"Dumbledore is reconvening the Order."

Ted looked up from the lathe at this best friend. Kingsley's hands were in his pockets, and he was leaning against the workbench.

"It's an overreaction, Kings. He lets Harry Potter's situation get to him - especially ever since Harry's story about the Tri-Wizard tournament."

"There was an attack on a muggle neighborhood northwest of here yesterday."

It was not a good feeling that sunk into Ted's chest, but denial still seemed like the best option. "A common crazed radical going on a muggle killing spree is awful, Kings, but it's not anywhere close to the full-scale attacks that happened before he was killed."

Kingsley sighed and looked at the ceiling and floor and back again before locking his gaze on the other man. "I was there, Ted."

The carpenter drummed his fingers on the lathe, waiting for his friend to continue. His best option was beginning to seem like it was no longer an option.

"The Lestranges were there. All of them. And Rowle. Dolohov."

Ted's shoulders stiffened. "That's not possible."

"Apparently security was breached in Azkaban eight days ago. They didn't tell us 'til this morning."

"Eight days ago?" Ted rubbed the back of his hand across his stubble. Kingsley nodded grimly. Ted snagged a rag to wipe stray grease from his hands. "Still, it surely it couldn't be them. Over a decade in Azkaban would leave them rotting. The guards don't even last that long."

"That's the thing – they were so…. strong. And they looked just like I remember them. Like they haven't aged a bit."

"So it's someone else. Using some sort of aged Polyjuice or some new spell or something.

"Ted, Bellatrix waltzed straight through a blaze of spells, snatched one of my aurors' wands right out of his hand, and crucio'd him with it until she disapparated when our woven phalanx spell broke over her. No one impersonating her could pull off that stunt the way she did."

Ted finally met his friends' eyes. "So you think it's really happening."

"I know it is. The Order is meeting tonight."

"Seriously? Don't you remember what happened last time? If the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord are really back, you're giving yourselves a death sentence."

"It's the right thing to do."

Ted shook his head at his friend's words. "What're you here for?"

Kingsley took a deep breath. "To ask if you and Andromeda will join us."

Ted closed his eyes. "You know what she thinks about the Order."

"But maybe things have changed for her. She's pretty different now."

"Not in that way."

"Having her could change everything for us, Ted."

"She won't do it, and I won't ask her."

"You, then."

"I can't do that to her."

Kingsley spat on the ground. His spittle globbed up in the sawdust. "You know, man? I've always liked Andromeda – even when she was rather disreputable. But she's rubbed off on you in the wrong ways." Ted shifted his jaw and straightened his spine. That he said nothing irked Kingsley, so the auror barreled ahead. "It's people who don't step up who are going to fuck it all up; people who think they don't have to choose a side. You didn't use to be like that."

Ted shook his head again. "You know I'll fight alongside you - if it comes to it. But that's totally different than provoking the beast."

"The beast is already provoked! Are you and Andromeda really going to just stand by while others die for you?"

"I already told you what I'll do. And she's done enough."

"Enough? She's done as little as she could get away with. After all these years, she still can't commit to the Good side. It's time for her to pull her weight."

"She's not going to fight against her family. You know that."

"She's not going to fight against Bellatrix, you mean. Peculiar, those two." Kingsley eyed his friend, waiting for a reaction. Ted didn't give him one. "Bellatrix holds Andromeda back, and Andromeda holds you back. Shameful, isn't it? To stand by and watch the world burn."

Ted erupted, at least as much as his calm spirit could. "If the Dark Lord wins, then muggles and muggleborns – especially those who fought against him – are going to get destroyed. But if the Order wins, the Death Eaters and the old pureblood families are going to get destroyed. A whole bunch of people are going to be fucked either way. But the whole wizarding world isn't going to burn down in either case. And that's because of the people in the middle who keep living their lives despite whatever comes next." Kingsley furrowed his brow. "And, Kings, it's Andromeda and what she's doing that's going to make that possible. Her only goal has always been to heal people, to help them keep living, and that is what's going to keep our world going. So leave her alone, because you and the Order and the Good side don't have a wizarding world to save without what she's doing."

Kingsley chewed on the inside of his cheek, considering his friend's perspective. "I hadn't thought about it that way," he said finally.

"You're good, man, and I love you to death. Just don't forget that not everyone can be like you."

The auror puffed out his cheeks and nodded reluctantly. "Your daughter is already asking to join the Order."

Ted shook his head. "Don't let her – at least not yet. Her mother will have a cow and will probably actually try to kill me over it."

"Merlin, you lot are a riot." The men both grinned at the easing tension. "I think your greatest vice was marrying into that family."

"That's probably true."

Despite everything, Kingsley let himself chuckle before turning to leave. "Please let me know if you change your mind.

Ted let his friend get to the door before he called out, "Be careful, Kings."

Ted had trouble concentrating on his work the rest of the day, plagued with thoughts about Death Eaters, the fucking Ministry, his wife, his daughter, his friends, and everything related to them. He was especially not looking forward to Andromeda finding out about the Azkaban breakout and fretted over how to deliver the news to her. After a few unproductive hours, he decided to call it quits early and head home.

He could hear water running in the kitchen as soon as he stepped from the floo into the house. He drew a couple deep breaths before heading towards the sound, deciding that now was as good a time as any to break the news. Just before he rounded the corner to the dining room, however, a heavy flapping came from the front of the house and he turned just in time to duck a belligerent owl that had squeezed in through the partially open window.

"Ted?" His wife's voice called from over the sound of the running water. "Is that you? Oh!"

He didn't bother explaining the owl, because once he wound his way around the table and chairs and placed his hand on the doorframe to peer into the kitchen, Andromeda was untying a small letter from its leg. It soared back past him – he had to dodge it again - and presumably back out of the house the way it came.

"Did this come with you?" She brushed behind her ear a stray, wavy lock that had fallen out of the clip that held her hair out of her face.

He shook his head, a little bit disgruntled about being derailed from his goal. "Kind of odd that it came in through the front window, though. Not the back, like usual."

Andromeda stared at the top fold of the parchment before furrowing her brow. The sink was almost full, but she made no move to shut off the faucet while she turned the letter over in her hands. "Andromeda Black Tonks…? No one's called me that in years."

The water lapped at the top edges of the sink, and Ted knew – he knew – he wanted to delay whatever was coming next. "Andy, maybe not right now?"

But she was opening it and reading it. Her eyes widened and mouth dropped open in surprise in a way that would have been attractive in any other circumstance, but Ted knew better. The sink overflowed. Andromeda leaned forward to brace herself on either side of the sink, letter clutched in her left hand, and still made no move to turn off the faucet.

"Andy?" Worry clumped in his throat. The water pouring down the cabinets onto the floor was sparkling and beginning to turn pink.

"I've been doing well, haven't I, Ted?" Her gaze fixed on a spot somewhere beyond the counter; her lower lip trembled.

His heart plummeted at that old anxiety rising in her voice as he prepared to deal with something he hadn't in years. "Andy?" The water pooling on the kitchen floor was now swirling with bright silver and red.

"I was doing so well."

He gently approached her, turned her quivering hand upward, and uncurled her fingers to release the letter. He looked at her for permission to read it. When she didn't protest, he flattened the parchment and immediately recognized the graceful, looping cursive.

I'm out, baby girl. Are you coming to get me?

-Bella-

The house began to tremble, and it was never truly still again – not until Penelope Fawley found Andromeda dead in the hallway all those years later.

"…and?"

"And what?" The storyteller prompts the woman across from him. Now that it is fully nighttime, their long shadows in the streetlights have replaced the that of the nearby steeple.

"That's not the end."

"Well, no."

The asker looks at him expectantly as he discerns what to give her. He starts to speak again.

"Truthfully, Andromeda did manage well enough after that, outside of a few instances where her darkness flexed itself violently. Even when her husband and daughter died, even when Bellatrix waltzed back into her life, even when the Black family empire rose again, and even when Bellatrix and Hermione Granger fell in love, she maintained steadiness and sturdiness that her younger self would have killed to have. Ted was the only one who had articulated her core question, and since he kept it to himself, it died with him at the Battle of Hogwarts: Did it matter that Andromeda was fundamentally a dark witch if in fact it was she that kept alive the Light? Her sisters, though they didn't know the question, were the only other ones besides Ted who had its answer, so after Death took Narcissa, there was no one left to give witness to it."

The storyteller stops again, but the asker doesn't look satisfied. She says, "That's not really the end."

"Well, no, of course not. We're sitting in front of St. Andrea's Catholic Church."

"You're trying to tell me that the Roman Catholic Church sainted a witch – an arrogant, dark witch who was in love with her own sister."

"I don't think it happened so directly. Beatification and canonization take a long time – long enough for stories and miracles to change enough to obscure certain facts. But, yes, that is essentially what happened."

The asker is the one who sighs this time. "It is easier for me to accept the story about the 'Boy Who Lived and the Dark Lord'."

"The Dark Lord." The storyteller chuckles and stretches his hands behind his head.

"What?"

"You call him the Dark Lord. Most people would call him Voldemort."

"I guess I just got used to you saying it in the story."

"That's because that's what Andromeda called him."

"Where did you find all this out anyway?"

"Dark corners of libraries and the old wizarding museum and that weird district between Diagon and Knockturn Alleys. And some other places."

"Be more specific. I'm not going to believe it unless there are credible sources."

The storyteller gives her a sad smile. "More evidence isn't going to make you believe it. You have the stories, you've been to the museum, you've walked up and down Tonks Streets in London, Moscow, and New York, you lurk by this church, the invitation to the Northern University of Witchcraft and Wizardry that's in the old Black Manor is sitting on your kitchen table. If you won't believe it now, more evidence is not going to convince you."

The asker looks as if she will try to argue with this, but she fails. "Why is it so important?"

"Are you asking yourself or me?"

A frustrated growl leaves the asker's lips as she rubs her face. "Honestly? If I'm going to enter the Wizarding World, I want to know I'm not in danger of becoming a dark witch."

The storyteller's grey-blue eyes soften at the woman's sudden candor. "Perhaps you're just as in danger of becoming a good witch."

The asker's cheeks puff out as she exhales through pursed lips, almost glowering at the man across from her. "And you? Why did you go through all the effort to unearth her story? Her legend?"

He honors his candor with his own. "Because those of us who want to be good must tell each other stories of the truly good."

"But she's not good! Almost nothing you told me today is about her being good – quite the opposite."

"It's not about being."

"Then what's it about?"

"It's about the loving – loving goodness. And no one in the history of Wizarding Britain has loved goodness as much as Andromeda Tonks. No matter what she was. No matter what she is."

"She didn't love goodness! She hated the Order of the Phoenix!"

The storyteller lets out a frustrated sigh. "Not capital 'G' Goodness, not the ideal of Goodness. You know what I mean."

The asker doesn't back down just yet. "And you can't tell me – if we are on the subject of wizarding legends – that Harry Potter didn't love Goodness more than she did. He's practically the most traditionally good, flat character that has ever existed in any story ever; it's almost nauseating."

"Harry Potter didn't have to give up anything to love goodness."

"His parents were killed by the Dark Lord."

"Before he knew what goodness and darkness were. Andromeda lost everything because she wanted goodness more than she wanted darkness."

"And again here we are pitting Good and Bad against one another."

"Not exactly. If you recall, right before the end it was Hermione that helped her finally see that her goodness could love her darkness too. That's what Bellatrix had unsuccessfully tried forever to show her."

"Did she actually see that, though?"

"I believe that she did."

"But it gained her nothing in the end anyway. She died alone and unceremoniously."

"So what?"

"Because inspiring stories about great people don't end like that. They end with fanfare and glory – or at least a wonderful tragedy – if you actually want them to have an effect on people."

"But if it's a true story then it's exactly what you should expect. And it's what you should tell if you're going to do her justice. It makes her life and her memory no less great. I think you need to interrogate yourself as to why you have such a problem with it."

"Because it's not fair! She deserved more than that!"

"Deserving is nothing."

The asker blinks slowly, thinking hard. "You've said that before."

"Nope, that was Hermione Granger. But it's true. Let her greatness and her averageness coexist. She wanted that. Let her at least have that."

The asker purses her lips again in crumbling resolve. She reluctantly pulls a deeply mahogany wand from her pocket and, with her wrists on the table, rolls it back and forth gently in her fingertips. She presses her tongue to the roof her mouth. The storyteller can see her quiver with the kelpie hair core, and he wishes mightily that for just once he could see magic in color like the witches and wizards of old.

Their evening ends when the streetlight flickers out. They part ways with a smile and nod – the asker to her precious fears and the storyteller to the hopes he tends, all overhung by that grand, grand wickedness.

a/n

If the storyteller/asker bit at the end confuses you, go back and check the edits I made to chapter 1.

The quote about those who want to be good telling each other stories of the truly good is borrowed from Araminta Stone Johnson in "And One Was a Priest: The Life and Times of Duncan M. Gray, Jr."

If you've gotten this far, thanks and congrats. Take care out there.

**never have i ever owned or made money from anything as wonderful as the harry potter world. i'm just playing in it.**