Ted had Herbology this afternoon — and he didn't think he'd ever dreaded a class more in his life.
He hadn't dreaded a class this much when, two years ago, he had to give a Transfiguration demonstration in McGonagall's class that he was completely unprepared for. Nor when, in his Third Year, he had to sit next to Ada Davies in Defense Against the Dark Arts for the first time since he'd gotten sick on her the week prior, while assuring everyone that he definitely didn't have Dragon Pox. Not even when, last year, on his way to an Apparition lesson in the Great Hall, he'd learned that Gideon Prewett had splinched himself so badly that he'd temporarily lost an arm (an injury which, by the way, Frank had instantly responded to in the chaotic, immediate aftermath).
Ted wasn't sure how he would react, seeing Andromeda again. He still didn't have the heart to tell Frank what she'd written about him, so Benjy and Frank had just watched, baffled, while Ted had paced angrily around the common room last night, before going to bed early, kicking his four-poster bed so hard that he broke it, and angrily repairing it with a couple of charms before he settled in for a restless, sleepless night.
Then, over breakfast, Benjy had quietly told Ted that Andromeda was also mysteriously upset about something, according to Fey. Apparently Andromeda had spent most of the night crying, and Benjy asked if it was a coincidence, that the two of them were both in such terrible moods about something neither of them wanted to talk about.
Ted had said nothing in reply, staring gloomily at his untouched eggs. Against his better judgment, he'd chanced a glance over his shoulder at Andromeda, who was also picking half-heartedly at her food, her eyes slightly red.
He had probably been too harsh, telling her off like he had. But his guilt was also mingled with acute indignation. He was in the right. She was a vile person, who had done something vile. She wasn't sorry — she was just sorry she'd got caught. And, yes, she was inevitably humiliated over the disastrous kiss. But she didn't even want to fancy him! She'd said it was a "terrible idea," and why should he be made to feel sorry for someone who'd said she was "forced to go to school with his sort"?
So Ted wasn't sure whether he'd feel horribly guilty when he saw Andromeda in class, or — if it was clear that she was feeling sorry for herself — he would just start shouting at her again.
Ted wondered if Sprout would notice if he just skived off for the rest of the year.
He certainly took his time, on his way to the greenhouses. He was going to be late, and he was going to get a bollocking from Sprout. But at least that would force him to give all his attention to Sprout, and none to Andromeda. Which was why he was alarmed and surprised to see Andromeda, standing a few paces outside the greenhouses, five minutes after class had already begun.
Ted and Andromeda locked eyes, and he froze in place. Maybe he could just turn and run? It would be weird and awkward, but it was still preferable to encountering Andromeda Black alone today. But, to Ted's intense confusion and dread, she started walking rapidly toward him. In a moment of madness, he wondered if she was going to try to kiss him again. Was it still too late to run?
"I'm glad you're here," she said once she reached him. "I wasn't sure you'd come to class today."
"I'm still not sure it was the right decision." Ted eyed her warily, as she got dangerously close to him again. But she merely held out a roll of parchment.
"Please read this letter," she said. "After class, when we're not around each other anymore. But, once you're not around me anymore — please, read it immediately. As soon as you can."
"Er . . . alright . . . " Ted took it.
"You have to read it right away. Do you understand?"
He opened his mouth, confused, but she had already turned toward the greenhouses, and walked inside. Ted looked at the letter with a mixture of curiosity, dread and annoyance. Was it going to be filled with criticisms about how unpardonably mean he'd been to her? An opportunity for her to have the last word? He sighed and shoved it into his rucksack, and he opened the door to the greenhouses while Sprout was giving Andromeda an earful about tardiness.
After Sprout turned on Ted for just as long, he settled in his seat, looking appropriately contrite. He carefully avoided Andromeda's eyes for the whole of class, though he didn't pay much attention to Sprout's lecture for the next hour either. He kept having imaginary arguments with Andromeda in his head, about how a person doesn't get to be the victim when they're part of a crowd that advocates for literal genocide. When Sprout told them to open their textbooks, his eyes lingered on Andromeda's letter in his bag until Sprout barked at him to pay attention, and he he hastily flipped to page 185.
Class finally ended, and Andromeda left class about as fast as she'd left Ted behind with a murderous wood nymph in the Forbidden Forest not too long ago. Just to be safe, Ted lingered in class for a moment, then left just as Sprout looked like she was about to admonish him a bit more.
He took out the letter the moment he left the greenhouse, deciding that he would read as he walked. Andromeda's small, thin text had filled both sides of the parchment.
Dear Ted,
Don't be alarmed. I'm not going to repeat any more of the sentiments that rattled you so much yesterday. I have no intention of paining you, or embarrassing myself, any more than I already have. I wouldn't have even written to you, if I thought that I could live with you thinking what you think of me, but I can't. I'm sorry that I have to take up a little more of your time and attention, while I explain myself.
You accused me of three different things yesterday afternoon, all of which are true. But you're ignorant of some crucial context in all three situations, all of which is sensitive information. As a result, I've charmed this letter to burst into flames the moment you've finished reading it. Keeping copies of my letters is a habit I've had my whole life, but only now am I beginning to realise just how stupid that is these days. It's honestly spectacularly stupid of me to put all of this in writing at all, and the fact that I'm still doing it anyway speaks to the state I'm in right now.
The thing is — I should never be this open and honest with anyone, and that's at the heart of all the grievances I heard from you yesterday. Most importantly, no one can know that I have (had?) romantic feelings for a Muggle-born. In fact, your life depends on it. Lord Voldemort's movement is built on fear of death. There's a reason he calls them Death Eaters — their movement sprouts, swells and grows from death: the deaths of people who defy him, the deaths of people who try to live their lives in a way that he hates, the deaths of people who try to fight against him.
Yes, it's true — my family works very closely with Lord Voldemort. And if people found out that one of their daughters had fallen for a Muggle-born, what a perfect example they could make by killing him or his family. It would be an easy way to remind people — Purebloods and Muggle-borns alike — the price of co-existing, of befriending, of marrying each other.
As a result, I've hid my feelings from you, from others, and even myself in every way I can. Talking down to you in Herbology makes everyone think that I don't give a jot about you. I've worked so hard not to laugh at your jokes in class, not to smile at you in the corridors. I was terrified when Sprout paired us up together, because I knew how difficult it would be to keep up the facade. People couldn't see us together, because then, not only would they know that I wasn't snubbing you like my family says I ought to, but they'd also see how I smile at you too much and stare at you a little too long.
I know this is probably mortifying for you to read, but trust me — it's far more mortifying for me to write it. The only reason that I'm laying this out is so that you understand how crucial it is for you not to share with anyone that I tried to kiss you yesterday. Even now, you probably think that I just don't want to face the humiliation, but I truly hope you can understand that your life will be in danger if Lord Voldemort's supporters know how I feel about you. Even now, as I'm writing this, it sounds like an absolutely mental statement, but trust me. Muggle-born/Pureblood relationships are the biggest threat to the anti-Muggle-born movement, and the Death Eaters will do everything they can to demonstrate what happens to Purebloods who defy tradition and convention.
My stupid mistake yesterday was a moment of weakness on my part. It won't happen again. The last thing I want is to put you in that kind of danger.
So now, you probably understand why I've been trying — in vain, lately — to keep Fey and Benjy apart. However, it's not just for their safety. Fey's ties to Lord Voldemort's followers are just as close as my family's, and I believe she is a genuine supporter. While I pretend to be a supporter of all their rules and demands, Fey has gone in the opposite direction. I believe she's gotten so close to them, and they now trust her so much, that I'm extremely suspicious of any of her attempts to get close to people on the other side (possibly to get information). When I was younger, I went about scaring Benjy away the only effective way I knew how, without raising any suspicions about where my own loyalties lie. The fact that Fey has redoubled her efforts just as Benjy is about to leave school — and, as you may or may not know, become more involved with the Order — has only made me more wary. I could be wrong, but the consequences will be dire if I'm right.
Now, finally, let me address the grievance that's most important to you: my letter to my Uncle Orion about Frank.
I'm horrified that you found that letter, and I understand why you reacted the way you did when tried to kiss you yesterday. Of course you think there's something rotten and wrong with me. I'm ashamed to admit that I often speak that way when I'm around my relatives. As long as I parrot their opinions, their values, their way of putting people down, then they'll never suspect that I have ulterior motives for something like wanting Frank to stay away from St Mungo's.
I'm depressed to report that, like the Ministry, St Mungo's is under the control of the Death Eaters, at least in some ways. For at least the past several months, many Muggle-born deaths at the hospital have been preventable. The general public hasn't seemed to have picked up on this yet, but I've overheard my father speaking about this to his friends. The Healers simply aren't treating gravely injured Muggle-borns anymore — either due to threats, their own beliefs, or the Imperius Curse. Frank Longbottom is a talented Healer, and the last place he should go right now is there. If you ask me, the best thing he could do is work as a Healer for the Order.
So, there you are. This is a faithful narrative of every unfortunate event that concerns us. You may possibly wonder why I didn't tell you all this yesterday, but I wasn't yet sure what could or ought to be revealed. To be honest, it probably would've been best if I didn't reveal any of this at all.
Now that I have your memory from the Forbidden Forest, I can finish the rest of the project on my own. If you have any questions about the project, but you don't want to speak to me anymore, you can feel free to write to me. If you do, just don't mention any of these secrets that I shared with you here, because I assume your letters won't do this.
Ted yelped, caught by surprise, as the letter burst into flames just as he finished reading the last sentence. He winced, examining one of his burned fingers, and he glanced at his watch as he did so.
The time was four o'clock. He'd long stopped walking, and he'd been so engrossed in the letter that he had simply been standing in the middle of the Hogwarts grounds, reading. He'd completely missed Potions, and the sun had already set.
Ted shoved his hands in his pockets, staring up at the darkening sky, while he reflected, brooded, and felt — as Andromeda put it, in the beginning of her letter — spectacularly stupid.