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Andromeda Tonks emerged from a treatment room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries feeling equally exhausted and satisfied. The session with her patient had been lengthy, but she could proudly describe it overall as successful.
She gently closed the door behind her and slowly opened her palm, surprised to find the silvery locket shone clear and bright even in the dim greenish light of the hallway. The locket was her patient's, one of the only possessions the woman had arrived with the first day she'd appeared in the lobby of St. Mungo's all those years ago, but it was only now that her patient was beginning to demonstrate any signs of recognition of the item.
Even though Andromeda could describe every detail of the locket, both inside and out, she gently unclasped the small oval as she'd done countless times before to run her fingertip over the tiny painting hidden within. She'd scrutinized the painting of the baby so many times that she felt as though she could describe the features of the baby's face as well as the face of her own daughter. Andromeda closed the locket and sighed, tucking it safely back into her pocket.
She'd been working with this particular patient for over fifteen years now, but her true identity and history were still as uncertain as the baby's in the locket. Andromeda was never one to be deterred, however, nor to give up. Her continued efforts with this patient was only now beginning to make progress; bits of pattern and brief moments of clarity had begun to take shape.
It was one session over the ongoing course of many, as was common with most of her patients, but it was progress nonetheless— slow but steady progress; with her caseload, that was the best she could aim for, and felt no shame at saying so. It was the reality of her field.
From a very young age, despite her family's protestations and bewilderment, Andromeda had an obsession with the magical art of Healing, an obsession rivaled only by her fascination with the wonders of the body and mind.
When she had graduated from Hogwarts, Andromeda had no doubt she wanted to become a Healer. She'd started at St. Mungo's no more than two weeks after graduating, then completed her general Healer training over the course of four arduous years. She'd simultaneously completed general Muggle medical study, with the addition of eight more frenzied years of research, study, clinical work, and fellowships, both magical and Muggle. As difficult and sleep-deprived as those years had been, she'd found happiness in them; in the collaboration of the Magical and Muggle worlds, equalized by shared goals— to understand, to heal.
It was now more than thirty years after her graduation from Hogwarts; thirty years of dedication to healing. And while Andromeda continued to practice general healing at every level of care, she'd come to specialize in the research of the properties of the blood of witches and wizards, and— her more preferred work— the healing of the mind.
It would be a lie to say she left work each day feeling as though she'd been successful, and an outright delusion to believe she made a significant positive difference on each of her patients every day, but there were certainly days when progress was marked and success clear; as she climbed the stairs to her small office on the fifth floor, she felt today would be one of those days… until she spotted two wizards, striking in quite contradictory ways, sitting outside her office door.
"Healer Tonks, it's a pleasure to see you again."
"I'm hoping to say the same about your visit," Andromeda said as she wearily eyed the wizard's gloomy companion, "And it's Andromeda— you don't mind, do you Albus… Severus?"
"Certainly not, considering it's the preferred method of addressing one's communication partner here at St. Mungo's, is it not?" Dumbledore said, turning briefly to address his companion. "It helps to break barriers between healers and patients."
Severus Snape merely nodded his agreement in silence.
Andromeda nodded as well, finding it difficult to look away from the familiar twinkle in Dumbledore's blue eyes. She unlocked her office door, and gestured for them to follow.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," Andromeda said, gesturing to the vacant chairs on the other side of her desk. "Although, the state of those chairs— budget cuts, you know… I'm not sure now much comfort they realistically provide."
"Thank you," Dumbledore said, following her lead.
"Tea?" She asked, having already conjured the set, complete with three cups.
"Lovely, that is of course Earl Gray I detect. But it must be blended—"
Andromeda smiled and nodded. She did love her tea. "Rose petals, lavender, and rosemary."
"How delightful," Dumbledore praised as the steaming pot poured a portion of its contents into his cup.
Snape merely cleared his throat. Andromeda narrowed her eyes in his direction.
Andromeda was confident in her ability to read people, to see their thoughts, the reasons for their choices. And while her daughter, Nymphadora, was an open book— a person who wore her thoughts and emotions in ten different colors right on her sleeve, not so unlike her father, Ted— Andromeda acknowledged, took pride, that she herself was quite the opposite. The man in front of her seemed quite her equal in this regard. Severus Snape always been difficult for her to read; not simply a closed book, but a closed book bound by rope, stacked neatly along an enclosed case, behind a locked door.
Andromeda respected Dumbledore, but felt him quite the fool for trusting Snape so fully. Admittedly, she also found herself impatient in the majority of her dealings with the Headmaster, her former professor— she regarded him at times as necessarily obtuse, aloof. There was no room for these qualities in her line of work.
"Quite right, Severus, we do not wish to take up too much of Andromeda's valuable time."
"Nonsense, Albus—" she protested.
"No, no, we arrived unannounced, the very least we could do is respect your time and hospitality."
Dumbledore took a moment to pointedly scan the perimeter of the room with his twinkling blue eyes. Andromeda understood.
"There are no wards, Albus, but if you prefer—" she said quietly.
Dumbledore nodded his head in appreciation, and although it did not physically appear anything in the room had changed, Andromeda felt the vibrating impact of his strong yet silent wards.
She sipped her tea expectantly.
She didn't bother to question if everything was all right. It was a question she'd stopped asking long ago; if you were at St. Mungo's, certainly everything was not all right. Especially during times of war— and war, she knew, was upon them.
She tried not to think of the loss of her cousin Sirius. In truth, they had not been close for many years, but they'd always pictured themselves as outcasts of the family, and formed a strong bond when they were young. The thought of his passing made her heart ache.
"Frankness, I know, is not in my nature, as Severus would certainly attest—"
"Correct," Snape said. The word contained only two syllables, but somehow, Andromeda thought, the Potions Master's drawl managed to elongate the word.
"But I wonder perhaps if it is in my blood to desire understanding, knowledge. Severus too I should think, evidenced simply by our chosen professions."
Andromeda knew Dumbledore was appealing to her through her own research, the larger body of which focused on so-called 'pureblood' superiority and genetics, as well as the effects of nature and nurture in the magical world, but she did not mind. Over the centuries, the Black family had been the cause of much pain and suffering, and it was Andromeda's personal goal to try to amend for some of that harm, to work toward eradicating pureblood prejudice in the magical world. She appreciated Dumbledore's reference, and, admittedly, the acknowledgement.
"Do you feel you share in this desire, Andromeda? To understand?"
"Albus—"
"Of course you do, it was silly of me to ask. Again, frankness is simply not in my character… so, we are all in agreement of a shared desire to understand, to learn… And this evening, Severus and I have come to ask you to examine the other side of this coin."
Andromeda had an inkling of what Dumbledore was insinuating, in fact, the thought had entered her mind the moment she'd spotted the wizards outside her office door.
"You want me to teach?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said simply before taking a prolonged sip of his tea. "Delightful."
Andromeda mulled over the thought, her face as unreadable as Snape's.
"But what subject? Surely not Charms or Potions-" she looked to Snape.
"No," Severus explained, "Healing."
"Healing?" Andromeda asked curiously. She set her teacup down. She couldn't recall having ever heard of a Healing course at Hogwarts, but she mused it was something she definitely would have appreciated during her own school years— not merely because of her desired career path, but for her own health and well-being.
"It has been taught in the past, although not with any particular frequency," Dumbledore explained.
"Or competency," Snape added dryly.
Andromeda could admit Dumbledore's offer was tempting.
The Headmaster was right; she shared his desire to learn, to understand, and equally, to share her knowledge. It perhaps explained why she took on so many fellows each year. She considered her current responsibilities; her patients and their families, her own family- Nymphadora, who was still healing from the conflict at the Department of Mysteries, and Ted of course— her medical fellows, her research, her ever-increasing mountain of paperwork…
"I don't have the time, I'm sorry." Andromeda was not one to make excuses simply for politeness. She was also not the type of person who had issue with saying 'no.'
"I thought you may say so, but I ask you to reconsider. During these times, Hogwarts' students, no matter their house nor upbringing, will need to be prepared… for what, I do not feel the need to elaborate in present company."
"There must be someone else… Madam Pomfrey? Someone else equally as capable."
"I think not, Andromeda," Severus said plainly. If it were said by anyone else, Andromeda might have regarded it as a compliment, but Snape somehow managed to make it sound rather the opposite.
"What I believe Severus intends to portray is that you are best equipped for such a task, considering your ample, and varied, skillset. Not to mention your irrefutably good intentions. Plus, your familiarity with the Order—"
"The Order? What does the Order have to do with teaching? Surely Hogwarts isn't trying to indoctrinate students— after the disaster I heard was last year—"
She'd heard of the Ministry's attempt to infiltrate Hogwarts, and was disgusted by it. She trusted the Ministry about as much as she trusted Severus Snape. Although she agreed with what they stood for, she hoped the Order was not on some mission to drag children into this war.
"War is here," Severus interrupted, "and Hogwarts is not immune… your nephew is not immune."
At the mention of her nephew, Andromeda looked to Dumbledore— knowing she was now doing a poor job of masking her surprise, her trepidation, her fear— searching for further explanation. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in silence. She returned her attention to Snape.
"Yes. Draco, I fear, is in danger—"
"The boy's been in harm's way his entire life, Severus, wouldn't you say?" Andromeda crossed her arms across her chest. "With a father like Lucius."
Snape ignored her.
"Draco has been given a task— one he is meant to fail."
Andromeda felt her heart pound in her ears. She owed the Malfoys, including her sister— although she could barely call her that— nothing. She reasoned any trouble the family found themselves plagued by was certainly of their own doing. She had no connection to Draco beyond blood, beyond a shared history of darkness, pain, and regret. And yet…
"Surely your protection is enough, Severus," Andromeda announced, although she found it impossible to imagine Snape protecting anyone but himself. She uncrossed her arms and straightened in her chair. "Plus, I expect the Malfoys would laugh at the idea of a blood traitor's protection."
"It is my belief that is it currently both naive and unwise to assume anything about the Malfoy family. But that is beside the point. Draco does not trust me—"
"Curious, that," Andromeda interjected, but Snape ignored her.
"If he's to have a chance, he will need to learn to protect his mind."
Snape paused.
"And I believe there is still this chance for Draco, with the right guidance of course… alas time, as it does, presses on," Severus said.
The silence that followed his statement rang through Andromeda's ears, but she remained skeptical and reluctant.
"Narcissa instructed me to give this to you, should our conversation reach this point."
Snape pulled a scroll, neatly rolled and tied with a black ribbon, from his robes and passed it across the desk. Dumbledore looked away as if he had suddenly become extremely interested in the ceiling plaster.
Andromeda eyed the scroll warily.
"He is young, Andromeda, but not for much longer," Snape's sullen voice resounded through the room as his dark eyes met hers. "And I promised your sister I'd keep him safe."
Over the rim of her second, third, and fourth cups of tea, Andromeda stared at the bound letter long after Dumbledore and Snape had left, analyzing their words. When she could think no more, she hastily transported the scroll into her pocket, as if it would poison her should it touch her skin for more than a moment.
She disapparated home just before midnight, but her deliberation was off, and she found herself not inside her home, but in her own back garden, cloaked in darkness, surrounded by the patch of fragrant narcissus she'd planted long ago. A sob escaped her throat as she unfurled the scroll and recognized that her younger sister's elegant script, even after so many years, had not changed.
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