Andromeda's heart leaps into her throat when she opens the door apprehensively and sees the (familiar, heart-wrenching, forlorn) angular face, framed by sheets of blonde hair.
"A Black never leaves a visitor on their doorstep."
It is a challenge of a dozen layers.
Andromeda steps away, turns on her heel, and walks from the room, giving no response.
But she leaves the door open behind her.
Narcissa follows.
Andromeda sits down at the kitchen table, looking at nothing; her back is straight, not quite rigid, good posture ingrained in her subconscious years before. Narcissa joins her at the table, but she is determined to gaze anywhere but at that (familiar, heart-wrenching, determined) face. Narcissa leans forward slightly in her chair. The silence is suffocating.
"Toujours Pur is gone, Andromeda."
She banishes Sirius from her mind, telling herself 'be strong, do not think of it.'
"The Dark Lord – Lucius' master, Bella's master – is gone. Has been gone. For over a decade."
Narcissa allows herself a cautious inhale.
"The walls have crumbled." A smile enters her voice; it is slight, but it is there. The request will not be spoken aloud. Both of them know what it is. They have known since the day in Diagon Alley, since the day the Second War ended. Since the day Andromeda ran away from home, left the Ancient and Most Noble House.
It doesn't matter what she tells herself, she cannot help but think of it. After spending so many years trying to avoid it, it's time to let everything come to the surface.
"Sirius is dead, Narcissa."
Andromeda's voice is calm, level, matter-of-fact. She wears a mad smile, and for a moment, she is Bellatrix. They finally makes eye contact. Narcissa's blonde hair shifts with her violent wince, the reaction momentarily clear on her (familiar, heart-wrenching, vulnerable) face.
She continues viciously.
"Dead. Do you remember Sirius, Cissa? Before he was just the Gryffindor? Do you remember the first time Bellatrix taught him a hex? Do you remember how much he loved Christmas at our house, hated it at his own? Do you remember his damn motorbike?"
Her volume gradually increases. Narcissa's grey eyes are wide, staring into chocolate brown, a brown whose warmth has been traded for fire.
"Do you know who else is dead, Narcissa? Regulus."
There is a flinch, and then a valiant stiffening of posture. Discomfort is evident on her (familiar, heartwrenching, infuriating) face.
"Do you remember Regulus, Cissa? Before he was destroyed by the choices he couldn't make? Do you remember when Walburga gave him his first broomstick? Do you remember his shock when he made House team? Do you remember how much he adored Sirius?"
Andromeda stands, palms flat on the table; no smile remains, only hard blazing coals in her eyes.
"Do you know who else is dead, Cissa? Bellatrix." Passion enters her voice. "Do you remember Bella, Narcissa? Before she loved nothing but shadow, before the tattoo became her soul? Do you remember our older sister? Do you remember her excitement when she got her wand? Sleeping in the same bed night after night, year after year? The rides to home, to school, on the Hogwarts Express? Watching her dress for her first ball? The sparkle in her eyes when Rodolphus courted her?"
She's shouting now; her words are furious, dangerous, and they're striking the mark—the struggle to control emotion is visible in the (familiar, heart-wrenching, mask-like) face.
"Do you know who else is dead, Narcissa? Dora. Nymphadora. My baby, my child. The 'dirty halfblood,' the 'little monster.' My pride, my joy. My clumsy girl, my messy slob. My Auror. We fought, we screamed, we loved each other."
There is a pause, filled with Andromeda's ragged breathing.
"Her husband is gone, too." She is quieter for a moment; the anger slips away, but something below the surface simmers. "Remus Lupin. Do you remember him? Sirius' friend? Always calm, always with the one-liner, always with a book. So much more than what he showed to the world. Remember when we said that? It was so true. He loved my darling. They had a baby – but he isn't dead, Narcissa, oh, no. You know that, everyone knows that, everyone knows about Teddy, the son of war heroes, the boy without parents, named for…"
She stops abruptly. Tears well up in her eyes; the fire is not quenched.
"Do you know who else is dead, Narcissa?" It's a deadly whisper, and Andromeda's voice threatens to crack. "Ted. Ted. My Ted. Do you remember Ted, Narcissa? Do you remember how the family hated him? How they looked down upon him, because he was dirty, common, less? Do you remember Bella's sneer, her anger when he spoke to me?"
The first pearly drop makes its way down; the very first, since war's end, since long before. Blacks do not show emotion, ever.
But let thousands of pureblood habits remain; it does not make a difference. A Black would not have spoken her thoughts as she has. Andromeda has not been only a Black for a long time.
She is a Tonks.
"You never knew, Narcissa, none of you did. You never knew the wonderful music he introduced me to, or his amazing talent at Transfiguration, or the quirk of his lips, the slight twist of his face, as he told a joke. You never knew anything about him. You never knew how much he cared about me, how happy we were. You never knew how much more that meant than having pure blood."
Her bare foot smacks the wooden floor in fury.
"Everyone's gone, Narcissa!" she yells, dignity forgotten, emotion at the forefront in a rare upheaval. "I've lost my husband, my daughter; my life's been torn away from me! Sirius, Regulus, Bella; life, war, darkness, they were all overtaken. But what about you, Cissa? How have you paid for your sins, how has your life thanked you for your actions? How have you been torn by the war? Have you lost Lucius? Did you watch Draco leave for a battle he wouldn't return from? Will you hear your grandson ask why he hasn't a Mum or Daddy? Do you feel atoned? Or do you feel lucky?"
A palpable silence hangs over the room.
No less weight pulls on Andromeda's chest than before she began, or before she woke up that morning, or before she saw Narcissa the year before. There is no relief. There is only exhaustion. There is only an opening of floodgates.
Tears stream down her refined face, now blotched red with anger, and are mirrored on that of her (familiar, heart-wrenching, unbearable) sister.
And this time, it is Narcissa who leaves her sister behind wordlessly.
It seems to be a common (familiar, heart-wrenching, cruel) action for the Black family.
