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On the day of her first wedding anniversary, Andromeda came home to find a bouquet of daffodils on her kitchen counter, delivered while she was out. At first glance, she had thought they might be from Ted. Sweet though it was, she thought it was an odd gift. She had never shown much interest in flowers, and daffodils were a strange choice for an autumn anniversary even if she had. All the more so since, out of season as they were, they must have cost quite a few galleons—galleons she and her husband most certainly did not have.
When she went to investigate the vibrant bouquet, she was even more surprised to find that the flowers had no card—no name, no regards, not even the logo of a florist—which seemed even stranger that the flowers themselves. If Ted, or anyone for that matter, had wanted to send her such an exorbitant present, certainly they would want to take credit for it.
When Ted returned home a couple hours later, he claimed to have absolutely nothing to do with the mysterious gift. He had bought something far more predictable of his own, which made sense, of course, but it did leave her with an unsolved mystery, and all night, she found herself pondering it.
There was only one person in her life for whom daffodils held any significance, but her sister was the last person she’d expected to hear from on this day—well, one of the last. They hadn’t spoken since the wedding, which was only to be expected. And while she didn’t think Narcissa held it against her in quite the same way as the others, it was a distinction without a difference in the end.
And yet… the daffodils seemed so much like something Cissy would do, and the instinct inside of Andromeda said if not her, then who else?
The thought of her sister making even this anonymous statement of peace and well wishes brought a smile to her lips. It would be no small comfort to confirm that Cissy at least had not hardened her heart completely against her, even if everyone else in her family had done so with apparent ease.
Still, beneath it all, Andromeda knew she had a talent for letting ideas like this run away with her. She knew there was a good chance that she was just being hopeful, foolishly so. The purchase of narcissus flowers was certainly not limited to their namesakes, and it was just as likely that the card had been forgotten or misplaced or even blown off in the wind, unnoticed by a careless owl. Surely, she would walk into work the following morning and be asked whether she had received the gift by some extravagant coworker who had misguidedly believed them to be her favorite flower or some such mistake. Andromeda would tell them of the missing card and they would bemoan the post and its inability to deliver anything quite correctly these days. She would smile and laugh and thank them profusely, and all the while, she'd be biting back the bitter taste of disappointment on her tongue.
But that did not happen. No one claimed the flowers or made any reference to them. Not with work, not with friends. They had nearly passed out of her mind entirely when on the day of Nymphadora’s birth, there was an all too familiar bouquet waiting for her when she returned from hospital. Once again, daffodils had arrived without a card to claim them, but this time, they had been magically augmented to appear a pale baby girl pink.
Andromeda poked at the magic that had changed them with wonder. It was elegant yet simple; it could very easily be Cissy’s spell, perhaps even one of her own creation. Her sister had always had an affinity for glamours after all.
Before the flowers faded, Andromeda had studied the charm, learning it for herself—more out of idle curiosity and boredom during mat leave than out of any intention to use it. But when later, Narcissa's own child was born, Andromeda thought that if there was any moment to put her theory to the test, this was it. She would use the same spell, only this time, the flowers would be blue for her sister’s blonde-haired little boy.
Draco. She had smiled at the name when she'd seen the announcement. A formidable choice rooted in both myth and astronomy—a better name for a Black than a Malfoy in her opinion. How Narcissa must have that husband of hers wrapped around her finger, not that that was any surprise.
When the moment came, Andromeda was unreasonably nervous to send them off, dawdling over the perfect shade, switching abruptly from cerulean to a pale azure at the last minute. Really, she knew she was only stalling. No matter how sure she had felt that the flowers were from Narcissa, there was always a chance that it was just a fantasy. For all she knew, she had some secret admirer and her sister had written her off just as soundly as Bellatrix and every other member of their family had done.
However, if that turned out to be the case, the flowers would be nothing but a mysterious, pleasant surprise. Narcissa would question her friends and when no one claimed responsibility, she would move on, never knowing who had been sweet enough to go through all the trouble. The only way she would know is if she had been the one who had started this tradition in the first place. Of course, by that same token, Andromeda would probably never know herself whether the gift had been received with warm recognition or only confusion. But she thought it was worth it regardless. And with a final sigh, she sent a post owl off with the unmarked bouquet, prepared to forever wonder what became of them.
Consequently, she was more surprised than by any previous delivery when an owl showed up at her window bearing a note, unsigned and with only the words "Thank you" written inside. Pressed within the parchment were two flowers, entwined at the stems. Andromeda could identify them at a glance as blue salvia, but it was only with a trip to the library and a book on Floral Symbology that she could see any meaning behind them—I think of you.
From then on, the two sisters had an understanding. Finally on the same page, they branched out from daffodils and into other unmarked bouquets as the occasion would dictate. It was a sporadic and unsatisfying means of communication, but it was more of a comfort than the never-ending silence that was the only other viable alternative.
After the second war was over and the list of deaths had been made public, two purple hyacinths arrived—a symbol of sorrow and regret—twined together by a thin black ribbon. One for Dora and one for Ted.
Andromeda had seen Narcissa and her son at the memorial service for the fallen. There were no funerals. If there had been, they would have been going to funerals daily for the rest of the year. At one moment, Andromeda thought she felt her sister’s eyes upon her but when she turned, Narcissa’s eyes were straight ahead.
Not long after, Cissy lost her own husband to the ravages not of war but of prison—a fate she had only narrowly escaped herself. Andromeda wasn’t sure how much of a loss he was to the world or to her sister by then, but she still wanted to repay the gesture of sympathy.
Yet when she found herself in the florist’s shop, she hesitated.
She wasn’t sure how many she ought to send. Had Bella been a loss to her? Severus Snape, even? There was no way of telling how many of the others who had been lost along the way would leave a hole in her sister’s life. Andromeda sighed. If she had tried to count those for whom they ought to be mourning, she would have been there all day, picking up more flowers than her arms could hold or her wallet could afford to buy.
Some days it seemed as if everyone was gone. But then again, everyone was gone. And there were some blessings in the freedom of having so little left to lose that chances which were once too monumental to even consider, now seemed to risk almost nothing at all.
Forgoing her owl, Andromeda took to the skies herself. She swallowed her pride, her fear, and her self-destructive desire to further her isolation, allowing her broom to lead the way. In a half hour, she found herself on the steps of a manor house in Wiltshire, silent and austere with a single purple hyacinth grasped firmly in her palm. With more assurance than she truly felt, she raised the knocker and let it fall against the door.
She braced herself through the quiet sound of footsteps and the clinking of a lock being undone. It was only once her little sister had breathed her name and pulled her into her arms that Andromeda allowed herself to relax. The flower in her fingers dropped to the ground, the safety of its petals no longer necessary to hide what could once more be said aloud.