Andromeda sat in the morning room, the mahogany table before her littered with parchment, quills, and ink. While one quill addressed envelopes, another reproduced Malcolm and Eunice's engagement announcements, and a third composed formal invitations for the young couple's July engagement celebration. As the quills dipped themselves in ink and printed the required messages, the clock chimed nine.
Byron would be arriving shortly. Andromeda had a mild headache from the stress of the past weekend; Bella's wedding had been an exhausting affair, but the wedding had gone off without a hitch and the Lestrange-Black union would be celebrated as having been the most lavish, well-attended magical wedding of the year. Even Nymphadora was drained by the end of the weekend, and was sent back to Hogwarts in an unusually subdued mood.
"Busy already, I see," Byron greeted, lifting a brow at the medley of charmed writing instruments. Andromeda thought she detected admiration in his expression; even she had to admit that three quills simultaneously working with their own ink pots and unique styles of calligraphy was particularly impressive charm work.
"A witch's work is never done," Andromeda replied, smiling proudly. Byron joined her at the table and studied her efforts. He picked up her to-do list and cleared his throat.
"What's this about a donation to St. Mungo's?"
Setting her quill down, Andromeda readied herself for a difficult proposition. "It's something I've had on my mind for some time," she said lightly. "With Nymphadora growing up and Eunice coming into the family—"
"It's out of the question," Byron dismissed. "Even if Malcolm weren't getting married, I wouldn't give a Knut to a hospital that serves Mudbloods." Andromeda expected his opposition and moved onto the second part of her plan.
"I suppose you're right." Andromeda shuffled a set of plans for wedding flowers. "It isn't as if our family would ever need a favor from the Minister. Our children know better than to break the law."
"A favor from the Minister?" Byron's brow came together and his mustache twitched downwards.
"It must've slipped my mind," Andromeda said, with a practiced, polite laugh. " The Prophet wouldn't have published anything about it—very hush-hush. My mother's second cousin—Gerald Crabbe, you might know him from your club—his oldest son, Arnold, was caught smuggling chimaera eggs from Switzerland. Gerald made a generous donation to St. Mungo's and it's as if the whole affair never took place." Byron folded his hands on his stomach. He frowned, nodding slowly as he took in the information.
"The Malfoys just donated to St. Mungo's as well," Andromeda continued coolly, "and Mrs. Malfoy is taking Narcissa under her wing to show her how to host fundraising galas. My sister-in-law has become even more unbearable, if you can believe it, but the Malfoys have a long history of donations. Merlin himself will come back to life before a Malfoy goes to Azkaban."
She shook her head, rolled her eyes, and made a few notes for the engagement celebration. She could imagine Byron's mind racing, given his silence, and she hummed under her breath, waiting for him to give in. Byron picked up the to-do list again, stared at it for a few seconds, and set it back down.
"What kind of donation did you have in mind?"
A triumphant shiver went up Andromeda's spine. Keeping her expression neutral, she took out her initial plans for the planned donation.
"We'd give an initial donation of seventeen thousand Galleons," Andromeda replied, ignoring the way Byron's eyes widened in disbelief. "I thought it could come out of my dowry, which has barely been touched, if I'm not mistaken. We can host an annual fundraising gala, and if we invite the right people from the Ministry, we would have plenty of helpful connections."
"Your dowry is funding Nymphadora's," Byron said, fiddling with the ends of his mustache. "Although she may not need as large a dowry as I anticipated."
Andromeda cocked her head to one side. "What makes you think so?"
"The girl is your spitting image." Byron's gaze drifted to one of the photographs from the Lestrange wedding. "Even if she wasn't, she can alter her appearance to suit her husband's desires. It won't be difficult to find someone interested in a witch like her."
A jolt of anger coursed through Andromeda's heart. She could never let her daughter marry someone who was only interested in what she could do with her body, rather than her sweet temperament and bright spirit.
"This means we have the funds for this venture," Byron concluded. "I'll write to Gringotts today." He pulled out his pocketbook and began scribbling a note for seven thousand Galleons as a start. It was more than she had planned—she had expected Byron to negotiate down to only a twelve or thirteen thousand Galleon donation—but it made her sick, thinking of how her husband viewed Nymphadora's future and worth.
Andromeda had to set aside her fury; she was close to achieving a tremendous personal conquest.
"I wanted to ask for your input on where the funds ought to go, my dear," said Andromeda, giving Byron's hand a gentle squeeze. "I can't thank you enough for your generosity. Perhaps you can help me determine which hospital department should receive our donation? I imagine we would want the one that is most mutually beneficial , given our goals."
"The pediatric department, Andromeda," Byron said, chortling at her. "I'm surprised you didn't think of that yourself, though I suppose I can't blame you. Your mind can only be so occupied."
It was almost too easy , thought Andromeda, holding back a devious grin.
"The trick is," Byron continued, sitting forward, his finger wagging closer to her face, "St. Mungo's will want the money. If we ever need the Ministry or the Minister, it's as simple as accusing them of wanting to take money from poor, defenseless children." He sat back with a smug smile. "Your witches' charities ought to eat this up."
"I always knew you were the cleverest," Andromeda murmured, more to herself than to Byron. "Although . . . now that I think on it, perhaps . . ."
"Perhaps?"
Andromeda made an exaggerated effort to sigh. "What if a Mudblood is in charge of this department? How am I supposed to work under those conditions?"
Byron harrumphed and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's unlikely you'll have to suffer a Mudblood. If you do . . . but as the Malfoys are willing to dirty their fingers, we must be as well. The more I consider the benefits to our family, the more certain I am that this is a sound investment. Besides, one of us ought to have oversight and this is work most suited to a pureblood witch. Philanthropic efforts are, after all, your domain."
"Such a generous, ingenious man," Andromeda said softly, curling her lips up into a smile. "I'll be sure to bring Eunice and Nymphadora with me. They'll remind me to be civil."
With one of her charmed quills done with its work, Andromeda took it to start making a new to-do list ahead of her proposed meeting with St. Mungo's Board of Governors and the Healer in charge of pediatrics.
There was little else to say ahead of the summer months. Byron let Andromeda take the lead on everything related to the upcoming engagement and wedding. He lived in blissful ignorance for most of these concerns. When they agreed on the last of the details for the engagement party, he left the morning room in good spirits (which Andromeda added to, given her copious praise of his problem-solving skills).
What Byron couldn't know—and what he wouldn't know, until they were too deep into their new project to back out—was that the Head Healer for the Pediatrics Department was a certain Muggleborn who would be Andromeda's main point of contact for the foreseeable future.
Dora's latest Herbology essay was a disaster. She stared at her mark, an angry, red Dreadful, and stuffed her essay into her bag. It was the latest in several recent failures; she hadn't scored above an Acceptable since before the Easter holidays. It was a mercy that it was a Friday, and Herbology was her last class, as she wanted to sink into her bed and hide away with her cat for the weekend.
"Miss Travers?" Professor Sprout called, preventing Dora from leaving the greenhouse with her friends.
"Yes, Professor?" Dora replied, approaching Sprout's leafy work bench. She glanced back longingly at Iris and Maisie, who had become her closest friends in the dormitory. They waved at her with reassuring smiles but had to follow the others out of the greenhouse.
"Please sit. I hoped we could talk for a few minutes."
"Am I in trouble?"
Sprout lifted a dirt-crusted brow at her. "Should you be?"
"No?" Dora frowned, taking a seat on one of the grimy stools. "I haven't done anything wrong."
"I didn't think you had, but I always like to ask," said Sprout, coming around her bench to sit in a stool opposite Dora. "How have you been lately?"
"Fine, I suppose?"
"Are you sure?" Sprout cocked her head at Dora and clasped her gloved hands together. "I noticed your marks have been slipping lately."
Dora felt her insides go cold. Had she done poorly enough that she would be kicked out of Hogwarts by June?
"Your other professors have made similar remarks," Sprout went on, as Dora's throat constricted and her eyes began to burn. "Now, Miss Travers, I don't want you to be concerned. You're not in trouble and you won't lose your place here. I'm simply worried about you. Is there something you need to tell me?"
"N-no, Professor, I'm okay," Dora mumbled. She clasped the sides of her stool and wiped her sleeve under her nose, sure she was spreading soil all over her face.
"You don't need to be shy." Sprout smiled encouragingly. "Is it another student? Have you been ill? Sleeping well?"
Mousy brown strands of hair fell over Dora's eyes. She'd had trouble morphing recently. It took more effort to pull off what she had been practicing before, and she hadn't felt truly rested since the Easter holidays. Her friends had suggested a mild bout of the flu or dragon pox, but Dora didn't feel sick.
"Was everything all right when you went home for Easter?" Sprout said gently. Dora's wrist twitched, where Claudius had grabbed her, and she remembered what he'd said.
I'll rip you apart.
"It was good," she lied, avoiding Sprout's gaze. "My cousin got married."
"The eldest Miss Black, yes . . . I saw the announcement in The Prophet , along with a photograph of the new Mr. and Mrs. Lestrange." Dora said nothing to this, so Sprout continued. "From the descriptions in The Prophet , the Lestranges had spectacular flower arrangements—I'm sure your mother had a hand in arranging them. Did you enjoy the wedding?"
Dora could only give a small, noncommittal noise from the back of her throat as an agreement. She loosened her clutch on the stool and suppressed a shudder. At the wedding, she had been forced to dance with her brothers. Claudius had gripped her so tightly that he fractured three of her fingers; she'd had to pretend she tripped over her own robes, as he'd threatened to hurt her further if she told the truth.
"Is that a yes or a no, dear?"
"Yes," Dora whispered. "It was nice."
A low, disappointed sigh reached Dora's ears. "Miss Travers, are you sure there isn't anything you want to tell me? Anything at all?"
"No, Professor Sprout." Dora shifted herself off the stool and grabbed her bag. "I'll do better from now on. I promise."
Something was wrong with Nymphadora.
The letter from her daughter that arrived that sunny May morning was short, and while Nymphadora hadn't said she wasn't doing well, it was plain to Andromeda that something was troubling the girl. Andromeda stood by one of the big picture windows in her parlor and re-read it, hoping another glance would shed light on her confusion.
Dear Mama,
School is busy. My marks aren't so good anymore but Iris and Maisie are helping me. Every night we go to the library.
Slytherin will probably win the Quidditch Cup. I don't see Cissa much. She's always with her boyfriend.
Can I see my friends over the summer? I'm going to miss them a lot.
Love,
Your daughter, Dora.
It was concerning that Nymphadora's marks were slipping. She was proud of doing well in her classes; maybe as the term came to an end, it was more challenging for the first-year. Andromeda took solace in the fact that Nymphadora always spoke highly of her friends, and they were helping her study.
Nymphadora mentioned her cousin Narcissa. She had spoken often of Alphard, Narcissa, and Sirius near the start of term, but as she grew in her confidence and made new friends, Andromeda heard more about them from her siblings than from her daughter. Why Nymphadora was keen to find only Narcissa was another source of confusion.
It wasn't unexpected that Nymphadora wanted to see her friends over the holidays. Andromeda had felt the same way at her age, and while her parents were firm that her family were more important than any friend, Andromeda disagreed. Nymphadora would be given plenty of opportunities to see her friends.
Andromeda wracked her brains, struggling to find the cause for her daughter's increasingly short letters, falling marks, and interest in Narcissa. If her friends were helpful and she was otherwise happy, something must have happened to her. Andromeda paced around her parlor with the letter in one hand and the other curled around her waist.
A stray thought came to mind: she had the option of writing to Nymphadora's Head of House, Professor Sprout. Andromeda hadn't wanted to become the type of parent to write a letter whenever something was bothering her, especially after the disastrous meeting with the Headmaster. Instead, she sat down at her usual spot and began writing her reply.
She had just sealed the letter to her daughter when her elves arrived with tea, biscuits, and the news that Miss Eunice Bulstrode would be arriving soon. Andromeda gave the letter to Tippy to send out with one of the family owls, and asked Goldie to escort Eunice to the parlor.
"Miss Bullsty is here, Mistress!" Goldie squeaked.
"Thank you, Goldie," Andromeda replied. "You may go."
Eunice appeared in the parlor and Andromeda invited her to sit, keeping an eye on the way the young witch's robes hung on her frame like the oversized skin of a baby elephant; on Eunice, she appeared at least thrice her actual size.
Andromeda couldn't allow such questionable fashion decisions to continue in her household.
"Hello, Mrs. Travers," Eunice murmured. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Please, call me Andromeda. We're going to be family soon and Mrs. Travers is too formal for me." She smiled at Eunice, who smiled back and relaxed in the settee. "Speaking of which, I've had some plans underway and it's time for you to know about them. Does that sound all right?"
Eunice nodded and poured herself a cup of tea. That was a good sign; in the several months they'd known each other, Eunice was slowly beginning to feel comfortable around Andromeda and the Travers home.
"I believe I mentioned a charitable initiative in my last letter," Andromeda said, seeing Eunice nod again. "It's all confirmed. Monday, the 17th of July you will join Nymphadora and myself at St. Mungo's to meet with the Board of Governors and the Head Healer for Pediatrics. It will be a somewhat informal meeting, as they've already accepted the endowment—we will be there to meet those we'll be working with in the future."
Eunice pulled out her own journal—a birthday gift from Andromeda, charmed to include a revolving calendar for the next few years and reminders of events—and scribbled the date down.
"As you may already know, Nymphadora turns 12 on the 14th," Andromeda added. "It's a tradition to visit my parents' home for her birthday. Byron and I expect you and Malcolm to be there for dinner, but you needn't stay after dessert." Eunice wrote those details down as well and waited for the next event.
An idea formed in Andromeda's mind, and she summoned her journal to flip through her July appointments. She was relieved to find that there was a free afternoon on the 29th, a Saturday.
"Now that Nymphadora is old enough, I thought to host a little party for her with her school friends," Andromeda said, contemplating how she'd be able to host a Muggleborn girl in Travers Court. Nymphadora might have to settle for only one or two of her Hufflepuff classmates. "The 29th is the best day for it. If you're able to come and say hello, I'm sure it would mean the world to Nymphadora. I believe she's coming to see you as an older sister."
Eunice flipped to the next page of her journal. "I can come," she said. "My final wedding robes fitting is in the morning, at Gladrags."
Andromeda beamed and jotted down a few ideas; perhaps she could arrange for a trip to a magical menagerie, or even a private tasting at Florean's for ice cream.
"Speaking of dresses and fashion . . . did I hear correctly that your wedding robes are from Gladrags?"
When Eunice confirmed the unfortunate fashion choice, Andromeda tried not to wince.
"Do you like Gladrags in particular?" asked Andromeda.
Eunice shrugged and looked down at her drab robes. "It's where mother shops."
"Have you considered shopping elsewhere?"
"For wedding robes?"
"No, not quite what I meant . . . would you consider buying daily or formal robes from another shop? Gladrags is reputable, of course," Andromeda admitted, "but their designs have always been, in my opinion, rather old-fashioned. My family has an excellent relationship with Twilfitt and Tatting's in Diagon Alley. I would be delighted to take you with me, if you've got the time. It can be my wedding gift to you, if you like the designs there."
Eunice shook her head and frowned. "No, thank you. I don't need new robes."
Andromeda's smile faltered. "No one really needs new robes, but—"
"I know I'm ugly," Eunice said, shrinking miserably into herself. "Mother tried to make me look better with new robes. It won't work."
"Eunice, that's not what I'm suggesting at all," Andromeda said, placing her hand on Eunice's knee. "Allow me to rephrase. The most beautiful woman in the world could wear Gladrags, but she will be as shapely and unblemished as a wet potato." Eunice looked up, slack-jawed at Andromeda's bluntness. "You may not be a Black by name, marriage, or blood, but you will be one by association with me. Black witches are never known to be anything but impeccably dressed, and it is my sincere wish to see you in clothes that befit your grace, talent, and station in life. Do you understand?"
Eunice gaped at Andromeda for several seconds, her mouth opening and closing as she worked through her surprise. Andromeda took another sip of her tea, waiting for the young witch to surrender to the unexpected kindness.
"Okay," Eunice finally said. "I should get new robes."
Andromeda knew she wouldn't be able to resist.