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The wind and rain are so cold that she’d be freezing without booze, she muses. The thought leads her to take another gulp straight from the bottle of muggle whiskey, although she cannot say if it’s to gather a bit more courage or just to give a metaphorical middle finger to all of her bigoted relatives. Since it does little in terms of bravery, she at least revels in the thought that all the morons are rolling in their graves. She is facing them, a dull row of grey stones, with no flowers to lighten them up and empty, carved words that mean nothing anymore. Words like ‘Renowned curse breaker’ or 'Beloved wife' when she knows that the former was better at creating said curses and the latter’s husband had chosen to save his heir instead of his wife. She’d pity them if she didn’t think that those people would have done the exact same thing to others in the same circumstances. Pureblood society is also a cold-blooded one and oh! how grateful she is for the alcohol running hot in her veins. It doesn’t make her braver but it distances her from her demons.
It’s not like these graves are the ones she’s interested in, anyway. The one she wants to visit – because she wants to, doesn’t she? – is farther to the left, the last one dug in the cemetery. One would say the soil around it is fresh, compared to the rest, yet three years have already passed.
Andromeda Tonks is aware of it.
She’s aware of every ticking second that takes her further and further away from her daughter, of time that blurs what she thought were unforgettable memories and yet does nothing to abate her pain, of the days that turn Teddy into a little boy when all his parents ever knew was a baby.
Still, despite time passing by, she’s been unable to visit until today. She’s tried multiple times but had to stop before she even made it to the gate of the cemetery. The first time, she couldn’t even apparate due to the panic that seized her. The other times went similarly, each bringing her closer to success without quite allowing her to see it through. Today’s different.
Today’s May, 2nd 2001, a day when the British wizarding world mourn the dead and celebrate the living. The noteworthy ones, at least. And Andromeda… Andromeda’s been mourning her husband, daughter, and son in law for three years straight, but today she would like to give her heart what it has been craving for just as long. She sips at the bottle and turns left. It doesn’t take her long to reach her destination, and she’s surprised to see red roses on the headstone. She’d expected to find a grave much cleaner than the rest, of course, as nature can only do so much in three years, but the brightness of the wreath brings tears to her eyes. No flowers at all would have been better, she thinks. The arrangement is but a reminder that only one other person cares enough to come here, if not regularly then at least once a year, on that blasted day that is supposed to make space for both sadness and celebration alike. Andromeda wonders if the person’s heart has only place for sadness, too.
Her hand dives into her pocket, which she didn’t even need to charm to stay dry because muggles are way smarter than wizards and actually make clothes with waterproof materials. She retrieves a folded paper – enchanted, this one, because good luck with making it waterproof otherwise – and unfolds it. She clears her throat before opening her mouth, but whatever words she wants to read form a lump in her throat. It’s as if they spent years trying to tumble out of her mouth, but now that escape is near they shy away from their truth. It reminds her of when she was 8, when all she could talk about was how much she wanted to fly out her bedroom window and taste freedom. It had seemed like a good idea until her sisters had dared her to do it, and she’d stayed on the windowsill for hours, petrified with fear until a house-elf had come to retrieve her. Reading from her letter feels the same, except she’s not so naive as to think freedom is waiting for her at the end. She doesn’t even have an elf to save her, just cheap liquor.
She goes for another gulp of whiskey but realises the bottle is empty. So much for relying on alcohol. She throws it to the side, the glass not quite clinking against the wet gravel.
“I do hope you plan on picking that up on your way out,” says a cold voice.
Andromeda jumps, not having heard anyone come her way. She turns, and the sight that greets her is not something she quite expected: Narcissa Malfoy, dressed in black from head to toe, looking at her so glacially that anyone would cower under her stare. But the Tonks widow is not anyone, and she curses herself when fondness, of all feelings, engulfs her. She’s seen the blonde witch in passing throughout the years, either pregnant or carrying an equally blonde toddler on Diagon Alley, lost in thoughts while browsing at Twilfitt and Tattings, or regal even after a messy trial painted in the newspapers; always from afar. It is the first time since her 17th birthday that she is face to face with Narcissa, and the treacherous part of her that missed her rejoices in this impromptu reunion.
“What are you doing here?” she says instead of showing how affected she is by her sister, and she hopes her tone is as detached as she meant it to be.
It’s just so hard. There, standing next to her is her baby sister.
Who looks and acts as nothing of the spoiled princess she used to be. Instead, she advances towards the grave like a queen, but instead of childishness and mischief, her eyes show restraint. She doesn’t ask for attention, but she has it anyway. The dark-haired witch notices how the rain does not affect her. It touches her, of course, but she must have cast a spell on her clothes and hair as not to have it dishevelled by the water. Only the wind cuts through her, turning her cheeks pink and forcing her to squint her eyes. They look at each other, and as Narcissa kneels in front of the grave, Andromeda doesn’t forget that she still hasn’t answered her question. She watches her tap the wreath with her wand, whispering an incantation that seems to satisfy her, then stand up again. She is in no apparent hurry to talk to the other witch.
“Are you just going to ignore me?”
Andromeda is aware that her defiance comes from the alcohol she’s had, but she’d like to think that she doesn’t need it to confront her sister. She wants to see herself as someone who can face one of the most important people in her life, and tell her how wrong she was and how unfair she was and how cruel it is that she gets to go home to her family while she goes home to her orphaned grandson, because really, if someone deserved to die wasn’t it Lucius Malfoy?
No. No, she doesn’t want to be that person. She shouldn’t think this way, and wish suffering on her own sister. Her own blood. Even if said blood didn’t think twice before turning her back on her. So no, she won’t blame her sister for events she couldn’t control, but confronting her for her betrayal is more understandable. She owes it to her 17-year-old self, stranded between two worlds, sharing a house with people whom she’d been taught to hate, pregnant and with no other family than a boy her age.
It’s funny, how she came to make peace with one person of her life, to end up facing another. It makes her crave a full bottle of whatever alcohol is strong enough to make her forget.
“I saw you walk through the gates earlier,” says Narcissa, at last.
Her voice is strong and steady, as much as can be expected from someone who grew up being told she should be seen and not heard. The wind has died down a bit, which makes hearing easier. The only weakness she shows is in the avoidance of Andromeda’s eyes. Instead, she stares at the grave as if she were talking to it instead of the breathing body next to her.
“It didn’t take me long to know what you were doing here. I admit I wondered if you were going to go through with it. I will say I’m surprised you are here,” says Narcissa.
“What? Didn’t think I had it in me?” snarls Andromeda.
“I’m sure that with a bit of liquid courage anyone can do anything.”
She glances at the empty bottle. Andromeda deflates. She looks at the unfolded parchment in her hands, smoothing invisible lines, before folding it again and putting it back in her pocket. She senses the blonde’s eyes on her, but doesn’t dare meet them. All of her fight has left her, leaving her exhausted. If Narcissa had responded in kind, just as fiery as her, just as vicious as her mind made her to be, she could have fought her. Hell, it would have been quite fitting considering the grave they were visiting. But her sister is collected, maybe too much for someone enchanting flowers on a grey stone. She notices only now how her the blonde’s eyes are shadowed and how thin she is. She even thinks that, if it were not for her fancy bun, the usually luscious hair would fall limp around her face. And why would it not be?
Today’s a mourning day, and they’re in their family cemetery, in front of their sister’s grave.
One funeral wreath made by one person. How lonely grieving can be.
The thought doesn’t make Andromeda feel better. There’s no sudden warmth that enters her body, no feeling of camaraderie in their grief.
She doesn’t know how Narcissa feels, or how she’s been handling the loss of a warrior who swore to protect them. Just the same, Narcissa doesn’t know how Andromeda feels about grieving the woman that people say killed her only child, even though she’d promised she’d love any part of her sister forever.
They’re walking the same path but following different lights, so the older witch decides to share a bit of hers.
“I wrote her a letter,” she says, “because I had so much to say that my thoughts kept going around in my head and it was driving me nuts. Except that I can’t read it out loud, because what difference does it make? And now you’re here, so there’s no way I’m pouring my heart out in front of you.”
She adds the last bit in an attempt to seem less pathetic. Maybe it only reinforces the image, but the chuckle it draws from her sister is worth it.
“Was it enough? Writing the letter, I mean” asks Narcissa.
The brunette thinks about it for a few minutes. Her mind goes back to her floor littered in unsatisfactory attempts, to the quill she broke in her frustration. She thinks about how cathartic it felt to put down into words how she’d felt for decades. She wishes she could tell Bella, face to face, but that is mostly because it would allow her to punch her rather than a real need to say the words out loud. Her mind has already made peace with the feelings she’s put in writing.
“Yes, I believe it was enough. It still is.”
“I could conjure an envelope for you to leave here, if you’d like,” suggests the blonde after a beat, “It would be like telling her. And, if you ever feel like you need to read them out loud, a spell could make sure that nothing damages the envelope or the parchment inside.”
Andromeda nods, and is soon amazed at how proficient Narcissa is at conjuring objects out of thin air. She’s heard of how powerful Lucius Malfoy’s wife is. They call her The-Witch-Who-Lied, when they’re not giving her less flattering nicknames, and it is not a reputation that comes out of nowhere. Still, until today the last image she had of her sister doing magic was practicing for her OWLS, and it reminds her of everything they’ve missed in each other’s life.
She grabs the envelope – charmed with waterproof and concealment charms, ‘for privacy’ – and tucks her letter in it. It feels strange, like saying goodbye to a part of her. She’s been resentful towards her older sister for twenty years, and although it will never really leave her, she does feel lighter when she puts it beside the wreath, just under the words ‘Shining Star and Beloved Sister’.
Then Narcissa stands even straighter, adjusts her robes, and turns to leave. It almost gives Andromeda whiplash, the atmosphere entirely different.
“You’re already leaving?” she blurts out.
The blonde stops and looks at her, an eyebrow raised.
“Why, yes, the Ministry Remembrance Gala is tonight and I need to get ready,” she says as if nothing else made more sense.
They both know that there is another four hours before the beginning of the gala, but the past thirty minutes is the first time they’ve spent together since their teenage years, and although it’s been a while since she’s been a proper pureblood witch, Andromeda knows it wouldn’t be correct to call her out.
Instead, she nods and watches as the blonde starts walking. The sound of steps against the gravel stops again.
“Andromeda?”
A stare.
“If you find that some of those thoughts going around your head are related to me… Please do not wait until a charmed letter is your only option.” It is wrapped in judgment, but Andromeda recognises the gift inside: hope. If reconnecting with her sister is, albeit indirectly, Bella’s parting gift, she might just have to add a thank you to that letter. Beloved Sister, indeed.