Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling; I'm only visiting her universe for nonprofit fun and edification. (No profit is being made and no copyright infringement is intended).

ooo

Nigel Black looks at Andromeda steadily, rather too steadily for someone who's just discovered that he has a whole clutch of kin who are witches and wizards, and that he himself has lately become a werewolf.

Yes, Nigel tells her, Justin was one of the first he met on this side of the border. His lip curls. Apparently, Justin had begun with a cheerful prepared speech about how Nigel had lately fallen victim to a treatable chronic condition, and he, Justin, was here to tell him about the resources available for his new life.

Andromeda reflects that Nigel's disdain is one mask of fear. Until the night just past, he no doubt had the insouciance that calls itself courage, the ignorant good cheer of the young person as yet unacquainted with the vagaries of human suffering and death. It's other people, lesser beings, who fall victim to illness and disaster and poverty; he's too clever for that.

She thinks it ill behooves a scion of the House of Black to assume immunity from the Fates and the Furies.

Nigel adds, with a contemptuous nod toward Hermione, "And if it hadn't been for her, I wouldn't be here at all."

Hermione is on her feet in a split-second, eyes afire and wand out. "You absolute wanker," she says in a hiss that reminds Andromeda of Bella at the same age. "You presumptuous little Muggle fucker."

Andromeda is set back, to say the least, by that sort of language from Hermione; Nigel's startled reaction tells her it's a shock to him as well.

Hermione is leaning into his personal space, supporting herself with her left hand on the railing of the hospital bed and with her right, wielding her wand and digging the tip into the flesh under his jaw. (It's instinctively Muggle-born, that sort of threat: point-blank with a wand is anything within twelve paces, but Hermione is driving it home as if she were wielding a firearm.)

"You wouldn't be here because you'd be dead. And you wouldn't have been outside anyway if you hadn't been harassing me for the last six months. No, Nigel Black doesn't take no for an answer. Nigel has a bet with his mates about how long it's going to take to bed the new girl… the bloody exotic. Nigel can't leave it alone, can he? 'You might want to reconsider. I'm rather better connected than you might suspect.' Yes, Nigel, I know now that Justin's father is one of the bank directors, and no, I didn't use that connection to get the job. I got it on ability, which is something your lot don't understand. Not you, and not your cousin, Draco sodding Malfoy." She adds, "Whom, I might add, I've soundly thrashed in class marks every year we were in school."

Nigel's mouth drops open and his eyes widen, though it's plain he's trying to suppress his astonishment.

"Oh yes, that's what it means, belonging to the House of Black," she says. "Draco Malfoy's mother is Narcissa Black. Madam Tonks is his aunt." She starts laughing again, and the wand tip quivers dangerously; Nigel winces. Surely he must know it's a deadly weapon with which she's poking him, or he's one of nature's own fools.

The behavior is so unlike the Hermione she knows, that Andromeda feels a shiver of apprehension. Not that Hermione would deliberately hurt Nigel, but who knows what wild magic might transpire in her current state? Avoiding the dangerous and discourteous temptation to move the wand more directly, she reaches across to close her hand on Hermione's wrist.

"Hermione, your wand."

Hermione shivers and backs off, pocketing the wand but continuing to glare at Nigel. She says, "As if I hadn't enough trouble, with everything else, I have to put up with this lot."

She draws herself to her full height and glares down at him; then, with one last scornful look, she turns on her heel. At the end of five long strides, she turns again to face him.

"Did it occur to you that I might be warning you off for reasons other than your very unattractive persistence?"

Nigel recognizes the shift in her tone, and says, "No."

"In this world, my lad, I am reckoned mad, bad, and dangerous to know." Andromeda has to suppress a giggle both at the Byronic pose and the unconscious echo of Augusta Longbottom in the locution my lad, unless it's Alastor Moody she's imitating. "It may well be you'd be safe and sound if you'd kept well away, because those werewolves might not have been there by coincidence."

Andromeda says, "Dolores Umbridge." Kingsley still talks about the Senior Undersecretary's rather cavalier readiness to deploy the Dementors in Muggle districts.

"She's on house arrest," Hermione says, "but the War Crimes Commission is packed with her protégés, not to mention the Sentient Beings committee. It has her signature, though: send monsters after those you don't like, and make sure that it's on the other side of the border." She makes a sour face. "Though given Umbridge's views on the Werewolf Problem, it would be ironic…"

Andromeda says, "I think we might want to talk to Kingsley again. In private," she says, because the girl is violating the Statute of Secrecy with gay abandon, and quite enough damage has been done already.

Hermione folds her arms over her chest. "I don't trust Minister Shacklebolt. Not on this." She says, "With all due respect, Madam Tonks…"

It occurs to Andromeda that someone has been coaching her on proper address… well, that someone might be Augusta, but oddly enough she's more inclined to suspect Draco.

Nigel says, "Madam Tonks, then." Andromeda nods in approval; the boy is a quick study. "You were going to tell me what I needed to know…" He's correctly read the lines of power in the room; Andromeda is his sponsor and advocate, while Hermione—personally formidable though she might be—is her junior and answers to her authority. He adds, "If we are kin, then I think you needn't call me Mr. Black." He smiles, and there's a flash of the roguish charm of Sirius. No wonder this boy might have made bets about how long it would take to seduce a girl on whom he'd set his sights; some might find that cocky attitude irresistible.

"Nigel," she says, "and by the way, I might mention that's an old family name on our side of the family. Some very distinguished figures have borne it."

He looks back at her with an approving smirk—yes, she's on familiar ground—and she continues, "I have every expectation that you'll comport yourself appropriately and not disgrace the name." (No need to mention that the fact of his Mugglehood is disgrace enough.) "However, I cannot say that I'm pleased at what I've seen and heard of your conduct toward Miss Granger."

Nigel's expression continues to remind her of Sirius, as he visibly gathers himself to make excuses.

"I think it best you add nothing to this," she says frostily. "The point of conducting oneself always as a gentleman is that one need have no regrets when discovering that someone's rank is…" she glances at Hermione, "…rather higher than one had assumed."

Nigel frowns. "Who is she, exactly? I've gathered she's… rather a big noise on this side of the border."

Andromeda suppresses a sigh, and reminds herself that the world is full of adolescent boys who need some polishing—and in advance of that, some knocking-off of corners—before they fully qualify as adult human beings. Hermione is looking rather full of answers, though at the moment she's deferring to Andromeda.

"Well, she's a rising young star in our Ministry," she says, "and, as she's pointed out, she was quite a satisfactory scholar at Hogwarts."

Nigel blinks. "Hogwarts. That's the school for which Justin turned down Eton."

"Yes." She's heard of Eton, of course, scornfully from Ted and in rather a different tone, in the books she used to sell in the shop. "Hogwarts is by far the best school in Britain, on our side of the border." She clears her throat. "But that's all rather beside the main point. Hermione Granger is a Knight of the Order of Merlin, First Class, for conspicuous services to wizarding Britain in the late war. Services without which you, your family, and your world would be dead by now, or living in rather reduced circumstances."

Nigel looks puzzled.

Hermione says, "The losing side considered themselves the wizard Herrenvolk, and their leader was rather a student of Hitler. He was reared on your side of the border, and he had an undying hatred of Muggles—that would be non-magical folk."

Nigel says, "So we were like the Jews in his scheme?"

Hermione shakes her head. "No, in Tom Riddle's scheme, the Muggle-born were like the Jews. Racial inferiors have to belong to the same species. The Muggles were more like cattle. Something to be kept in its place and made useful."

Nigel frowns slightly. "So you stopped this Riddle chap."

"Not me alone. There was quite a resistance. We did a crucial bit, that's all. You met Ron…"

"The ginger lout?"

"I'll remind you he had something to do with your being alive to say snide things about him." She sighs. "And then there was Harry." She yawns, and says, "And you've met Neville."

"The hefty northern boy." There's a barely contained insolence in Nigel's expression that recalls Draco; no wonder the two of them can't stand each other. He says, "So who are the other two?"

It's Hermione's turn to frown.

"The black boy and the airy-fairy blonde. The ones who were just here. I've seen you with them in London. Now she looks like a witch, but I thought she was just an art student."

"Luna and Dean, and they are art students." She says, "I'm tired, and the story is tiresome. Anybody here could tell you…"

"So is he your boyfriend?"

Hermione's sharp intake of breath, and her hostile sigh, are audible from across the room. She narrows her eyes. "He?"

"Well, whichever of them. The little blond or the hefty one or the black one…"

"You remind me of Rita Skeeter, did you know that?" Hermione is plainly piqued and exhausted as well, because she's forgotten that Nigel Black would not understand that allusion nor the insult implied. "As it happens, Draco, your cousin, was on the other side, so I'd watch your step with him. His father tortured your kind for fun. Dean is a friend of mine, and as for Neville…" she walks up to the bed again, "Neville Longbottom is a good fifty times the man you are, and that's not counting magic into it. So if you were thinking to compete with him… don't. Because you can't win."

She turns on her heel and says to Andromeda, "I am exhausted and I would sell my soul for a good ten hours' sleep. So I'm going home now, before any devils show up to strike a bargain."

She stares very hard at Nigel, and then, in complete contravention of all standards of politeness (not to mention St. Mungo's visitor policy), takes out her wand, turns in a circle, and Disapparates with a crack that rattles the water glass on the nightstand.

Nigel stares at the empty space previously occupied by Hermione and then turns to Andromeda. "She was serious."

Andromeda nods. "Yes, Miss Granger has a reputation for being serious. If I were you, I would take her very much at her word."

ooo

So much for being finished by four o'clock in the afternoon, Andromeda thinks, as she looks outside to the mid-winter darkness. After consultation with Boudicca Derwent, it's been agreed that Nigel will be supervised at St. Mungo's during the time of next month's transformation, and will spend his recovery time at Grimmauld Place. Meanwhile, Mrs. Finch-Fletchley will be having a chat with the Muggle Minister, to be sure that he's properly informed in addition to what Kingsley will have to say in the line of duty.

Oh yes, and she was going to write her challenge to Molly Weasley today… well, between the Remus Lupin Foundation meetings and sitting with Draco through his penitential correspondence, and then reassuring Ron and Justin, her day has had a lot to do with parental duties. Not to mention Nigel Black, who's a problem of altogether another sort. He's nowhere near as awed by magic as he ought to be, and she's not sure if she's persuaded him to let go of his untoward fascination with Hermione.

Hermione said no to him, which Andromeda understands is not a familiar experience to him, and it seems to have bred an obsession altogether out of scale to his likelihood of success… or perhaps that's the point. She can't say that she understands the appeal of unrequited passion or difficult pursuit. Her fancy for Ted was not founded on such grounds, and for all her sisters insisted that it was the appeal of the exotic and the forbidden, it was precisely that he was so comfortable and willing and sweet.

Which reminds her… that at least she's done her duties to the dead, that toast at Eddie's last night, which seems years ago now.

Oh yes, and there's another visit with Eddie to arrange… before or after the indictments? She's tired as well, and it's time to go home.

ooo

Bill Weasley stops her in the hall, with a strange expression that shows even through his ruined features. "Madam Tonks," he says. "I just received the … oddest letter."

Not more things to sort out, she prays, to whatever deity or demiurge occupies itself with such petitions. "From whom?"

"Your nephew." He frowns, and proffers the roll of parchment.

Yes, it's Draco's letter; she recognizes the hand, whose calligraphic grace reminds her of Cissy. It would have been she who would have been his chief examplar in that... and in any case, he's proving himself more a son of the House of Black than of the icy House of Malfoy: there's actually blood in those veins, and the warmth of it shows even in the stiff phrases of his apology.

I cannot change what resulted from my actions on the night of Wednesday 4 June 1997, but I want you to know that I eternally regret their effect on you.

Bill blinks, and shakes his head, and says, "It's an apology, I think. Unconditional, too. I thought at first it might be some sort of ploy, but he says here that I'm not to show it to anyone connected with the trials. He knows he's going to get Azkaban and he doesn't want to be suspected of pleading for his life."

Andromeda smiles ruefully; that's very characteristic of the House of Black, that bloody-minded pridefulness, even if exercised in the best of causes.

ooo

There's never the straight line to the goal, either, for she has to double back to Longbottom House yet again to retrieve Teddy. Augusta Longbottom hasn't been in the company of a small child for many years now… well, Neville would have been the last such. She's not sure what she's going to find.

When she steps through the Floo, the kitchen is filled with unaccustomed laughter and Teddy's high-pitched shrieks. It isn't Augusta who's holding him, but Neville, who has him securely slung over one hip, and supported in the snug curve of his arm. It takes a minute for Andromeda to realize why it looks so familiar; it was Frank Sr. who held Neville the very same way… curious, because Neville can't have remembered it, but the pose is so perfectly reproduced that she'd swear it was Frank himself restored to life.

The shrieks are sounds of delight; in fact they have the characteristic quality of small child in the presence of water, which is puzzling at first until Andromeda spots the quivering transparent globes gliding through the air… the other party to the mischief is Draco, who's playing about with Aguamenti, staring at the stream of water from the wand-tip as if he'd never seen it before, while Neville weaves it into interesting shapes and sends it floating lazily across the empty air between them, bobbling and quivering and sparkling, to Teddy's immense amusement.

He's made a grab for a few of those balls of water, to judge from the sodden state of his sleeves.

Neville says, "Draco's having rather a good day," and she remembers what she's so careful to not mention that she forgets it from time to time—that he's had serious difficulties with ordinary magic.

Not Aguamenti, apparently, because the floor of the kitchen is already slick with water.

"That's quite enough," she says, Vanishing the puddles on the floor, and casting drying and warming charms on Teddy, and (now that she notices the state of his robes) Draco as well.

Whatever possessed you? This kitchen is in a disgraceful state. Don't you have the sense to tidy up after yourselves? Those words are almost out of her mouth, when she takes stock of the situation: Neville has been looking after Teddy, and Draco has been helping—well, after his fashion—and Teddy is looking sleepy, as if he's had quite enough fun and is looking forward to the more staid pleasures of sleep.

Exactly what she might have hoped, at the end of the rather too long New Year's Day that this has been.

She says, "Thank you for looking after him," and Neville smiles, and hands Teddy over to her. "Where is Hermione?"

"Asleep," Neville said. "I wouldn't let her go back to Grimmauld Place or Hogwarts, because she'll forget to sleep if there are books on premises." His expression is almost sly as he adds, "Gran made up a bed for her and some hot tea, with just the tiniest dash of Dreamless Sleep."

"Does she ever sleep?" Draco says.

Neville says, "Only if all of the work is done." He's joking, of course, but it's distinctly not funny; there's an edge in his voice. "And I thought she was on holiday from the Ministry." There's weariness and affection in that, and more than a little fear. "It's as if she can't sleep if there's something she hasn't finished, and she keeps finding one more thing."

Andromeda says to Draco, "Speaking of unfinished business… it does appear that Nigel Black is a relation of ours."

Draco frowns and says, "But he's a Muggle."

She shifts Teddy on her hip, as he settles into the dead sleep (and dead weight) of a well-exercised child. "Be that as it may, you have no shortage of cousins lately."

"Like mushrooms after a rain," he says, "they're popping up all over the countryside." He gives her that tentative smile, that reminds her so piquantly of Nymphadora—of Tonks. He doesn't need to add that he's met his youngest cousin and they've had a happy afternoon on their first acquaintance.

She says, "I'll see you both later," throws a somewhat damp handful of Floo powder into the fire, calls out "Grimmauld Place," and steps through the emerald flames to the place that is unexpectedly her home. Even as the other fires whirl by in the darkness, she thinks about the sleep in which she will indulge herself at long last. She hopes that this is not an omen for the coming year.

It's still New Year's Day when she arrives at Grimmauld Place, so she puts Teddy to bed and then seats herself at the ancient writing desk to draft the challenge to Molly Weasley. Odd how the cadences of the ritual demand flow without pause from her quill; it's the things learned in childhood that never leave, even on the dark threshold of sleep.

Her demand for satisfaction of honor under the Wizarding Code Duello is winging its way to the Burrow as she lies down to sleep, relieved that all of the day's tasks are finished. She understands Hermione's urge to finish everything before retiring… well, Hermione's everything is looking rather larger than what a mortal, magical or otherwise, should undertake.

ooo

Author's notes:

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know": Lady Caroline Lamb on Lord Byron.

Date for the Death Eater raid on Hogwarts, as cited in Draco's letter: Harry Potter Lexicon (hplexicon (dot) com). Not coincidentally, that night marks the legal end of Draco's minority, as given his canonical birth date (5 June 1980) he turned seventeen the next day.