Hey all you beautiful people.
Thank you so much for all the love and support you all constantly throw my way. I am so glad to be finally releasing this chapter, I'm not sure why, it's been a really difficult week and I've not been as quick to write as I have been in previous weeks. That being said I got there with this today. This chapter is a little bit of a filler chapter, where we get a little insight into the changes happening within Adharia, where the headmaster is at in his own ignorance, and we hear from Andromeda.
Please be reassured that I've heard those of you that have asked to see a resolution between Hermione and Andromeda. I can promise you it is coming however I thought it was important to get a little insight into both character's perspectives first before we get the resolution you are all looking for.
As for those asking about the Black Sisters. Andromeda and Bellatrix are the only daughters of House Black and absolutely are sisters in this story, Narcissa however is not a Black. She was born into the Malfoy Family as Lucius' twin sister.
As always, comments, suggestions, kudos are always appreciated. Until next time
~ My love, Nell xoxo
~Hermione's POV ~
~Hogwarts Infirmary~
~Thursday 7th September 1995~
It took all three reunited Delacour sisters a long time to find the strength to let go, and even then, she nearly didn't. Hermione— no, Adharia—clung to the moment, to the warmth, to the magic thrumming between them, afraid that if she stepped away, it might disappear. But it didn't. It wrapped around her, strong and unwavering, as if it had been waiting for her all along.
It felt like barefoot summers, chasing butterflies through fields of gold, the distant crash of waves as pebbles skipped across the ocean's surface. It felt like every wistful, unattainable dream she had once watched from the shadows, every tender family moment she had yearned for but never dared to reach.
But this time, she wasn't watching. This time, it was hers.
She drank it in, unable to get enough. Her sisters' magic curled around her own, filling the hollow places she had never been able to name, knitting together pieces of herself she hadn't realised were frayed. It rooted deep, binding them in a way that was as old as blood and as unshakable as the tides. And for the first time in her life, she hoped—without hesitation, without fear—that she was finally discovering who she was.
She was Adharia. She was a Delacour, and she was starting to believe that here, in these arms, she belonged.
She would have stayed there forever if she could, wrapped in the warmth of Fleur and Gabrielle's arms, their magic a lullaby she had been missing since birth. But even as she revelled in it, her own magic stirred. It had found her sisters, had recognised them, and now it was seeking, stretching out tendrils of awareness beyond them. Calling her attention to the other occupants in the room.
They pulled away slowly, reluctant but reassured, their hands lingering, fingers entwined as if afraid to let go completely. And Adharia had no complaints. She let them guide her, moving seamlessly between them as Fleur and Gabrielle led her back to the sofa, they had previously occupied. Their magic wove between them—familiar, steadfast, unshaken. A steady current of warmth and belonging, as if they had never been separated.
As if they had never been denied their bond.
It was only once they were seated that Hermi— no, Adharia—noticed the way the adults in the room watched them. Their gazes were heavy with emotion, filled with a warmth she was only beginning to recognise as something meant for her. Not just Fleur. Not just Gabrielle. But her, too.
She had never known such a thing before.
A flush of self-consciousness crept over her, unbidden. Four pairs of eyes, the 'adults' of her newfound family, studied her as if she were something fragile, something precious—something they were terrified might vanish if they blinked too fast, too much.
And then she felt it.
Their magic, too, reached for hers. The family magik that bound them all, stretching towards her, seeking, yearning—determined to mend what had been broken, to restore what had been stolen. To erase the remnants of the severed, stunted bonds left in the wake of Albus Dumbledore's manipulations.
The weight of it pressed against her magic, but there was no forcefulness, no demand. Only a quiet certainty.
She was theirs. And they were hers.
She drew in a slow, steadying breath, the warmth of her sisters on either side of her a quiet anchor. Their presence bolstered her, gave her the courage to look toward her mother's—hesitant, uncertain. A thousand questions buzzed in her mind, tangled with the ever-present longing to reach for them. To close the aching distance.
But she couldn't.
Not yet.
Not before she held the truth in her hands. Not before she understood how she had ended up in that filthy Muggle orphanage, trapped with those Merlin-awful people. Not before she was sure they hadn't simply abandoned her to the fates.
"What happened?" she whispered, the question rushed before she lost her courage.
The words barely carried across the room, but they landed like a spell—heavy, inescapable. Hesitation, hurt, confusion bled into her tone, her blue eyes searching, locking onto each of her mothers in turn.
Narcissa looked stricken. Horrified. Guilt and heartbreak flickered in stormy grey eyes, raw and unguarded. Adharia's mama dropped her gaze, fingers twisting into the fabric of her robes, fisting them tightly as if the answer was buried somewhere in the silk. Her hair fell forward, a golden curtain shielding her face.
Beside her, Apolline changed.
Adharia didn't understand it yet, but something in her mother rose. A shift, subtle but powerful, like the crackling air before a storm. Her Veela sensed her wife's distress, instinctively moving to shoulder the burden, to take the weight for now.
"Where do you want us to start?"
The question was quiet, steady. Apolline met her youngest daughter's gaze head-on, her sea-blue eyes calm, patient—open in a way that was rare for the usually poised woman.
Adharia hesitated, glancing down at her lap, her teeth worrying the inside of her cheek. What did she want to know?
It should have been simple. The answer was simple.
She wanted to know everything.
But she also knew that simply saying so wouldn't get her all the answers she was looking for.
"Who am I? What happened the day I was left at the orphanage? Why did it happen?"
The questions tumbled from her lips in a rush, raw and unfiltered. She looked at her mother, guilt creeping into her chest, torn between the hope her newfound magic had given her, and the terror still rooted in the girl who had grown up unwanted, abused, and cast aside.
"That's quite the list of questions, young one. But we will do all we can to answer them accurately for you."
It was her grandmother who spoke first, her voice steady, factual—but warm. There was something solid about her, something reassuring. Adharia had the distinct feeling that this woman was the protective type, the kind who watched over her family like a silent guardian, always ready to act.
And the thought brought an unexpected sadness creeping up Adharia's spine.
What would it have been like to grow up with her? To know the quiet strength and unwavering love her grandmother exuded so effortlessly.
Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to focus as her mother finally spoke.
"First, to answer who you are, my darling." Apolline's voice was gentle but certain, carrying the weight of truth. "You were born Adharia Apolline Delacour, the youngest daughter of myself and your mama. You were born on the 19th of November 1981. You have two godmothers—Bellatrix Malfoy and Marlene McKinnon. Where they are now… well, that's a story for another day." A flicker of something unreadable crossed her mother's face, but she pressed on. "What you need to know is that they loved you. They doted on you and your sisters, and we loved you fiercely."
Apolline's voice softened as a wistful, faraway look settled in her sea-blue eyes, a gentle smile curving her lips as she remembered.
"You were an incredible baby. Peaceful, loving. You lit up around your family, especially your sisters. And we were all so incredibly happy…"
But then the warmth faded. The tension in her mother's face grew as she continued, the lines around her mouth tightening, her voice growing hoarse.
"December 22nd," she said, the words heavier now. "I was working at the Ministry and had been sent to France to liaise with the French Minister. You were just over a month old. Your mama tucked you into bed at seven, just like always. Your sisters not long after you. Then she lay down for a few hours, waiting for me to return."
The room felt still. Adharia barely breathed as she listened.
"Your nanny elf—Liza—was watching over the three of you, with strict instructions to fetch your mama if any of you stirred. Everything was as it should have been." Her mother's voice wavered. Her breath caught.
"Your mama woke at one in the morning. I had been held up at work. But when she woke… the house was silent." She swallowed hard.
"Unnaturally so." Adharia felt her stomach drop.
"She ran to the nursery. And as she reached the hall, she heard your sisters screaming." Apolline's jaw tensed, her pain laid bare in the storm of emotion flickering across her face. "The Aurors found a silencing ward on the room. And when they checked your mama for magical interference, they found traces of a sleeping spell."
Her mother's breath hitched as she turned pain-filled eyes toward her youngest daughter.
And Adharia felt something tighten in her chest, an ache both sharp and deep. Because in that single look, she saw it. The loss. The grief. The anger.
And it stole the breath right from her lungs.
But before Adharia had the chance to react—to process the weight of her mother's words—her mama's voice cut in. It was the first time Narcissa had spoken in what felt like an eternity.
"I ran to the nursery," she whispered. "I swear—I got there as quickly as I could. But by the time…"
Her voice cracked. Haunted grey eyes lifted, locking onto Adharia's, and something inside her tightened.
"By the time I got there…" Her mama was struggling, barely able to force the words out. Her breath was ragged, her hands clutching her robes so tightly Adharia could see the stark white of her knuckles. Her lower lip trembled.
"By the time I got there, you were gone."
The truth spilled from her mama's lips in a rush, raw and agonized. "Liza was dead—murdered—lying in the middle of the floor as if she had tried to protect you all. And your sisters were screaming."
Tears spilled down Narcissa's pale cheeks, slipping over her delicate features. And something inside Adharia cracked. Because the way her mama looked—broken, lost, defeated—sat uncomfortably in her chest, clawing at something deep and aching.
"You were gone," Narcissa choked out. "My baby. Gone." Her voice wavered, a confession, a plea.
"I failed you." She looked down once more and Adharia could feel the guilt in each of her mama's words.
"I didn't get to you in time. I didn't protect you. I failed you." She repeated, Narcissa's voice broke, the words trembling on a sob that wracked her body.
Adharia moved before she even realized it.
The space between her sisters and her mothers was barely anything—a few short steps—but every inch of distance felt unbearable. She didn't think. Didn't hesitate.
She just moved.
Because she couldn't sit there—couldn't listen to this woman, to her mum, blame herself for something that was so clearly not her doing.
She came to a stop in front of Narcissa, her own tears slipping silently down her cheeks as she reached out, fingers curling gently around her mother's hand.
Narcissa's head snapped up, stormy grey eyes meeting hers, and Adharia cracked further.
There was so much guilt in those eyes. So much self-loathing.
She couldn't stand it.
Without a second thought, Adharia pulled her mama into her arms.
"It wasn't your fault," she whispered, voice barely more than breath, her head tucking into the somehow familiar scent of honeycomb and coconut butter.
For a moment, Narcissa didn't move. And Adharia's heart lurched. Had she overstepped? Had she assumed too much? Just because this woman was her birth mother didn't mean she wanted her near, right?
Doubt crept in, and she almost pulled away. But then—arms wrapped around her. Tight. Secure. Safe. Despite the way her mama trembled, despite the sobs still wracking her body—she held on. And Adharia held on tighter.
"It wasn't your fault, Mama," she whispered again. And somehow—without meaning to—her words shattered the dam that Narcissa had been holding back for years. Silent sobs turned into deep, agonizing cries that filled the room. Raw, gut-wrenching sounds of grief that had been locked away for far too long.
And if Adharia had ever doubted—even for a second—how much she had been wanted, the way her mama clung to her now, like she was the only thing keeping her breathing, erased that fear more completely than words ever could. Her mama's grip on her tightened, and Adharia held on just as fiercely.
She felt her sisters close behind her, their magik blending with hers in an ancient sort of harmony. Her family. Steady, strong, unwavering.
They sat like that, together. Savouring the closeness between mothers and child for the first time in fourteen years. Adharia taking in every thump, thump of her mama's heart. Comforted by her perfume and the way her families magic laced the room.
When Narcissa had quietened, soft sniffles replacing her earlier sobs, Adharia sat up slightly, not moving away from her mama, but ensuring she could now see the wider room from her mama's arms. It was Apolline who spoke next, voice steady but lined with quiet rage as she broke the peaceful silence.
"We have since learned that Albus Dumbledore was the one who infiltrated our home." Adharia stiffened.
Her mother's hand found hers, reaching across the small distance that separated them, fingers curling tightly, grounding her.
"He killed Liza in cold blood," Apolline continued, "and he stole you from your bassinet while your mama was incapacitated, and I was out of the country." Narcissa's grip around Adharia tightened, when the youngest blonde tensed.
And for the first time in her life, rage began to burn—hot and violent—in Adharia's chest. It drowned out the fear, the pain, the doubt, leaving behind only a searing, unshakable sense of injustice.
Her whole life had been orchestrated by a man who had posed as a caretaker.
It didn't matter that she had never fully trusted him, that she had always been wary of the way he watched her too closely, how he steered Harry and Ron toward her every year. Positioning them. Pushing them toward her.
Urging her to guide them. To help them. And—when necessary—to put her life on the line for them. It was sickening.
His lies were so plain now, so obvious. Yet she had let herself believe them—at least in part.
She had let his words cripple her. Had let him twist and manipulate every insecurity, every fear, every desperate wish to be wanted. But now—now—she could see the truth for what it was. And she knew one thing for certain.
She could not let it lie. Every fibre of her being recoiled at the injustice, at the betrayal.
"He cannot get away with this." The words slipped from her lips in a near-growl, her anger thrumming hot beneath her skin. Her eyes flashed—red—though she didn't notice the shift. Though despite her being oblivious to the creature that was awake and pacing within her, Appoline was not. Her mother sat up straighter, her gaze locking onto her youngest daughter's, sharp with recognition.
"He will not," her grandmother cut in smoothly. When Adharia turned to face her, a shiver crept down her spine. That smirk—delicate, refined, yet almost... sinister—rested on her grandmother's lips like a blade.
"We have a plan," the older woman continued, voice rich with satisfaction. "Step one was getting you to take that blood test in a way that he couldn't interfere with." She finished proudly and Adharia winced. The conversation from earlier trickled into her mind, like a rot creeping through the cracks. His voice, his taunts, his lies. They clung to her like a second skin.
"Let me guess," her Grandmama said, her voice much gentler than her grandmother's, though her eyes held the same razor sharp steel. "He tried?" Adharia nodded. Swallowed past the lump in her throat, blinking back tears. The painful lies Dumbledore had spun were false—she knew that now—but they still lingered, still stung. Would they always?
"What happened, Ari?" Fleur's voice was tense, but the hand she placed on her back was steady. Warm. Safe. Soothing in a way she couldn't quite describe. Adharia pressed into the touch without thinking, seeking the comfort her sister offered so freely, her shoulders relaxing as she stayed curled in Narcissa's arms.
"He called me to his office this morning," she started, her voice barely above a whisper. A shiver crawled down her spine. "He told me I was a Delacour. That I was about to find out I was... an affair child. That Narcissa Malfoy had had me with an unnamed pure-blooded man."
A low, dangerous growl rumbled through the room.
Her mother.
Adharia froze, startled by the sound, her eyes flashing red once more as she looked up at her warily. Uncertainty lacing her pale features.
"Hush," Narcissa murmured. Her voice was still rough - raw from crying, but steadier now. Holding a quiet strength that Adharia decided fit her mama much better than the guilt she had carried. Adharia watched as she placed a hand over her wife's arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the fabric of her sleeve.
"Go ahead, little one. Finish what you were saying and ignore your mother's strop." Narcissa instructed and somehow, the teasing remark—gentle, affectionate, and so normal—eased the tension in Adharia's chest that had begun at her mothers strange reaction. It wasn't something she understood. Though she wanted too. She would have to make note and ask about it later, she decided quietly. She took a breath.
"He said that once I was born, Mother realized I couldn't be hers," she continued, hesitant. "That I was brunette. That I had brown eyes. That I held no trace of Veela heritage." She paused. "I'm not really sure what all that means." Adharia admitted sheepishly, feeling as if it was something she should know. Fleur and Gabrielle giggled behind her, their hands warm on her back.
"Don't worry about it, Ari," Gabrielle said lightly, her tone playful. "Grandmama and Maman will teach you everything you need to know." Adharia nodded silently, exhaling softly. Grateful for her sisters' words of comfort.
"Then he said..." Her throat felt tight, like the words were trying to claw their way back down. "He said you were both ashamed of me. That you couldn't raise a bastard child." Her voice faltered. Stuttered. Her heartbeat picked up as she looked away, squeezing her eyes shut, desperately willing the tears away. She would not cry.
Not again. Not over Albus Dumbledore's manipulations of her life. She was so tired of letting him win.
"He said you all decided to get rid of me," she forced herself to continue. "That you disowned me and fled to France to put as much distance between us as possible." She looked up at Narcissa then, breath held. Eyes glistening with hurt. Doubt coiled around her ribs like a vice.
"You are not a bastard child," Narcissa sneered, her voice filled with a conviction that burned.
"And you certainly do not lack the Delacour genes or your Veela inheritance." Her mother added, Her voice deadly calm. Quiet but clear. "Even now at fourteen I can sense your Veela has begun waking. Ahead of schedule I might add so we best start you on learning about our creature inheritance a soon as we can."
"And you certainly do not lack the Delacour genes or your Veela inheritance," her mother added.
Her voice was quiet—too quiet—but each word was laced with something sharp. Something lethal.
"Even now, at fourteen, I can feel it," Appoline continued, eyes glinting as she watched her youngest daughter carefully. "Your Veela is waking. Ahead of schedule, I might add. We will need to start your training as soon as we can." She added, conviction lacing her words.
Something stirred within the young witch—a strange, unfamiliar sense of satisfaction at hearing her mother's pride. It settled deep in her chest, warm and steady, but her mother's words had caught her attention. Her mind—ever curious, never content with simple acceptance—latched onto them.
"What do you mean, ahead of schedule?" she asked, eyes keen, her hunger for knowledge flickering to life. The Ravenclaw in her had always thrived on figuring out the answers to all that she encountered.
Appoline chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. Adharia could feel her mama laughing too, her shoulders trembling slightly beneath her touch. But there was no mockery in their laughter—only warmth. A warmth she had never known could be meant for her.
"A seeker of knowledge, I see," her mama murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Something inside Adharia tightened—something fragile and uncertain—because it felt so natural, so easy, and she didn't know what to do with it.
She hesitated, then rushed forward, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. "I… I've always sought knowledge. But it's frustratingly not always accessible to a Muggle-born." She bit her lip, cheeks flushing pink.
"Lady Lestrange sent me all sorts of interesting books, but I never felt comfortable asking for specific ones. There are so many topics I want—no, need—to learn more about."
She glanced toward the woman in question, a guilty look flickering across her face. She had never admitted that before. Had never dared to.
She had been too busy avoiding her. Self-preservation had dictated as much. But Andromeda only smiled, soft and understanding, bowing her head slightly—as if to reassure her that she understood, that she did not hold it against her.
"Your mother is the same, little one, as is Fleur. Both have always strived to learn as much as they can," her grandmother added, her voice gentle, easing the tension curling in Adharia's chest.
If she was honest, her mind was reeling.
This all felt so easy, so natural—like slipping into a life she had never known but was always meant for her. The little pieces of herself that had been mocked and criticised for years, the traits that had set her apart, made her an outsider… were not only accepted but embraced. And better yet she wasn't alone in them?
The realization left her breathless, a quiet sense of wonder creeping up her spine. Was this real?
She swallowed hard, a sliver of fear whispering in the back of her mind. What if this was just a cruel dream? What if she woke up to find herself alone again?
That would be her luck, wouldn't it?
"Grandmother is right. Knowledge is a powerful thing, Ari," Fleur added, her voice laced with pride. Adharia turned toward her sister, drawn in by the unmistakable warmth in Fleur's expression—pride, in her. She smiled hesitantly, something fragile but hopeful unfurling in her chest.
Was this what a family looked like?
Were all families so supportive? So… loving?
She wasn't sure.
But this? This was hers and she would do anything in her power to keep it.
"Though to answer your question, ma chérie," Apolline began, recapturing her youngest child's attention. She was eager—desperate, even—to teach her daughter, to impart her knowledge and to help her grow. This was her first opportunity to do so, and she would not waste it. "Us Veela are a complicated sort. We are human, we are witches, but we are also something more. We are creature." Her voice was steady, sure, and Adharia was captivated. "It is often assumed that with each generation, the Veela gene becomes weaker, diluted by human blood, as mundane genetics would dictate," her mother continued, a sharp gleam in her eyes. "But Veela are not so simple." Adharia hung on every word, starstruck by the knowledge in her mother's voice—by the certainty, the enthusiasm.
"However, we Veela are more complex than mundane genetic wiring. There is no such thing as a half-Veela or a quarter-Veela, as the wider wizarding world believes. Every daughter of a Veela is a Veela. A full Veela. Because part of being Veela is the creature that lives inside us. How silly a notion would it be to only possess half a creature." She scoffed lightly, shaking her head before continuing. "Our Veela usually awakens around a girls sixteenth birthday. She will start sensing them, hearing their voice, sensing their emotions, experiencing the world through heightened senses all at once when her Veela begins to wake." She paused, watching Adharia carefully, and the young witch inhaled sharply, a strange feeling twisting in her chest. Was that what had been happening to her all these weeks? The sickness? The fever and migraine? The way she could hear and smell everything.
Her pulse quickened as questions surged to the surface, but before she could voice them, Apolline raised a hand, halting her with a knowing look.
"Our Veela while a creature in its own right, is an extension of our human self," she continued. "What we feel, they feel. What we want, they want and so on. But their emotions are amplified—sharper, more volatile. Possessive. Protective. Our Veela are quick to anger, harder to calm and much more reactive than our human side and that is why their awakening does not usually begin until a girl's sixteenth birthday. That is when our bodies, minds, and magic can safely integrate with them. It is also considered safest to begin teaching the skills needed to live in harmony with our Veela at this time too." Apolline's expression softened slightly, her gaze meaningful. "But… in times of great need, a Veela can begin to awaken earlier in a girls life."
"Like mine?" Adharia asked before she could stop herself. Her voice was quiet, hesitant—but burning with a curiosity that the older witches present in the room quietly hoped she would never lose.
Apolline smiled, nodding. "Yes, like yours little one. But your Veela is not just stirring and beginning to wake—your Veela magic and your thrall are awakening as well." Adharia blinked, startled, aware that there was importance in that statement, but unsure as to what it meant for her. "I can feel it in the way you react to us. In your anger at the injustice done to you. In how quickly your magic recognized your family bonds. If not for that certainty—if not for your Veela knowing exactly who she belongs with—this would not have been so easy." And suddenly, it all made sense. More sense than any of this had in a long, long time.
Yes, she was still terrified. Still anxious. Still uncertain and still more than a little confused about everything that was happening around her. But the bonds around her—the magic connecting her to her family—were stronger. Stronger than the fear she had clung to for so long. She bit her lip, contemplating her mother's words, when her grandmother's voice interrupted.
"As touching as it is, watching you two marvel over our little one's Veela heritage and all it means for her" her grandmama teased, warm laughter threading through her voice, "you cannot keep her all to yourselves forever. Some of us have been waiting for this day just as long as you have, mes filles."
There was a playfulness in her tone, but also undeniable truth—a truth that had been denied for far too long.
"Now, hand her over."
Her Grandmama's words were light-hearted, but Adharia could feel the magic behind them. Gentle, yet insistent - yearning. Her breath caught as her grandmama's magic pressed against her own, seeking. It was familiar, warm and steady. It felt like her mothers' magic, like both of her sisters too. And yet… she hesitated. Her gaze flickered between her mothers, then to her grandmother, then to her sisters— before landing back on her grandmama. Uncertainty marring her elegant features. She was conflicted. She could feel it—the inviting pull of Amilie's magic. But she could also feel the rest of her families magic tugging her in different directions, like tides drawing her toward shore from many different directions. Each promising love – acceptance and safety. Her heart torn between following the gentle ask of her Grandmama and wanting to remain where she was. Tucked up safely in her mama's arms. Arms she had been denied for fourteen cruel years.
"It's alright, ma chérie," Apolline reassured, her voice soft but certain. "Let your grandparents have their moment. Your mama and I will still be here after. We are all just so glad that you are finally here with us."
Something in Appoline's words—so full of patience, so unwaveringly certain—helped to ease the tightness that had begun to form in Adharia's chest. She smiled at her mother gratefully. Her heart warming at the quiet reassurance her mother had offered—reassurance she hadn't known she needed. It was foreign, strange, but it soothed the anxiety bubbling beneath her hesitation, grounding her in a way she wasn't sure she had ever felt before.
"It really is alright, Ari," Gabrielle murmured quietly beside her, squeezing her hand gently before smirking playfully. "Besides, better you go willingly before she loses her patience. The last time that happened, Fleur and I ended up dangling upside down at the dinner table for our incessant cheek."
A quiet giggle escaped Adharia before she could stop it. Her gaze flickered toward the older woman in question, curiosity sparking in her wide eyes.
"I would never do such an awful thing to my grandchildren!," her grandmama declared, lifting her chin in mock indignation—before winking playfully. Adharia giggled again, somehow feeling lighter - freer than she had expected to feel. Warmth spread through her chest—gentle and unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.
And when the woman held out her hand towards her, she didn't hesitate. Her families light hearted teasing working at drawing her out of her hesitance. She stepped forward, allowing herself to be drawn into a hug—in an embrace that was solid, certain and real. She was surrounded by the scent of parchment and old books, of stories and wisdom, of history and home.
She let herself sink into it.
Adharia moved through the dim corridors of Hogwarts with quiet precision, her steps light, her breathing steady. Though exhaustion curled at the edges of her mind, it did not weigh her down. For the first time in years, she felt whole—her magic thrumming within her, untethered, free. Yet, to any outsider, she was still Hermione Granger, the bookish, rule-abiding Muggle-born Ravenclaw girl that nobody particularly cared for. The mask was firmly in place, seamless and unshaken. And would remain so in public, for at least a little while longer. Only those attuned to magic, those powerful enough to sense its nuances, might catch the subtle shift in her presence. Though none would guess at the quiet storm that was quietly brewing before their eyes.
From this moment forward Adharia would never cow to anyone, ever again.
She had sat with her family - Andromeda and Dora joining them, - woven together not just simply by blood but by magic itself. The severed threads that Dumbledore had once cruelly bound and attempted to conceal from her had begun to mend, stitching themselves back with every shared breath, every whispered memory, every flicker of laughter that passed between them all. The warmth of their presence had settled deep in her bones, fortifying her. The pain of stolen years remained, a wound that could not be erased so easily, but the balm of their magic, their love, made it bearable.
Grounding. Strengthening. Healing.
They had spoken for hours, trading stories of the past—of their mother's gentle lullabies and Adharia's first month of life. Her mama had whispered that, the month that they had her was the happiest their family had ever been. That Adharia had been their starlight and when she had been taken Narcissa had been afraid to look at the stars each night, terror coursing through them all at the endless heart-breaking unknown of what had happened to her. Their Grandmother, ever the protector as her mother had described her, redirected the conversation then. Her quiet pride in Gabrielle's endless appetite for mischief lightening the mood, giving them all a respite from the horror they had lived. Fleur, ever the responsible elder, had been the one to tattle on Gabrielle's exploits, her exasperated recounting laced with reluctant amusement, Gabrielle had looked horrified at her sisters spilling of her secrets before quietly promising to teach Adharia how to cause a little mischief of her own.
"I'm certain you'll get along with the Weasley twins," Adharia had mused, a sly smirk tugging at her lips.
Gabrielle had positively beamed at the idea, eyes alight with mischief, while Fleur groaned, burying her face in her hands.
"Do not give her ideas she does not need," Fleur had muttered, but there had been no real admonition in her voice. Only the warmth of a sister who knew exactly what chaos awaited.
It had been amusing, heart warming and heart breaking all at once. She loved getting to know her family, learning the titbits of information she had been denied. Like Fleurs favourite colour – Lilac, Gabrielle's was sunset Orange. Adharia had hesitated when she had been asked what hers was, blushing awkwardly. She hadn't ever truly thought about it. Truthfully no one had ever asked. She had finally decided that Emerald Green and Navy Blue were her favourite colours, unable to pick between the two.
It had been... beautiful. And yet, beneath the joy, there was an ache—a silent grief felt by all present for all the moments that had been stolen from them. The lost years that could never be returned, but they were all resolute in reclaiming the future together.
Little details had been shared, things most would take for granted—Fleur's favourite colour was lilac, Gabrielle's was sunset orange. Then they had turned to her.
"What about you, Adharia?"
She had hesitated, heat rushing to her cheeks. No one had ever asked her that. No one had ever cared to. She had spent years fading into the background, adapting, becoming what others expected of her, hiding from the cruelty of life as a magical child in an impoverished muggle orphanage.
What colour had ever been hers?
After a moment's thought, she had whispered, "Emerald green and Ice blue."
She could not choose between them, nor did she want to. One was the deep, endless blue of the ocean, steady and vast, reminiscent of her mother, her grandmother, her sisters and now her own eyes. The other, the striking green of forbidden knowledge, of power, of growth and of home.
Fleur had hummed in approval. Gabrielle had grinned.
Adharia had felt like she belonged.
But soon, the warmth of their shared memories gave way to colder, sharper matters—the matter of Albus Dumbledore. More specifically, how they would destroy him. Piece by piece.
Her grandmama, Amilie, had explained the reasoning behind the heritage tests, her voice rich with satisfaction as she recounted how Appoline had strung the Minister up by his disproportionately scrawny neck—her words, spoken with absolute delight. How he had acquiesced to their polite suggestion that both the Ministry and Hogwarts must do more to protect the dwindling Wizarding Houses of Britain. And, of course, how necessary it would be to test all Hogwarts-aged children to ensure that lost and forgotten family lines could be restored.
Adharia highly doubted that gentle persuasion had been the deciding factor for him.
No, she suspected the Minister had been backed into a corner, threats hanging over his head like a blade. And he had done what all men like him did—folded, bartered, and prayed he wouldn't be the one bleeding at the end of it. She had met the man only a handful of times, but it had been enough to see him for what he was. Spineless. Self-serving. A relic of the old guard who spent more time bowing to the whims of the powerful than serving the people he supposedly led.
And so, step one of their plan was in motion.
Step two, however, rested on her.
Playing a role had never been difficult for Adharia. Her entire life had been a performance—an act she hadn't even been aware she was playing for most of it. But this time was different. This time, she understood the script. And more importantly, she was willing to play her part. Dumbledore could not know she had reunited with her family. He could not suspect that she was aware of the glamour still woven over her skin, concealing her true appearance. So she would act. She would slip seamlessly into the role he had always pushed her toward—the grateful, desperate, eager-to-please Hermione Granger.
She would pretend.
Pretend that the truth of her heritage had shattered her. Pretend that she was lost, isolated, and struggling to find her place. She would let them think they were helping her. That she was slowly, tentatively, returning to their fold. She would even play nice with Harry Potter and his insufferable weasel of a friend.
All the while, she and her family would watch. They would listen. They would gather every piece of information they could.
Her mothers would sift through the Ministry's records, unearthing what secrets they could. Her grandmothers would call upon their allies, rekindling old ties and striking new bargains. Adharia and her sisters would be secretly practicing and strengthening their bond and skills, together. They would meet with Lady Lestrange – Or Andromeda as the woman insisted – who after taking an unbreakable vow to keep their secrets, had volunteered to teach them without Albus Dumbledore ever suspecting something was going on.
Fleur and Gabrielle were leagues ahead of her in both skill and control—a fact that grated against the perfectionist in her. But she had only herself—no, Dumbledore—to blame for that. He had stifled her magic, suppressed her potential. Yet even hindered, she was powerful. It showed in how she outpaced her peers at Hogwarts, in how knowledge came easily to her, as if magic itself longed to be wielded in her hands. And according to her grandmother, even that was a fraction of what she should have been capable of.
"It has long been whispered," Her grandmother had mused, her voice laced with quiet disdain, "that under Albus Dumbledore's tenure, Hogwarts has deliberately produced weaker, less capable witches and wizards with ever generation that graces its halls. The syllabus here is child's play compared to what Beauxbatons teaches its students."
That, more than anything, sent fire curling in Adharia's chest. Dumbledore had stolen so much from her. Her name. Her magic. Her family.
He didn't know it yet but he would lose far more in return.
With a plan in motion and exhaustion pressing heavily upon her, Adharia barely registered Madame Pomfrey returning, shooing her family out of the infirmary with the same no-nonsense efficiency she applied to all things medical. Andromeda assured them that the matron would have no recollection of their presence here, her only recollection of the evenings events would be Hermione Granger waking alone in the infirmary and being sent on her way once she had been given the all clear - a small yet crucial safeguard in the tangled web they were weaving.
Andromeda Lestrange was an enigma to Adharia. The woman played the role of concerned maternal figure well—too well. It made Adharia want to believe she truly cared. And maybe she did. But how did that reconcile with the fact that when Adharia had been lying in this very infirmary, petrified and helpless, Andromeda had not come? She had promised she would be there. And yet, she hadn't been. It was a bitter thought, one that coiled tight in Adharia's chest. Confusing, but bitter nonetheless. The idea that Andromeda might not care hurt in ways she hadn't quite prepared for. And yet, wouldn't it be easier if she didn't? If Andromeda was just another liar, another person who didn't truly want her, then at least Adharia wouldn't have to face the quiet, aching betrayal of waking up at the end of second year to nothing but silence and an empty room.
She shook her head, dispelling the complicated web of thoughts away. She was simply too tired to unravel that particular mess tonight. She had faced enough revelations for one day. Right now, she just wanted a hot shower and the comfort of curling up in bed with the book her Grandmama had pressed into her hands before she left.
Family Magik: The Veela, Their Origins, and the Depths of Their Heritage.
Even through the exhaustion, excitement sparked within her. The mere thought of it sent a quiet thrill through her. A book detailing her heritage, her magic, her origins—who she was meant to be. For so long, she had been forced into a false identity, shackled by a past that was never truly hers and denied the very foundations of who she was destined to become. Now, she could reclaim what had been stolen, piece by piece, page by page. This was her magic, her history, her truth She could already imagine the delicate, intricate scripts woven through the pages, waiting for her to devour each nuance of her bloodline's power.
By the time she reached the Ravenclaw dormitory, her body felt impossibly heavy, but her mind remained restless. She rapped the bronze knocker against the plain oak door, rousing the enchanted eagle from its slumber.
"How much dirt is in a hole that stands four feet by four feet by five feet?" The eagle's voice was smooth, arrogant and lofty, its beady eyes glinting in the dim torchlight with a sense of arrogance that irked the young witch, as if it thought the answer was anything but obvious.
Maybe it wasn't obvious – to anyone that wasn't her. Adharia rolled her eyes. "Oh, please Raven. There isn't any dirt in a hole. Holes are empty."
The brass eagle huffed a noise of disapproval, but the latch clicked open, granting her passage into the common room. She didn't stop to see who was still awake at this miserable hour. She barely glanced at the grand common room, warmed by the blue-tinged fire flickering in the marble hearth. Instead, she made a beeline up the girls' staircase, nearly running in her eagerness to reach her sanctuary. One of the best parts of being a Ravenclaw was that after first year, students could opt for private rooms. Adharia had claimed hers immediately. Having her own space was a blessing, both for studying and for the simple luxury of shutting out the world when it became too much.
She took the steps up to her dorm two at a time, her mind singularly focused on getting into the safety of her room.
She yelped as she stumbled, her balance failing her completely as she tripped over something soft, yet surprisingly solid at her feet outside the door to her room.
Or rather, someone.
"Hermione?"
The tangled heap of blue-lined robes stirred, a groggy voice mumbling her old name as the mass of limbs fought to right itself. Adharia blinked in surprise before recognition dawned, concern immediately replacing.
"Cho? What on earth—" She knelt immediately, grasping her friend's arms and hauling her upright. "What are you doing sleeping outside my room?"
Cho groggily rubbed at her head, her dark eyes blinking blearily up at her. "You took forever and when you didn't come back... I was worried. Then I figured you were in the infirmary, and Pomfrey wouldn't let me in to see you, so I figured…. If I couldn't wait with you, I'd wait here." She yawned. "Didn't mean to fall asleep."
Adharia exhaled sharply, a mix of fondness and exasperation blooming in her chest. Cho had always been one of the few constants in her life, a steady presence who had seen beyond the lies and half-truths, who had chosen her even when she had nothing to offer in return.
"Come on," Adharia murmured, guiding her friend inside. She helped Cho onto the bed before summoning a blanket and retrieving a couple of potions from her secret stash—gifts from Andromeda, tucked away for moments like this. A warming charm on the blanket, a soft nudge toward comfort. "Here. Take this, then sleep."
Cho didn't argue, but she still watched Adharia with quiet concern. "What happened, Mia?"
Adharia hesitated. Even now, after everything she had learned that nickname felt as natural as the name she was born with. Cho was the only one who had ever called her that—Mia. Yet it was a name that belonged to someone who no longer existed. And yet, it felt like home coming from Cho's lips.
Adharia paused in the doorway of the bathroom. "I'll tell you everything tomorrow. Promise."
The door clicked softly behind her, and for the first time in days, Adharia allowed herself to breathe.
From the other side of the door, Cho's soft snores were the only reply.
Adharia smiled. Because despite everything that had changed—despite her changing—Cho was still Cho. Still her best friend. And right now, that was enough.
~Albus Dumbledore's POV ~
~Friday 8th September 1995~
~Headmasters Office~
The sharp pop of elf apparition shattered the silence of the office, pulling Albus Dumbledore's attention away from the parchment spread before him. He did not startle—he rarely did—but the interruption was an unwelcome one. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the presence of a small, trembling figure. Dobby. The creature stood anxiously at the edge of the grand desk, his large, bat-like ears drooping, his wide green eyes darting about nervously. That, of course, was nothing unusual. The little elf was forever wringing his hands, tripping over his own feet, or flinching as though expecting a strike. However, this particular display of anxiety set Albus on edge.
Dobby's nerves meant one of two things—either he had failed to obtain the information as instructed, or he had learned something Dumbledore would rather not hear. Neither option was ideal. He exhaled softly through his nose, a deliberate, measured breath, and turned his attention back to the letter in his hand. Choosing to ignore the pathetic little creature for the moment.
It was an intriguing piece of correspondence. A curious letter indeed – one that had arrived without warning, penned by a former student, long since graduated. A student who had written to him—in an unexpected turn of events, given her notable absence from Wizarding Britain's affairs in recent years. Andromeda Lestrange. Not Black or even Tonks as he had once hoped, he reminded himself. Lestrange.
A curious woman, that one. He had once had high hopes for her, marking her as a promising recruit for his Order during her final few years at Hogwarts. She was clever, talented, and—more importantly—connected. Her ties to the Muggle-born in Fifth year had been an intriguing possibility, but it was a relationship that had ultimately fractured, dashing his hopes of seeing one of the revered Daughter's of House Black tied in marriage to a muggle-born. It would have been scandalous, drawing the right kind of attention from the media when the woman's parents disowned her for disgracing their line. But it had ultimately not come to pass. The opportunity slipping by him so quietly he had somehow missed it. How, exactly, that had happened remained frustratingly unknown to him. Not that it particularly mattered now. Edward Tonks had disappeared, never to be heard from again and Andromeda had gone on to marry the Lestrange Heir. What did matter was that, despite everything that had happened and her unfortunate choices, she had remained a figure of influence. Her name alone carrying weight in the right circles.
And now, she was offering her services – expressing interest in returning to the castle—not as a guest, but as an instructor.
A most interesting prospect.
He had always known she would be useful, given the right circumstances. Wealthy, influential, and powerful in her own right, Andromeda Lestrange was not a piece to be played lightly. But if she was offering herself up willingly, well—that could make things far simpler.
Dumbledore's fingers drummed lightly against the wood of his desk, his mind already calculating the possibilities. The timing was convenient, almost too convenient. Why now? He thought quietly, considering the possibilities. Why had she resurfaced now, after all these years? The Triwizard Tournament loomed just weeks away, and Alastor Moody would certainly appreciate the additional help. He had done nothing but grumble about the workload since his arrival, and it had only been four days since the term began. The man was getting slower, Dumbledore had noticed. Not physically—no, he still moved with a certain sharpness when necessary—but his mind? That was another matter entirely. The years had worn him down, paranoia gnawing away at his better judgment. If Dumbledore secretly thought his old colleague was beginning to lose his edge, that was something he would keep to himself. It had been enough of a challenge convincing Alastor to split his time between the Auror Office and Hogwarts, and an outright replacement would have drawn too much scrutiny.
No, it would be far easier to simply… supplement his presence. Andromeda, if handled correctly, could be that supplement.
And now, an opportunity presented itself. He did so like it when things fell in to place so beautifully.
More than that, she could be an asset.
With the Triwizard Tournament set to begin in mere weeks, it was in his best interest to keep a closer eye on the proceedings. His role as headmaster required him to ensure the safety of his students—or at least, that was what the public expected of him. In reality, his priorities lay elsewhere. The tournament was an opportunity. A calculated risk. One that would set certain events into motion, events that had been carefully planned years in advance. Every piece on the board had been placed with purpose, every move accounted for. The war was coming—he had made certain of it—and when it did, he would need every advantage.
Andromeda's letter was more than just an expression of interest—it was a strategic move. Her wealth, her connections, her resources—all valuable assets in the greater game he played. If he maneuvered correctly, he could ensure that her position within Hogwarts worked to his advantage. Her influence could be guided, shaped, into something useful.
And then, of course, there were her… suggestions.
She had outlined several proposals—enhancements, she called them—that could increase Hogwarts' chances of securing victory in the Tournament. That, above all, piqued his interest. A successful showing in the competition would only further cement his influence, reinforcing the image of Hogwarts as the beacon of the magical world.
He had spent years carefully cultivating his public persona, ensuring that Wizarding Britain saw him as a wise, benevolent leader. The hero. The guiding light.
A position he manipulated often.
Yes, he thought, settling back into his chair, this could be very useful indeed.
Finally, his gaze shifted back to the trembling elf still standing at attention. A flicker of irritation crossed his expression. Dobby would not have lingered unless the matter was pressing. And if it was pressing, then it likely concerned a certain girl.
His lips curled into the faintest ghost of a smile.
"Speak, Dobby," he commanded, his tone as gentle as ever. Yet beneath that practiced warmth, there was an unmistakable edge of impatience.
The little elf flinched, his trembling worsening—a pitiful display, really.
Albus regarded him coolly, suppressing a sigh. House-elves, if raised under the correct conditions, could be just as useful as the people he maneuvered on a daily basis. Their unwavering loyalty, their inherent magic, their ability to pass unnoticed through the halls of power—such traits made them valuable tools in the right hands. Properly trained, a house-elf could be an exceptional asset.
Dobby, however, was not.
The creature had always been difficult. Wilful, unpredictable, too prone to sentimentality. His potential had been squandered, leaving him little more than a semi-useful servant at best.
"Well?" Albus prompted again, allowing the faintest flicker of irritation to cross his otherwise composed expression.
Dobby swallowed, his wide eyes darting about the office before finally speaking.
"Master said Dobby follow Hermionny. Misses Granger has left from the firmry. Lady Healer said no one came."
He very nearly stuttered over the words. Albus almost smirked. At least the creature had learned some restraint—he had expressed, more than once, his distaste for Dobby's sniveling, stammering speech. It irked him more than most things.
"You are certain no one came to see her?" he asked, voice measured.
"Certains, Master. Dobby asked Lady Healer."
Albus nodded slowly, pursing his lips in thought. That was unexpected. He had anticipated some sort of response to the heritage tests—some figure from the past, some long-lost relation come to reclaim the girl. Yet, according to Dobby, no one had.
The revelation brought a flicker of satisfaction.
It meant she had believed him.
She had not run off to confess her unfortunate heritage to anyone of consequence. She had not sought out guidance beyond what he had carefully provided. No sudden interference. No meddling outsiders. No threats to the careful narrative he had spent years crafting.
Still, the danger had not yet passed.
This year would be a difficult one. He would need to keep an even closer watch on her—ensure she was drip-fed his version of events often enough that she did not decide to dig where she shouldn't. It would not do to come this far, only for the carefully placed pawns to start slipping from their assigned positions. Truthfully he hadn't really had the time to think through the repercussions of inviting Beauxbatons to Hogwarts. He had been Certain the Delacour's would not allow their daughters to grace the walls of Hogwarts after losing their youngest.
He had after all kept close contact with them in the days afterward. Even helping them search for the girl. Once he had been certain he had avoided suspicion he had slowly extracted himself from their lives. Taking comfort in the knowledge they had moved to France, determined to keep the remaining two of their daughters away from the dangers that lurked in Britian. He had even assured them it was a wise choice. Though he should have known the Veela Clan would not allow their school to be entered into any competition without their future leaders present. A regretful miscalculation on his part.
But that did not mean all was lost. No, he had the ability to stay one step ahead of them, ensuring the girl would never seek those that had discarded her. And who would he be, but a benevolent voice of care and reason to not encourage her to maintain that… separation from those that had seen her as shameful.
He had miscalculated, not mis stepped. His plan so carefully cultivated that even with the Delacour's ever so close to their sister, they would never suspect a thing.
"Very well, Dobby," he said at last, settling back into his chair. "Keep an eye on her. Report to me if anything seems… suspicious."
With a dismissive wave of his hand, he sent the elf away, almost chuckling at the speed with which Dobby disappeared from the office.
Weak. Skittish. But obedient.
For now, at least.
With that thought in mind, Albus stood, stretching out his tense muscles. It was nearing morn. High time he caught a little rest before the new day dawned once more.
~Andromeda Lestrange's POV ~
~Lestrange Manor~
~Friday 8th September ~
Seated on the patio lounge, a steaming cup of coffee cradled between her hands, Andromeda Lestrange watched as the first light of dawn spilled over the manicured gardens of the manor. The sky was painted in soft hues of gold and rose, and in its glow, her daughter's vibrant pink hair shimmered brilliantly. The sight brought a gentle smile to Andromeda's lips.
Nymphadora.
So full of life, so utterly herself. The bold colour in her hair—so fiercely hers—was back in place, a reflection of the bright, determined soul she had raised. It was in quiet moments like these that Andromeda allowed herself to believe, truly believe, that she had made the right choice. That all the struggles, all the sacrifices, had been worth it.
Their life was one of security, of certainty. Their name, their wealth—it afforded them protection, yes, but more than that, it ensured that Nymphadora would never be hindered. Never be shamed for the circumstances of her birth, never be forced to shrink herself to fit someone else's expectations. The love and joy they shared as a family was a magic all its own, one Andromeda cherished more than anything.
She could no longer imagine a world where her daughter had been denied this. And yet… once, she had envisioned a different life entirely. A life that, in her youthful naivety, she had convinced herself was the key to happiness.
Once upon a wand, she had dreamed of freedom—true freedom. A life where she had married for love, where she had carved her own path, defied the rigid expectations placed upon her. As a starry-eyed teenager, she had believed that her heart alone should dictate her future. And for a time, she had thought that future lay with Edward Tonks.
He had been everything she thought she wanted—kind, charming, adventurous. A breath of fresh air in a world that had already planned out every step of her existence. He had offered her a life of uncertainty, a chance to choose for herself.
But it would have been a cruel life. Of that, she was certain now.
Her father had made sure of it.
The summer she turned sixteen, he had taken her beyond the protective bubble of the wizarding world. He had walked her through the streets of Muggle London, shown her what lay in wait if she continued to chase after a dream built on ignorance.
She had not understood it then—not truly. She had believed that the Muggle world and the wizarding world were simply different, nothing more. That love could bridge those differences, that the prejudices she had grown up hearing about were nothing but the paranoia of an outdated generation. But her father had made certain she saw.
Tucked away in the dull uniformity of suburban cul-de-sacs, they had watched the Muggle women of that time—wives, mothers, daughters—trapped in the monotony of servitude. Cooking, cleaning, repeating the same thankless tasks day in and day out. Their lives were dictated by the men they stood beside, their potential crushed beneath expectations as suffocating as the ones Andromeda had once resented.
And then, her father had taken her to see Edward.
They had knocked right on his door. Walked into the house as if they belonged there. And Edward—Edward had welcomed them, unaware that it would be the moment that shattered Andromeda's carefully constructed fantasy.
His father had been a preacher.
The man had tolerated magic, in the way one tolerates an unfortunate birth defect in an otherwise acceptable child. His distaste for it, for her, had been barely veiled beneath the forced civility of a reluctant host. They had eaten dinner together—some sort of roast, the details of which Andromeda had long since forgotten—but the conversation? That, she remembered with perfect clarity.
Edward had spoken of their future as though it was already written. He had smiled at her, reassured her that she needn't bother with silly things like a career in healing. No, she would stay home. Raise his children. Make his meals.
His Andy.
The words had been meant as comfort. As reassurance.
Instead, they had been a knife to the gut.
By the time they left, she had been distraught. Torn between the image of the man she thought she loved and the reality of what he expected of her.
Edward had been an escape—but only from one prison into another. She had been willing to trade the rigid structure of a Pureblood heiress for the gilded cage of a Muggle wife. The realization had nearly broken her.
Though she had risen from her grief, more determined than ever to pick her own path. So she did, carefully. Constructing a path that let her grow into herself in a way that did not ostracise her from her family or her potential and by the time she had entered sixth year, Edward Tonks was a distant memory. One that she preferred not to linger on.
She had been so young. So blind.
Andromeda exhaled slowly, forcing herself to release the lingering bitterness of that memory. It was the past—a lesson learned. A lesson she would never forget.
Now, she had a life she had chosen. A husband she had grown to love. A daughter who was, clever, loving, beautiful and as free as Andromeda had once longed to be.
And she would never—never—let anyone take that from them.
Adharia Delacour had been an unforeseen variable, a presence Andromeda had never accounted for. Nor had she anticipated the ancient, intricate magic that bound the youngest Delacour to her own daughter. And yet, as she sat watching Nymphadora—her child, her heart—kicking her feet in the air, her expression bright with laughter as she recounted the events of the previous night, Andromeda knew with absolute certainty that Adharia belonged.
The way the two girls interacted, the unspoken trust, admiration, and respect that had already taken root between them—it was everything. And that wasn't even taking into account the way Andromeda herself felt about the girl.
She had spent years watching from the shadows, feeling an ache, she hadn't been able to name whenever she looked at Hermione Granger. She had pitied the child, felt an unexplainable pull to protect her, but Albus had blocked every path before she could even take a step. He had been one step ahead of anyone who wished to protect the girl in any way.
Andromeda had tried. Quietly. Carefully, of course to try and gain custody of the girl, not that she had ever divulged that information to the girl, as rocky as their relationship was Andromeda hadn't wanted to make any promise's she couldn't keep. She had sought answers through the Ministry, had questioned Amelia Bones—Head of the Department for Magical Child Welfare—about Hermione Granger's wellbeing, including raising concerns over how jumpy and hypervigilant the girl had been from the moment they had met. She had been dismissed with firm reassurances that the child received regular magical checks by Madame Pomfrey at the castle and that her guardian in the wizarding world was Albus Dumbledore, so of course all her needs were being met. Beyond that, Amelia had refused to divulge anything further, and Andromeda had not pushed. Drawing too much attention to the girl could have been dangerous.
Instead, she had helped where she could—quiet acts of defiance cloaked in caution. She had never quite understood why she had hesitated to push further, why something within her magic warned her to tread carefully. At the time, it had felt like cowardice. Now, she knew better.
Magic had been protecting her. Protecting them both. Shielding her from the scrutiny of a man who, without anyone knowing, had already stolen too much. Ensuring that Adharia would find her way back to where she truly belonged.
Andromeda was many things, but she was not a fool. What she knew—what she had witnessed, overheard, and painstakingly pieced together about the girl and her home life in the nearly four years she had quietly observed Hermione Granger—was no longer hers to guard. To withhold that knowledge now would only hinder those who sought the justice they deserved.
The Delacour women needed to know everything.
Andromeda would not hesitate. She would lay bare every scrap of information she had gathered, every suspicion, every gut-wrenching moment of knowing something was terribly wrong and being unable to act. And she would do more than share the truth—she would help in whatever way she could. If there was a battle to be fought, she would stand beside them. If there was justice to be won, she would see it through.
It had been too long since she had truly spoken with Narcissa, and the guilt of that had never left her. She had wanted to be there, had wanted to reach out, but time had never been in her favour. Narcissa had lost her daughter—her world—and Andromeda had grieved with her. But with a sister in Azkaban, a cousin rotting there too, another cousin missing, and a lively six-year-old of her own to raise, she had let that connection slip through her fingers.
She hadn't been there for them. She hadn't fought for them when they had needed her most.
Merlin be damned if she made the same mistake again.
It was why she had stepped forward. Why she had agreed to infiltrate Hogwarts, to get close to the vile man who called himself headmaster, to oversee the training of the children who would one day change everything. It wasn't enough—not nearly enough—to make up for the years she had been absent, but she would not fail them.
Not this time.
Not when so much depended on them staying in the shadows until the time was right.
A biscuit landed unceremoniously in her lap, jolting her from her thoughts.
"Mum, are you even listening?" Nymphadora pouted, arms folded, her brows furrowed in exaggerated irritation.
Andromeda sighed, torn between scolding her for her lack of manners and laughing at the all-too-familiar petulance on her daughter's face.
"If you cannot conduct yourself properly, Nymphadora, then perhaps we should revisit your heiress training," she mused, lips twitching.
As expected, her daughter's pout deepened, her arms tightening across her chest as she huffed, "I can behave."
That did it. Andromeda laughed, warm and unrestrained, her eyes alight with mirth.
For all that her daughter had grown into a formidable Auror, fiercely independent and successful, she had never quite outgrown the habit of throwing things the moment she felt she wasn't getting her way.
Some things, it seemed, would never change.
Andromeda collected herself, smoothing down her robes as she turned her full attention to her now thoroughly unamused daughter. "What is it you would like to discuss, Nymphadora?"
"Hermione—well, Adharia." Nymphadora exhaled sharply, running a hand through her ever-shifting hair. "I don't know what I should do. I mean, I feel our bond, and you're right—it isn't anything other than platonic. And I know she feels it too. But how do I support her without overstepping? How do I be there for her in a way that isn't suffocating but still lets her know she's not alone?"
The words tumbled out in a rush, her hair flashing through colours as quickly as she spoke. It was a clear sign of her anxiety—one Andromeda had learned to recognize long ago.
"Calm, my girl," she soothed, patting the cushion beside her.
Nymphadora didn't hesitate, shifting into her mother's embrace with the same ease she always had. Andromeda smiled softly, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead before running gentle fingers through her daughter's hair, the strands rippling between colours beneath her touch.
"I'm not sure I have all the answers for you, my Nymph," she admitted, her voice thoughtful. "But what I can tell you is this—listen to the magic that connects you. Apolline and Amilie said yesterday that your bond will be whatever you both need in each moment of your lives. That kind of magic is ancient, instinctive. It will guide you, if you trust it."
She felt Nymphadora nod against her shoulder, humming softly in consideration.
Andromeda knew the truth of it. The magic that wove between her daughter and Adharia was as old as magic itself. No matter how much one studied it, no scholar, no seer, no witch or wizard would ever truly understand all the intricacies of the bonds magic spun in the world around them.
Still, she understood her daughter's hesitation. The desire to do right by the girl. To protect, to support, without smothering her.
"If you're that worried, darling, why don't you come with me to speak with the Delacour's at lunchtime?" she suggested. "I planned to visit them personally before attending Albus's introductory meeting." She waved a hand dismissively, but her lip curled in barely concealed disgust at the mention of his name.
Perhaps pretending to tolerate the man would be harder than she thought.
"I'll come with you," Nymphadora agreed easily, her hair settling into its usual bright pink. Then she grinned mischievously. "Though, for the love of Merlin, fix your face, Mother. You'll never fool that old codger if you keep looking like you're chewing on Glumbumbles."
Andromeda huffed out a laugh, shaking her head.
She truly did thank her lucky stars for this daughter of hers.