EDITED: June 19th, 2021.

08 - Andromeda

January 15th, 1979. Barton Residence.

Of all the people she'd imagined at her door, Andromeda Black didn't cross Cassiopeia's mind. The Marauders, her brother, or Lily Potter perhaps, but not Cousin Andromeda. And it was such a strange thing, such a surprise, that she let her in without a word.

"Cousin," she greeted after closing the door. "What a surprise. I wasn't expecting you."

Andromeda took off her cloak, revealing light curly hair and a kind smile.

"After almost five years of silence, I suppose not." Her dark eyes wandered around her home, making Cassiopeia shift uncomfortably. No one close to her had visited before, not even Sirius. Only those Alec trusted had come, and Cassiopeia had not minded. But now, having someone from her own family scrutinizing the decor, it made her wish she'd bothered to straighten the picture frames going upward.

"Indeed. It makes one wonder..."

"Yes, of course." Andromeda turned. She was no longer smiling. "I came because of Regulus. I wanted... well, I wanted to offer my sincerest condolences." She swallowed. Her eyes were bright, but no tears fell.

On the other hand, Cassiopeia's eyes were all but dry. Three days of crying would do that to anyone after all.

"Thank you," Cassiopeia mumbled.

"And Sirius?"

"He hasn't come." Silly that it was this that brought a lump to her throat. "You're the first to..." —to come, to care, to remember Regulus—"You're the first."

"What happened to him?"

Cassiopeia was already shaking her head. "I don't know," she admitted, and her voice faded to a slight whine. "Kreacher just... appeared and said he was gone. He wouldn't—he couldn't tell me anything else."

The hurt of that night, when she discovered her brother had been missing for weeks and no one had noticed, came back with the same violence as then. Her heart ached for Regulus; her mind raged against Sirius' indifference. And the rest of the time she despaired, for Regulus had chosen to not trust her after all. Instead, he took comfort in his secrets, and now, now he was gone, gone forever, and she didn't know where his body was, if he'd died peacefully or murdered because of his allegiances and Sirius hadn't answered back when she told him through a Patronus, Sirius didn't care about them anymore—

Andromeda drew her into her arms. Cassiopeia clutched at her, fighting against the sudden wave of frustration that overwhelmed her.

"It will pass," said Andromeda, running a hand down her hair gently. "It will pass. You will move forward, I promise. This will pass."

She didn't say everything would be all right. And Cassiopeia was so glad her cousin didn't because it would be a lie.

She was so, so tired of lies.

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

August 12th, 1993. Diagon Alley.

The following day was terrible. Not only did I wake up with a headache, but the date to the Menagerie also ended on a horrible note.

It started with Tom the Bartender knocking around midday to tell me he was able to settle an appointment with the saleswoman from the Magical Menagerie. In the Wizarding World, there was no true word for a veterinary—the closest term was magizoologist, and that was only because Newt Scamander, the author of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, had taken the liberty of single-handedly rescuing creatures in danger of extinction and later raising them as if they were his children.

The Magical Menagerie in Diagon Alley was not unlike a pet store. On the outside, a dozen cages hung, all with different types of owls and other animals.

The inside... was a mess. And this was me being kind because the moment I saw the disaster, my first thought was to evacuate ASAP.

Alas, Harry was standing behind me. I stepped on his foot and with a small shout, he shoved me inside. I stumbled and Otto shrieked, flapping his wings and slapping me on the face. He took off from my shoulder to the nearest bird feeder pole and threw us the nastiest of glares an owl could give.

While the witch cleaned up space, Harry and I had to plaster to the only free wall, a small blessing amidst the cages and tanks full of cats, newts, reptiles encrusted with jewels and ravens whose eyes shone blue. If we so much as moved an inch, one of the birds would peck us.

"Right," said the witch loudly, slapping her hands at her hips. With dungarees and a plaid blouse, she looked every bit like a farmer. "What's your problem, kids?"

Harry nudged me. Ah, right. I was staring. I definitely needed to stop doing that.

"It's my owl. He hasn't been eating well since—I think it's been a week already? And he looks sort of depressed."

"Bring him to the counter." I made a gesture to Otto and he landed neatly on the counter. The witch pulled out a pair of heavy black spectacles. Then she put on a pair of gloves that, while like latex, looked very much made of leather. "Depressed, you say? Any sudden change in his environment?"

"Environment?" I repeated baffled. "What's that got to do with him?"

"Any creature is sensitive to its surroundings. Magical creatures can pick up the craziest things. Sometimes, they even mimic their owner's current emotional state. So maybe the question is, what's the problem with you, miss?" She looked up, her eyes dancing with mirth.

I didn't feel like laughing.

"He's old," Harry cut in. He looked irritated. "He was around the time of our parents. Could that be the reason?"

The witch's gaze shot to him. "Hmm. You're Harry Potter." Harry tensed. "Your parents, you say? That'd be twenty years, then." She pressed a finger to one of her lenses. Two more lenses appeared over it, each one smaller than the previous one. It was, I realized, a different model of a magnifying glass.

She turned Otto with her hands, prodding over his wings, his stomach, his head. Then she made him spread his wings, which were just as long as my arms. She did all this while humming, and then, without diverting her gaze from the owl, took out her wand and pointed it at the ceiling.

She did not open her mouth. Regardless, a spell shot from her wand and hit—no. I hadn't focused or bothered to look at the ceiling, so I thought it was simply painted black. But the spell did not hit wood; it kept going forward, illuminating the endless pitch of darkness, until it finally stopped. A blue dot of light hovered there, waiting.

"All right, honey," said the witch, crouching close to Otto so that they were looking into each other's eyes. "See that light? You're gonna fly there and come back twice." She snapped her fingers. A pocket watch appeared out of thin air and fell into her waiting hand. "Ready? Go!"

Otto shook his wings and jumped. He did exactly as the witch ordered: he flew straight to that ball of light and just before reaching it, he dived and made a turn. I'd seen many owls do that before, including him, but there was something wrong this time. It wasn't smooth or remotely impressive the way his body fell slightly as if it were a car going through bumps in the road. I was genuinely scared he would fall and break his neck on the floor.

"That doesn't look good," Harry said.

"It isn't," the witch confirmed grimly. She offered her hand and Otto landed on her wrist. It was obvious the exercise, though light for any young owl, had winded him. The witch helped him get onto the table. Then she disappeared from view and reappeared just as quickly, holding, of all things, a small, rolled parchment.

She held it next to Otto. The parchment unrolled slowly, glowing, but the glow's colour changed violently.

"I've seen this before," Harry said suddenly. "But... isn't it supposed to look like a clock?"

"Good eye, Mr. Potter. We call it the Health Report Device. Yes, it's a recent term. Healers and alike use it to draw a general account of the subject's health. Mine is an old model, as you may have guessed, but it has never failed me." She sighed. "You have gone through a lot, haven't you, my dear?" She swung the parchment like a yo-yo, and it rolled itself up to her palm. "I don't have good news."

"I figured," I said wryly. The need to joke died when the witch took off her glasses and looked me in the eye.

"Otto's life thread is running out."

"Life thread? Like the Fates?" In Greek mythology, the Fates were three goddesses who oversaw life and death. It was believed that every living being had a "thread of life" and the goddesses were the ones to spin it, measure it, and cut it—the course of life.

"Not exactly. Every living being's length of life can be measured. Of course, no one is immortal. But when one is nearing their end, it becomes easier to tell how long they have left to live."

Left to live? "Are you insinuating there's nothing left to do? What about a potion?"

The witch's gaze grew cold. "To prolong one's suffering is cruel. Let this creature live the rest of its days in peace. It deserves it."

I wanted to argue, to demand she gave me something or else—

But Harry said, "Thank you for your help," and took my hand. Otto perched himself over my shoulder as Harry gathered the cage, and the three of us left the store in silence.

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

Anya was sombre the next couple of days. Harry tried his best to distract her: he took her from shop to shop, carried her bags for her even if they were just as light as she proclaimed, and made sure they had their fill of ice cream at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. And while she did crack a smile occasionally, her face would often turn guilty, and she was back to brooding.

Harry wanted to enjoy his summer away from the Dursleys. He wanted to spend it with Anya, to see the light in her eyes whenever they saw a new show of magic. He wanted to go to Quality Quidditch Supplies to gaze at the Firebolt, the newest broom in the market. But more than that, he wanted to speak about Riddle.

Tom Riddle, who was Voldemort. Voldemort, who killed his parents... and apparently, Anya's mother as well. But Harry didn't know where to start—at worst, he didn't feel the right to do so, even if that wasn't true. Sometimes, he wondered if the conversation needed to happen because of him or for Anya's peace of mind. And so he let it slip, watching in concern as Anya sunk deep into depression—

Until one clear morning over breakfast, she told him she had to meet someone.

Scowling at his bewilderment, she said, "You really didn't read my letter, did you?"

Harry grimaced. No, he hadn't. He'd been so angry at her that he'd thrown it in his drawer and forgotten about it.

"I'm meeting with Andromeda Tonks. She's a relative of my mother's." Her eye twitched. "Her maiden name used to be Black, too."

As if someone had called for them, both turned to look at the poster behind Harry. The one that depicted Sirius Black and its offer to bring him alive or dead to magical authorities.

"I'm starting to think you're the only one in your family who doesn't want me dead," Harry mused.

"Shut up," Anya grumbled.

"Why do you want to meet her, anyway?"

"Well, Harry, there are two reasons for that: one of them involves me growing up in an orphanage, the other... no, you know what, it definitely has to do with that." She stabbed her eggs violently. "Just how many aunts will I end up having that I didn't know about? Who's to say Alec Barton's death wasn't a—a propaganda thing and he's alive?"

"You can't be serious."

"As a heart attack," she hissed, then swallowed a forkful of sausage.

Well. Harry wasn't above feeling cheerful that Anya was no longer sad, so he allowed himself a smile and took a bite from his scone.

Then it occurred to him that Anya being angry wasn't a good thing at all. The last time she'd been, a storm had overwhelmed Little Whinging for days. According to Marie, Anya had also forced an earthquake of small magnitude. And not to forget that on normal days, Anya preferred violence over negotiation. One could only guess what she would do if Andromeda Tonks said the wrong thing.

"Can I be there?" he blurted out.

Anya blinked at him. "Whatever for?"

"I'll be your backup," he replied flustered.

She looked unimpressed. "No, you want to make sure I don't blow something up," she countered shrewdly. Her shoulders slumped. "And you're right. I'll probably blow her up. And not the way you did it." Her lips twitched.

It figured his accidental misfortunes would cheer her up.

"Okay," she said, and they both left for another tour of Diagon Alley.

Harry counted the days down for that meeting. First, he finished his homework on time. Then, he wrote letters to Ron and Hermione, telling them of their whereabouts and their activities. And when he saw an opportunity, he pestered Anya with the usual did you eat? Did you feed Otto? Let's go and watch the Firebolt, yes, again!

He woke up early on the day of the meeting. Not wanting to bother Anya, he went downstairs, trying to walk past the cleaning lady before she could spot him a beg him for an autograph again—

But in doing so, he nearly collided with Anya.

"Whoa! Gotcha!" She slammed against the wall, her arms pushing him to the wall across her. The passage was so narrow they were barely a meter apart. "What's the rush?"

"You're up early," Harry said, and immediately felt stupid. Anya rose just as early as Hermione did, sometimes even before light dawned. On the other hand, he and Ron battled their way out of the dreamworld, grumbling and dancing half-blinded their way down to the Great Hall until food appeared before them. Only then would they wake, and that, too, was half-hearted.

Anya made her eyes widen as she gestured dramatically at him.

"And so are you! This is certainly newsworthy, Mr. Potter, care to comment?"

She shoved up a book under his nose and he went cross-eyed. It was turquoise and the cover featured a gigantic black dog, one as big as a bear. It was shrouded in shadows but the lighting of the moon behind it made its dark eyes glow.

Harry recognized the book at once. He plucked it out of her hand, ignoring her indignant hey!

"I can't believe you bought this!" he exclaimed.

"Oh, come on, it isn't that bad!"

"'Dead Omens',"he read aloud, "'What to Do When You Know the Worst Is Coming'."

She snatched it back. "I'm light reading. Besides, we took Divination, didn't we? The topic's bound to come up at some point."

"I'm starting to regret that decision," he griped.

"Shouldn't have left it to chance then." She polished the cover with her sleeve as if to erase any fingerprint he could have left.

"You did the same!"

"Yeah," Anya lowered her voice, "but I was being possessed by a youthful manifestation of my megalomaniac grandfather. What's your excuse?"

He flushed. "Hermione was pestering me, all right?"

She snorted. "Right. Let's go down, I've been starving for about an hour. You sleep like a log, by the way, I knocked on your door three times and you never answered..."

•••••◘◘◘◘•••••

Andromeda Tonks née Black had strongly suggested we met anywhere but the Leaky Cauldron. I assumed it was because the place was public and full of gossipers who would run to the nearest Daily Prophet reporter at the first chance. But I had a plan—one that I explained to Harry hastily.

It would have been easier to come to the Leaky Cauldron on this same day. But I didn't want Tonks anywhere near the orphanage. Nor did I want her to have an advantage over me. So, I chose a place that she was familiar with... and decided to arrive earlier to have an idea of the layout.

Harry looked like wanted to be impressed. His disbelief at my scheming won out though.

"Please tell me you're not gonna fight her."

I sighed. "I'm not going to fight her. I'm not going to hurt her. I just wanted to make sure..." I trailed off. "I wanted to feel comfortable."

Harry took one good look around us. His eyes lingered on the grimy windows, the mold on the walls, and the moth-eaten tables. Then he peered at me sceptically.

I remained stubborn. Yeah, the place was in terrible conditions, but I had every single piece of furniture accounted for. Fight or no fight, I felt relatively safe.

Lightning flashed outside our window. It began to pour.

"That wasn't me," I stated firmly.

"No, it's just London being an arse," Harry offered.

Somewhere, a bird began to hoot. It was the bar's clock announcing the time—it had struck six.

At the same time, Tom rushed around the counter and toward the back door. He opened it, revealing a decidedly feminine silhouette. The woman held an umbrella of sorts, one that faded the moment she stepped inside the Leaky Cauldron with a flick of her wand.

I... tried to not stare. Harry, who was not subtle at all, did stare.

"Is it just me or...?"

I shook my head slightly. "Well, if I had any doubts we were distant cousins..."

If we hadn't been expecting Andromeda Tonks, I'd like to think we would have known something was wrong at first glance. Because if I ever wondered how would I look when I was old, the answer was right before me.

I mean, I knew how I looked. I was tall for my age, had long light hair that curled at the ends, my skin was tan, and my eyes were hazel (Mrs. Darcy once told me I had heterochromia iridum). The details escaped me, but if I wanted to find any, all I had to do was peer at Mrs. Tonks.

Where I was light, she was dark. Where I was dark, she was light. Other than that, we were nearly identical from afar.

She swept the bar with a glance; her eyes settled on our table. Her face was void of emotions at first, but then she found Harry. The barest of scowls came to her mouth.

"I didn't think that was a family trait," Harry whispered. "She scowls the same way you do."

I fought a scowl valiantly. I settled on glowering.

"When you said you wished to meet with me, I did not think we would have an audience," were Andromeda Tonks' first words. Standing so close, I could see we weren't clones of each other, thank the Lord. We had the same face shape and hooded eyes, but hers were rounder and so dark they were nearly black. Going outward, our features differed in many ways.

"He's my caretaker," I quipped. "He makes sure I remember to listen first."

Her brow rose sceptically. "A Black admitting they need aid. Times have profoundly changed."

My response was automatic. "I'm not a Black."

"No," she mused. "I suppose you aren't. Look at me—it's been more than twenty years since I had any contact with my family, and yet, I still struggle to trust my husband this... implicitly." She eyed Harry. "Why so quiet, Mr. Potter? You do not have anything to add?"

"It's like Anya said," Harry asserted innocently. "I'm just here to watch." And to whip out his wand at the first sign of trouble but she did not need to know that. Or maybe she'd already guessed.

Mrs. Tonks sighed. "Children." She waved her wand. A chair from a table far away floated our way. It was the only one from the establishment that didn't seem like it would break at first wind.

The way she was dressed—covered in black from head to toes with a matching pair of leather gloves—reminded me of Natasha.

I took a deep breath.

"Mrs. Tonks, I'd like to thank you for agreeing to this meeting. But I can't help but wonder... why?"

Mrs. Tonks laced her fingers together. "No."

"No?"

"You're not asking the right questions." She leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowing. "Come, child, don't hold back. I have known Natasha Rosenberg long enough to know her proclivity towards omitting the truth. It is to be admired when not used against oneself."

"So you're saying I'm free to not hold back," I verified.

She waved a hand. "Be as candid as you wish. I have nothing to hide."

Harry and I shared a look.

Fine, if she wanted it that way... "Why wasn't I placed in your custody?"

She hummed. "It was a lot of factors. My husband and I weren't the first options when your parents drew the papers of your possible legal guardians. Then again, I do not believe they'd ever thought most of their close friends would be murdered in such a short time. There was also the matter of your dual citizenship; I swear, if the MACUSA and the Ministry hadn't been butting heads before, your case certainly brought them to conflict. In the end, I'm unsure of the decision they reached... Natasha had resurfaced by then. She took you with her and assured me you were in safe hands."

"I was," I agreed. "The people who took me in were kind to provide me with food, clothes, and a roof. But in the end, she dropped me at a stranger's doorstep, and when she came back, she did as a stranger herself, going back and forth as she pleased. I didn't deserve that."

Andromeda nodded. "You didn't. I can assure you, Anya... if we'd been aware of her plans, you wouldn't have grown up alone. And if not us, there would have been plenty of families who would've taken you in a heartbeat."

"Then why?" Harry burst out, leaning forward. His eyes flashed. "Why drop her at an orphanage? Why come back later and keep lying? It doesn't make sense!"

Andromeda sneered at him. "I never said I agreed, let alone understood her methods, Mr. Potter. What's done is done."

Harry glowered, but kept his mouth shut. I made a note to not argue the next time he took me to see his beloved Firebolt.

I took out my notepad. Harry had won a package of them two days before when he successfully knocked down a pair of moving pins at Fortescue's. He gave me half of them when I covered his window with rows and rows of notes. It was a poor substitute for a journal, but it helped me keep my thoughts in check.

This pad was a pale yellow, and the first page showcased all the points I wanted answers for. With my wand, I crossed out fosterage.

Then I inquired after the easiest point. One Harry and I were dying to know.

"Am I related to Sirius Black?"

Andromeda sighed and closed her eyes. She stayed like that for a minute, her chest barely rising.

"Natasha truly didn't tell you anything, did she?"

"Everything I have found out has been by chance," I said quietly. "But it can't go on like this. One day, when it matters the most, my ignorance will have me and my friends killed. I can't allow that."

I didn't have to imagine this scenario: I had already lived it twice. Back when we went after the Philosopher's Stone, the first time I ever met Voldemort. And then when I decided to trust Tom Riddle. Both times my name had influenced the outcome.

I couldn't afford to not take this gamble. Natasha had pushed my father way off-limits, but if I could know about my mother...

My heart ached to know. To have, at last, a piece that would confirm that Cassie Barton—no, Cassiopeia Black—had lived once.

Mrs. Tonks's eyes flickered in Harry's direction.

"How much do you trust him?"

"With my life."

Harry's eyes swung from her to me, stunned.

"And you?" Andromeda asked him. "Why do you trust her?"

He licked his lips.

"Because she told me we were stuck together to the very end. And she hasn't taken it back."

My mouth turned dry. But Mrs. Tonks waved her wand around us, a faint slimmer shifting into existence and closing us from the other customers. A shield of sorts.

"What I say here cannot be repeated. I mean it, Anya. If people were to know, you'd become a pariah—the Wizarding World will despise you. And no name will be able to protect you."

All my fears confirmed in a few sentences. But whatever she was going to say couldn't certainly compare to the horrible secret Harry and I kept.

"First, let me state a few facts: Sirius was a good man. He would have died for any of his friends. But he was loyal to a fault: He was loyal to the friends who accepted him but not to the family that abandoned him. I... do not know what happened. The War was a turbulent time. We barely had any contact... on the other hand, I kept watch on his sister."

She inhaled through her nose. "Her name was Cassiopeia Vega Black, and she was born on November 3rd of 1959, three hours before the scion of House Black made an appearance. Because of her gender, her importance was... lesser. Insignificant than that of her twin brother, who would pass on the name one day.

"But Cassiopeia and Sirius loved each other fiercely. They would have died for the other... or so I thought. Nothing, however, is set in stone. Even now, I have doubts about what truly happened to them all those years ago."

Part of me had deflated during her little speech. But the last part I could answer to.

"Cassie Barton died the same night as the Potters."

Andromeda's brow rose. Her way of showing surprise.

"And you know this because...?"

"Because her murderer boasted how easy it was to kill her."

Andromeda's eyes darted between Harry and me. I saw the cogs in her head turn as the facts clicked; eyes shiny, she lowered her head, and a slight slump came to her shoulders.

"Ah. So it was true. The Dark Lord killed her because she allied with the Potters."

"She died because she wanted to protect her friends," I remarked through gritted teeth. "It was commendable."

"And stupid. So, so stupid. So unlike Cassiopeia—she should not have gone like that, not after everything she went through." My aunt's jaw clenched. "Why did she have to act like Sirius in the end? That was not like her: she detested that childish trait of his, always gripped him for rushing ahead instead of thinking first."

We had no words for that. Or perhaps Harry did, but he bit his tongue. And I could almost imagine what he wanted to say: what's wrong to die for your friends?

And Mrs. Tonks' possible answer to that? That wasn't the only way.

"What was she like?" Harry asked finally.

Andromeda looked at the window next to us, at the rain that fell on the sidewalk outside. She had a wistful expression... or at least the beginnings of one. The rest was speculative as if she were still working out what had gone wrong with Cassiopeia Black shortly before her death.

I was wondering that too.

"She was a true lady. Perhaps not by Pureblood standards, but even her family could not complain. She was intelligent, demure—and so easily underestimated. But make no mistake... the moment something or someone threatened her brothers, she became quite the lioness. She loved Sirius and Regulus so much—her heart was never the same when Regulus died... he'd been eighteen years old, so young..."

"And how did Bl—Sirius react?"

Andromeda shrugged. "I don't know. Cassiopeia was the one to handle the funeral arrangements. And no one outside the Black family had been permitted to attend Regulus' wake. I wasn't allowed to attend, as I'd been disowned already."

A dead uncle and a jailed one. But what about their parents?

"Trust me," Andromeda snorted when I asked, "you wouldn't have wanted to live with the old hag. She would have driven you mad, or worse. And don't bother looking for her, Walburga Black died five years ago. Her husband died around the same year as your mother."

A dead end. But it still left some questions.

"Did she have any friends? People she could rely on?"

Andromeda's lips quivered. And it hit me then that she was judging how to answer this.

"No," she said at last. "She had good friends. People who would die for her, perhaps. But if what you're asking is if any of them could have been Cassiopeia's confidant... no. I don't think there was truly anyone she could trust irrevocably."

Which opened to a different question. An awkward one at that. But it was bound to come up one way or another... and I preferred Andromeda Tonks telling me here instead of finding out through someone like Draco Malfoy.

"Then why did she marry Alec Barton?"

Andromeda hummed. "Impressive that it led to that," she said wryly. I cupped my hands on the table, waiting. "She didn't marry for love, I can assure you. I suppose she wanted stability, and your father's position offered plenty. Or perhaps it could have been that he got Regulus out of the Aurors' grasp and she felt she owed him. Or perhaps," her voice lowered, "she had a certain in within the group of followers of the most elusive and wanted man at the time, and Alec Barton himself made her an offer she couldn't refuse."

If I was horrified before... well, I wasn't anymore. I felt numb. And the part of me that always looked at the facts and the leftovers from Tom's tutelage—deemed it as sensible. It was sick, but it made sense. It was sad, but it had been war. And in war, everything's fair. An alliance between a powerful man and a knowledgeable woman seemed hardly bad.

The childish part of me wished to cover my ears and scream at the top of my lungs in denial.

But Harry seemed to be doing that in tons. His obvious dismay voiced my feelings. Nevertheless, I plunged on.

And so we talked. And with Mrs. Tonks' fragmented memories, I pieced together who Cassiopeia Black—or Cassie Barton—had once been.