering the question, "I attend Victoire Weasley's birthday party, which Ted and Dora would agree, is a much better use of my time."
"Yes, they would," Kingsley concurred.
They lapsed into silence, and Andromeda found herself staring out the window at her garden. It never quite recovered after Hagrid and Harry Potter crashed that old motorbike of Sirius' into it. Without Ted to do the hard work, Andromeda had never been able to fix it. That was their routine—Ted and she—he did the hard work and she did the dirty work. It worked for them. Now she kept a vegetable plot, mostly for Teddy, and a dozen or so containers, but it paled in comparison to what she and Ted had created.
"Is Teddy here?" Kingsley asked after some time. "I brought his birthday gift. I'm sorry I missed it, I was at a conference in Japan."
Andromeda looked at him and smiled. "He's with Harry and Ginny tonight, but if you leave it with me, I'll be sure he gets it."
Kingsley handed her a box wrapped in Golden Snitch paper and a blue bow. He liked to tease Teddy about being a Ravenclaw someday, but Andromeda had her doubts. Teddy was a bright boy, but he didn't have the curiosity that marked so many Ravenclaws. No, Teddy would be a Hufflepuff like his mother and grandfather.
"What did you get him?" Andromeda shook the package and heard it rattle about inside the box.
Kingsley cocked one brow, his dark eyes crinkling.
"What?"
He shook his head. "Nothing. Only…for a moment I imagined you as a girl. Were you the type to shake all your Christmas gifts?"
"Of course not." Andromeda pursed her lips and leaned in before confiding, "I was much worse. I took Mother's letter opener and sliced open the tape and very carefully unwrapped all my gifts. Then, I would re-wrap them, placing the spello-tape precisely in the same spot."
Kingsley chuckled again, and Andromeda's stomach swooped. She did like that deep, baritone laugh of his. The breadth of his shoulders was also quite pleasing. Really, Kingsley was just a very attractive man. A few years younger than her, but did that matter at her age?
"Well, Andromeda," he said, and his eyes were twinkling. "I think I finally understand why you were sorted into Slytherin."
She waved her hand. "That was a long time ago."
Kingsley watched her for a moment then sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't stay long."
"I don't know why they send the Minister for such a menial task every year." Andromeda busied herself folding napkins and stacking plates.
"They don't do anything. I think you, of all people, are due my time."
It had been many years since Andromeda believed in her own importance. Oh, she knew she was the center of Teddy's world, just as she had been Ted's light and Dora's mother, but Andromeda's place in the wider world was insignificant at best. Giving up the Black name freed her of the arrogance that came with it. It was touching that Kingsley considered her worthy of his time, but she wished it was under different circumstances. Andromeda didn't want to be given special treatment because she lost her entire family in the war. In fact, she was hardly unique in that way, yet Andromeda doubted Kingsley was paying special visits to the Spinnet girl.
Shaking her head, Andromeda asked, "Then I should expect you next year about this time?"
But Kingsley didn't answer. Andromeda stopped what she was doing to look at the man sitting across from her. His eyes were narrowed and he was watching her intently. Clutching the locket she wore around her neck, Andromeda called upon her training to keep from squirming. It had been a long time since a man had paid her such close attention.
"Can you keep a secret?" Kingsley asked. His voice was a deep roll like thunder in the distance.
"I'm an expert at that."
"I won't be bothering you next year because I plan to step down. I'll announce it after the memorial ceremony."
Andromeda's eyebrows sprang up. "Goodness."
"Ten years seems more than long enough for any one man to serve as Minister for Magic, don't you think?"
"I can think of many wizards who would disagree with you. Fudge, for instance."
Kingsley chuckled. "Well, I dearly hope I'm not lumped into the same category as my esteemed predecessor."
"Fudge was always nearsighted. He never understood that clinging to power for too long inevitably corrodes whatever goodwill one's managed to incur. You, my dear, are made of wiser stuff."
"Thank you."
"Who will replace you?"
The fact remained, Kingsley had been Minister for so long Andromeda could scarcely think of anyone suitable to take his place. So many of their generation were gone or disgraced. She wasn't keen to see one of the old guard take power again, but were the youngsters ready yet?
"I don't know," Kingsley said, shrugging. "We've spent the last ten years rebuilding, or undoing past mistakes. I hope the next person is somebody with real vision for the future."
"And what will you do?"
"I don't know that either."
He didn't seem to care in the least. Clasping his hands loosely, he leaned back against the cushions at his leisure. They could be speaking of the weather rather than his uncertain future. Andromeda found herself envious. There was rarely a moment in her life for which she didn't have a plan. She knew many people thought she'd heedlessly run off to marry Ted, but that couldn't be further from the truth. Months of scheming had gone into that moment—the one that changed her life forever—and thank goodness for her good sense. The Blacks made sure neither she nor Ted could make a living in the Wizarding world. There were a few lean years in the beginning.
"They'll want you for the Wizengamot," Andromeda said.
Kingsley's lip curled, giving him a ferocious look for a moment. "I think I've had enough politics for a lifetime." He blinked and his expression returned to normal. "Do you suppose they'll need a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I feared as much." He stood, and Andromeda followed suit, leading him back to the door. Once there, he turned and frowned. "I didn't know Ted, but Tonks and Remus were important to me. I wanted you to know that I say a special prayer for them."
"So do I," Andromeda said quietly. She tucked her hand into his, squeezing. "And I'll add an extra one for Amelia."
She wasn't the only one to lose someone dear in the war, though many were inclined to treat her with a special kind of reverence. It was galling really. The loss of her husband and daughter was private. For the most part, she was allowed to mourn Ted in her own way, on her own time, but not Dora. Not the one person who was ever truly, fully hers. There were plaques with Dora's name emblazoned on them in the strangest places. Sometimes Andromeda would find herself faced unexpectedly with a war memorial in a wizarding town and it all came rushing back at her. She knew her daughter was a hero, that people wanted to celebrate her, but Andromeda did not want to share Dora with the world.
Kingsley patted her hand, "Thank you."
oOo
As the sun came up on the morning of May 2, Andromeda lay on her back in bed, hands folded over her stomach, and staring at the ceiling. The darkness of night was receding. In it's place were the first, tentative sunbeams promising a beautiful day. It was Remus who brought the news of Ted's death. It was teatime. Andromeda was sitting at her kitchen table with Dora, swollen in the last weeks of pregnancy. Remus walked through the door, his normally gentle expression dour. Andromeda knew before he said the words…
"Andromeda, I-I'm sorry…"
She sat there, stunned and numb, barely aware of Dora's cries or Remus' attempts to soothe. It was almost as if Andromeda hovered outside her body, staring at the way her hand was limp in her lap and her face was completely blank. She should have been ready for this news. It had been months since Ted left on account of his foolish, unbending, Hufflepuff principles. She'd not received one letter in all that time, leading to many sleepless nights in which Andromeda imagined her beloved dead in a ditch somewhere. Yet, when it actually happened, she was astonished.
"Meow!"
Andromeda threw back the covers. "You!"
The cat—bloody useless creature—weaved between her legs, rubbing his soft fur against her bare ankles. The News was only one hour old when Tom Cat first invaded her home. He streaked through the door, avoided Andromeda's broom, and leaped to the top of Ted's bookshelves. For days, weeks, on end Andromeda found evidence of the cat wondering her home—toppled picture frames, clawed arm chairs, cat fur everywhere—but he must have been moving in the night. For every morning, he greeted her from the top of the bookshelves, seemingly laughing at Andromeda's expense.
Andromeda threw her brush at Tom Cat, who hissed and darted out the bedroom door. "It's bad enough you're in my home again," she fumed. "I'll be damned before you're allowed in my bedroom."
Securing her morning gown around her waist, Andromeda walked down to the kitchen. She tapped her wand against the kettle, filling it with water for tea. Two pieces of bread flew into the toaster. Ted introduced the Muggle artifact into their home, magically modified to work without electricity, and Andromeda had to admit it was handy. She spooned yogurt into a dish and sprinkled it with granola and blueberries.
Dora liked breakfast cereals. The more sugar, the better. Andromeda cringed whenever she poured her daughter a bowl, but avoided the nutritional facts on the side. Ignorance was bliss, as they say. Teddy, much like his mother, was also a fan of sugary cereals.
The sun was fully up now. Andromeda imagined the memorial at Hogwarts was drawing to a close. At least that was how it was described in the newspaper year after year. She often wished they would stop this nonsense. For a week prior to the memorial, The Daily Prophet and WWN blathered on endlessly about the war and the Battle of Hogwarts. They rehashed the same stories, reexamined all the important facts, printed all the familiar photographs. It wasn't as if any of them had any perspective on the event—it was too soon for that. Besides, reopening all those wounds made the pain as fresh as if it had just happened.
Andromeda ate without really tasting her food. She dressed with no real thought. Her house was quiet, always had been. She and Ted were not blessed with a home full of children like the Weasleys. Not that she ever wished for seven children, but it would have been nice to give Dora a younger brother or sister. It wasn't in the stars. She and Ted tried to conceive those first few years after Dora was born, but then the war escalated. People were disappearing, being killed. It was all quite alarming, and so Andromeda and Ted decided it was too dangerous to bring another baby into the world. Once the war ended, they tried again, but nothing came out of it.
Ted was sad, of course, but he was always one to look on the bright side. They had Dora, and she was brilliant, who could ask for more? Andromeda didn't share Ted's sunny disposition by nature. Seeing the best in a bad situation required work on her part. There was simply too much Black in her. There was also the nagging suspicion that she was the one at fault. Her family had been marrying cousins for generations, that couldn't be good.
After dressing, Andromeda stepped onto her terrace. A cool breeze snagged tendrils of hair that escaped her wide straw hat. She stared out at her ruined garden. Grass overtook the ruts where Hagrid wrecked the motorcycle all those years ago. Auror figurines and toy broomsticks decorated the mounds and craters of earth. Tucking her hair behind her ear, Andromeda set out for the garden shed.
When Ted was alive, they started all their plants from seed. The containers overtook their conservatory—the room that got the best light—until it was finally time to plant. Every spring, the front garden showed proof of their hard work. Tulips, hyacinths, daffodils, and irises bloomed in a rainbow of colors. Most of the back garden was destroyed. A few box hedges remained, overgrown and misshapen. The line of lilacs Ted put in the year they moved to this house were huge now. In a few days there would be a cacophony of purple and white blooms. Andromeda would cut a bouquet to set beside their bed, its fragrance as strong as the memories of her husband.
Nowadays, Andromeda cheated. She walked down to the Muggle farmer's market in town and bought flats of flowers and vegetables. It was less work, and she enjoyed the results just the same.
Dora, bless her, never had the same talent for herbology as Andromeda and Ted. She was a chronic overwaterer. No matter how many times Andromeda warned Dora, she always saturated her plants until they drowned. In fact, she'd killed a few of the plants Pomona kept in the common room. Pomona was good-natured about it, until Dora killed three plants in three days. Andromeda received a very irritable letter home and Dora got a week's worth of detention.
Teddy faired better in the garden. He wasn't as keen to assist as Dora had been—Merlin help them all—but he could at least keep a plant alive. The hardest part was keeping him from raiding the strawberry patch every spring. Andromeda promised him strawberry shortcake, but he gobbled them up anyways.
Teddy. Wonderful, energetic, kind Teddy. He was a bittersweet gift. Finally, the second child she'd always hoped for, but at the expense of her daughter. Sometimes, Andromeda wondered what would have become of her if it hadn't been for that boy. There wouldn't have been a reason to get out of bed if it hadn't been for Teddy. He was only a few weeks old when Dora and Remus died, and so needy. His survival was quite literally dependent on Andromeda's, but that went both ways. She strongly suspected Teddy saved her life.
Tilling the vegetable plot was hard work even with magic. This was Ted's job when he'd been alive. His face turned brown and his hair turned nearly white in the sunshine. Manual labor looked good on Ted.
Andromeda knelt at the edges of the freshly turned earth. Ten years had passed. How could that be? How could it have been ten years since the last time she saw her daughter's face. Longer still since she'd seen her husband's. Andromeda begged Dora to stay behind, let others do the fighting, but Dora was resolute. She was an Auror and a member of the Order of the Phoenix. It was her duty to fight. She was as principled as her father. And so Andromeda knew the part she must play. She kissed her daughter's forehead and wished her luck. There was no telling which way the Battle would go, Andromeda had been determined that her last memory of her daughter did not end in an argument.
It was Kingsley who brought the news. Dawn was a few hours past, but Andromeda had been standing at the window, Teddy in her arms, anxious for news. Kingsley came straight from the Battle, his robes singed and torn, dried blood on his face. Andromeda didn't know it at the time, but he'd already been appointed interim Minister. The moment Andromeda saw Kingsley walking up the path, she knew. The knowledge was bone deep and howling. She crushed Teddy to her chest and stared at Kingsley through the window, his face drawn and dignified.
The next hours, days maybe, were a blur of bottles and nappies. Did Teddy miss his mother? Who knew with a baby that small? It wasn't until the funeral that Andromeda could identify any of her emotions. She'd lost her daughter, too.
Weeks and Teddy's birth separated Ted and Dora's deaths, but they were interlocked in Andromeda's mind. She couldn't think of one and not think of the other. She wished sometimes she could untangle it, grieve each of them properly. It's why she resented the memorial so much. She understood the Wizarding world wished to commemorate the dead. Somebody would stand on that stage and claim the memory of the Voldemort Wars must be kept alive to ensure that nothing so wicked ever occurred again, but it would. This generation would fade and the next would take for granted the peace that was forged in blood. All this talk of Never Again served no purpose other than to force people like Andromeda to relive their most horrible moments.
Sitting back on her haunches, Andromeda wiped tears from her face with the back of her arm. What a cynic she was. Ted and Dora would be ashamed. The truth was, it was easier to be optimistic when they were alive.
"Meow."
Tom Cat rubbed against Andromeda's leg, his back arched. Despite herself, Andromeda stroked his fur. He showed up at the oddest times, sneaking into the house and out again of his own volition. Andromeda was half resigned to his presence. Perhaps they would grow old together. That was all she ever wanted, wasn't it? To grow old with a good man.
"Go on," she said to the cat, giving him a little push. "I have a lot of work to do before Victoire's party."
Poor girl. Born on the anniversary of her uncle's death. The Weasleys' made the best of it, of course. Andromeda rather looked forward to the party. It forced her to remember to breathe again. Life went on, and here was this beautiful girl to prove it. And then there was Teddy.
The boy was a little bit Dora, a tad Remus, and wholly himself. Sometimes, a certain expression would flicker across Teddy's face that reminded Andromeda so strongly of Dora it would steal her breath away. The boy had his mother's enthusiasm for life, but it was tempered with his father's sense of caution. Andromeda's feelings for her son-in-law were complicated. As a man, Remus was kind and honorable. He was somebody Andromeda would be proud to call friend. As the husband of her daughter…
Andromeda first met Remus Lupin as a scrubby schoolboy, the best friend of her wayward cousin. Honestly, she hardly gave him any thought at all until Dora dragged him home. There was a thirteen year age gap between the two of them. To make matters worse, Remus was worn beyond his years by illness, grief, and solitude. Andromeda wasn't proud of it—she knew something of parental disapproval after all—but what mother would easily accept such a man for her only child?
To make matters worse, Remus abandoned Dora when she was pregnant. The fact he returned did nothing to abate Andromeda's misgivings about their relationship. But war has a peculiar way of stripping away the inconsequential and leaving only the barest, meanest truth. Remus and Dora were good for each other. She brought out the prankster in him. In another life, Remus might have been carefree and charming. With Dora, he found that part of himself that had been bruised and battered by life. Meanwhile, Remus was kind and patient. He steadied Dora's more impetus inclinations. Andromeda knew she could trust Remus to keep Dora from plunging headlong into folly, if only he had the staying power.
Teddy was the best parts of both his parents in looks and nature. In fact, Andromeda often thought perhaps Teddy was what Remus could have been if not for his unfortunate run in with Fenrir Greyback. For the gift of Teddy, Andromeda could forgive Remus anything.
Thinking of Teddy always reminded Andromeda of her own better nature. She lost her cynicism. The future was never set in stone, after all. Perhaps the sins of the past did not have to be repeated. So long as there was hope…
