Author's Note: Ted! Lovely Ted. The word I've chosen for him is steadfastness. I've actually never written Ted before or given him much thought, so this was quite interesting. I hope I've captured him well enough. :)
"I'm going to Hogwarts."
"Ted, hunny, are you sure? I mean, you'll be away for so long." Mum reaches over to rub his head. Even though he is practically an adult, he lets her do it, hoping it will reassure her enough so she'll agree to let him go.
"I'll write. Lots. All the time. I promise."
"What about all your friends?" Dad shoves his hands in his pockets as a frown highlights the wrinkles in his face. The gears in his head are clearly whirring now, which means he's not far away from conceding the argument.
"I'll make new friends."
His parents exchange looks—Mum with knitted brows and dad chewing the inside of his cheek.
"He is a wizard, Emily. That's not exactly something you find out every day. It'd be a shame for him to miss the opportunity."
"But what if they made a mistake? What if he's not?"
"It's not a mistake!" Ted interjects indignantly. He considers offering to prove it, but it seems like a bad time to risk breaking something.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Mum asks. Her expression pleads for him to say no, and he's almost sorry to disappoint her.
"Yes."
"You know, you can't change your mind once you get there," Dad says, but even as the words spill out, his face softens. He is prepared to give up the fight. "You need to make sure you don't have any doubts."
Ever since Ted received the acceptance letter, this was all he'd wanted. Yes, it's sad, having to leave everything behind—his parents, his friends, the life he has always known. But the possibilities! There's no telling what he can do as a wizard or where he can go.
Despite what he has to give up, he wants this more than anything.
"I won't change my mind."
...oOo...
She's forbidden fruit.
Everyone's made that painfully clear, but that won't stop him. They insist that a Pureblood like her is far too good for a Mudblood like him, but they have it backwards. It's true that most Purebloods deserve each other, but that's mostly because no self-respecting person, Muggle or otherwise, would put up with them.
But not Andromeda Black. As much as she is the spitting image of her older sister, the two are not always so alike. From the moment they first bumped into each other, quite literally, and her eyes widened in surprise as his books tumbled to the ground, he was sure of it. It was unheard of, unthought of, downright blasphemous, but two little words had slipped from those pretty lips: I'm sorry. She apologized. To a Muggle-born. There was hope for her yet.
So Ted developed the habit of catching her at the right times, when she's all alone, in order to chip at her shell little by little. Not enough to break her—he couldn't if he tried—but just enough to produce the facets necessary for her brilliance to shine through. She resists, like the Black that she is, but that won't deter him. Not when he's so sure of what he wants.
He waits for her, for the umpteenth time, pressed against the wall in one of the corridors he's sure she'll to take to class, and she doesn't disappoint. As she approaches, he opens his mouth, but his intentions are cut short by her curt dismissal.
"The answer is still no."
"It doesn't have to be a date," he reasons, falling into step beside her. "It could just be, you know, a picnic by the lake or something."
"That sounds an awful lot like a date."
"OK, what about a simple walk around the lake?"
"Not this time, Ted."
She picks up her pace, and he willingly allows her to escape. They both realize that he's won because, for the first time, she's used his nickname instead of Tonks or Edward. It's a small victory, but that's irrelevant; she's every bit worth the struggle. Before she turns the corner and has completely slipped through his grasp, he warns her, yet again of his intentions.
"I'm not giving up!"
...oOo...
He's selfish.
Horribly so, and yet he has no intention of apologizing for it. He would never ask her to make the choice, but he doesn't have to. She makes it willingly. She is no longer Andromeda Black, and the transformation is both beautiful and distressing. The family tree has been pruned, they've been told, to hide their transgressions, but their loss is his gain.
She still has reservations, even on their wedding day, because she understands, sometimes a bit too well, the sense of Black pride and betrayal. There will be retaliation at some point, she's sure of it, and she doesn't want him caught up in it. But he's already ensnared and has been from the moment they met.
"But my family..."
"Your family can stuff it."
He understands her concern. She is strong, so very strong, and sure of her decisions, but this hesitation isn't about her. It's about him. But what kind of husband would he be if he buckled so easily and traded love for security? It's not a choice she's made; it's a choice they've made together.
"I won't change my mind."
...oOo...
"It's a girl."
The nurse places a bundle in his arms, a wad of blanket filled with grunts, and groans, and tiny fingers.
"We're not going to keep trying for a boy," Dromeda informs him before he can even fully process what his world has become.
"No Tonks heir?" he asks, though he's more amused than disappointed. It would have been nice to have a son, but how could he so easily dismiss the miracle that is squirming in his arms?
"I was thinking we should name her Nymphadora."
"Nymphadora Tonks, hm? That's an awful mouthful. Why not a simpler name? You know, my mother's name is Emily. Em is a cute nickname. Or Emma."
"It sounds too Muggle. No offense. She'll be Nymphadora."
"OK, so you don't like Emily. What about Caroline? Melanie?"
Dromeda goes to answer, but he cuts her off.
"I know, I know. Nymphadora."
He pulls the baby closer and whispers, "I apologize for your Mum. She doesn't know any better." It earns him a sharp look from his wife, but his daughter grunts as if she understands. "I think I'll call you...Dora."
"You're not upset?"
"Of course not. Our daughter will be able to do anything a boy can and then some. Isn't that right?"
He holds his index finger—giant in comparison—next to Dora's, and the small fingers curl around it. Such a strong grip, as if she's afraid of ever having to let go. One day, maybe—nobody lives forever—but not so long as he can help it.
"I will always be there," he whispers into her ear, low enough so it's a secret that only they share. She smiles in response—gas, according to the healers, but he knows better.
"Everything will be just fine."
...oOo...
There's a knock at the door, and he knows it means trouble.
Dromeda does, too, because he watches from across the room as she sets her jaw and rises slowly from the chair. A storm's brewing on the horizon, and for a moment he can't decide if he should take shelter or weather the rising tide.
She yanks the door open before he has time to choose and immediately tears into the man on the other side, who shrinks into himself with every harsh word.
"The nerve you have! Showing up here without so much as a word from you in Merlin knows how long, not a patronus, not so much as an owl, leaving your pregnant wife to fuss over you all this time."
"I haven't been fussing, Mum," Dora interjects, but a sharp glance from her mother is enough to silence her objections, at least for a moment.
"I was really hoping to be able to speak to Dora for a moment, if you don't mind," Remus chokes out in a feeble voice.
"Well, I should hope so, though I hardly think you deserve it after everything."
"Now, now, Dromeda." Despite the risk to his well-being, Ted steps beside her and holds the door open wider, waving a hand to usher Remus in. "You can't keep a husband from his wife when they have making-up to do. It's OK if he comes in."
"It is not OK. What sort of man runs out on his wife and child?"
Dromeda trains her gaze on him, seeing through him, and Ted flinches because he realizes how he's hurt her. This isn't about the children. Not completely, at least.
"The sort who believes he's doing what's best for them."
"By abandoning them?"
The room has gone silent, and with every word the werewolf grows paler, shakier, more burdened with guilt. It's something they have in common, an unvoiced solidarity that is becoming increasingly difficult to hide with the passing days. Ted isn't happy with the decisions that his son-in-law have made, but he can't hold it against the man, either. Remus just wanted to do what he imagined was best for his child, and even though he was wrong, Ted understands the sentiment.
"Hush now, Dromeda," Ted says softly, reaching an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. It's a silent apology for what he'll have to do. She isn't as mad as she appears; she's afraid. She knows what he's planning. Of course she does. He never was any good at keeping things from her. She can read him just like a book.
He plants a kiss on her forehead, softly, breathing in her perfume. It's a memory he wants to keep, so he can pretend she's there even when she won't be.
"Everything will be just fine."
...oOo...
The time has come. It's been a long time coming.
Dromeda purses her lips and insists, "You can't leave."
He counters with, "I won't register with the Muggle-Born Registration Commission."
"Well, obviously you won't."
She huffs like it's the most ridiculous idea in the world, and, in many ways, it is.
"They'll come looking for me."
"And they'll find us."
"That's right, they will. All of us."
He sees understanding flicker in her eyes, and she averts them to hide it. She doesn't want to lend credence to his reasoning, because that's almost like giving him permission to go. Regardless of logic, she will fight to the last breath to defend her stance, even if they both know this is a losing battle. They have a daughter and soon a grandchild. This is the only way.
"If you go..."
She doesn't finish the thought, but they are of the same mind. They have always been. If he goes, there's a good chance he won't return, but it's a sacrifice he has to make. He can't—no, he won't—put his family at risk. Their safety is worth every hardship.
"I won't change my mind."
...oOo...
There are Snatchers in the woods.
To the right. To the left. In front. There's only one way for them to go now and not much time to do it. But they're close, too close. Even if they rushed, they would never make it without drawing attention.
He glances to his comrades. The boy is terrified, eyes wide, sweat pouring off him. He's too young still to know what death looks like, but he's no fool, either. The Goblins, in true Goblin fashion, have already come to the conclusion that this will inevitably be where they make their final stand and have started preparing for it. Goblin magic can be fierce, but not fierce enough. Dirk is beside him, annoyed at the inconvenience, tired of running, ashamed at the indignity of it all, and ready to fight. It's all written in his face.
They are running out of time; a decision has to be made.
Ted whirls on his heels and seizes the boy by his shoulders, perhaps more fervently than he intends judging by the terrified reaction.
"There's no time to argue. Just listen. You're going to turn around, back where we came from, and you're going to run as fast as you can. Hear me?"
"But, Ted—"
"No. Listen. There's not much time. You're still a child. There's no sense in you staying for this, and there's a chance you can get away. We can buy you a little time. Take one of the Goblins with you."
"I'll go." Griphook steps forward to show that he's ready to go. He understands the urgency, even if the boy does not.
Ted steps back, drawing his wand. The voices are getting closer now, and time is almost up.
"If you see my wife, I need you to give her a message for me. Can you do that?"
The boy hesitates, then nods slowly, reluctantly.
"Tell her that I'm not giving up."
...oOo...
He's dead.
It seems obvious, what with his body several feet away, being picked through by those vultures. As if he would have anything worth stealing after being on the run for so many months.
The reaper is in front of him, black robe shifting as if it's made of shadows.
His final message to his family is still rattling around his brain.
I'm not giving up.
"The boy?" he asks. "What happened to Dean?"
"Alive."
The voice is deep with a slight, lasting rumble to it, like the echo of the wind howling through the trees.
He knows what's next. Death, as far as he knows, only has a single purpose. It's fitting that he's the first to go, because this would never work if their roles were reversed. He's willingly waited for her before; this is nothing new to him. Stubbornly. Patiently. He can do it again.
I won't change my mind.
"My wife..."
"You can wait, but not here. Tell me, do you fear me?"
Dora has Remus, and soon Dromeda will have a grandchild to center her life around.
Everything will be just fine.
"No."