— andromeda

“the problem with a frozen heart is that if you love too hard, it will burn.”

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

He’d quite like to sleep, he thinks. Closing his eyes is nicer than opening them, blocking out the glare of white torchlight, his mind ticking over sluggishly. He murmurs a sound of gentle protest at the person talking to him, wanting them to stop so that he could rest without having to think about anything. Their voice drifts but the touch of their hand is what convinces him to open one eye, blinking them into focus. Andromeda’s face looks mildly worried, peering at him with a very intense sort of focus. “Hey,” Ted says through a smile that hurts – which surely couldn’t be right? Brow knitting into a frown as fragments of memory slowly piece themselves together, the tip of his tongue probes at his bottom lip, a subsequent sharp sting sending a wave of awareness through him. His jaw tightens, teeth pressing together, but relaxes as he leans into the warm comfort of Andromeda’s palm. At least she seemed unharmed. “Lucky you’re here.” A breathy chuckle is exhaled, the motion sending a wave of discomfort through his ribs. “Quickest waiting time of any doctor.”

Her question quietens him, attempting to assess the various aches and pains. “My head. And my eye.” He swallows, his mouth dry with the leftover tang of blood. “My left wrist hurts when I try to move it. And my ribs feel like someone’s been jumping up and down on them. And I– have you seen Emma? Is she ok?” Ted tries to sit up straighter, straining his neck to search for her, his thoughts leaping frantically. Where had she been when the lights went out? And how had they gone out? Had the attackers managed to cut off the supply? Why had they targeted a remembrance event? Why had it been so premeditated? “Are you ok?” Ted’s gaze returns to Andromeda, guilty at not having asked her sooner. “I don’t understand what happened– they just came in and– who the fuck does that?”

A quick twinge of relief follows Ted’s response. The medical side of her is glad he’s recalling his surroundings, who she is, her job title - it means he hopefully isn’t concussed too terribly. Her thumb softly brushes the skin beneath his good eye, half-evaluating just how badly he’d been knocked in the face and half-comforting out of impulse.  Her palm drifts to his hair, gently probing for a lump she eventually finds but can’t see in the dim lighting. “You’ve got a bit of a goose egg here. If there’s no sharp pains in your chest that you can pinpoint, I’m thinking your ribs might just be bruised - would explain why it’s achey when you laugh or breathe. Better than a break. Your wrist might be fractured or broken if it’s bothering you when you move it. You’ll want to have it looked at.” At the mention of Emma her attention briefly shifts from Ted to their surroundings. Tunnel vision had prevented her from realizing that there’s been more movement in the dark pub, people talking to one another and the occasional sound of someone moving broken chairs or overturned tables across the floor. “I’m sorry. I haven’t seen her,” she says honestly, palm steadying him on a shoulder. “Actually, I - while it was happening - I was helping people to get them out the back door and I didn’t see her then, either. Maybe she wasn’t here.” She pauses, frowning, turning back to him. “But you’re not going to do any good passing out on me because you’ve stood up too fast. You can lean back against the bar - it’s behind you - if it’ll help. Ambulances should be here soon. I’ll look for her, okay?”

Concerns are dismissed with a small shake of her head. “I think I’m okay. I didn’t really look, but I think I’ve just got a few cuts and scrapes, maybe a few bits of glass in this hand,” she lifts the one that hadn’t been touching him, only then confirming that her palm is smeared with blood, “but it’s not serious.” His next question settles heavier, and suddenly, Andromeda almost wants to cry. Because she knows - or suspects - who did it. If she didn’t, she might have guessed that the assailants were the same people who had kidnapped and murdered Regulus in the first place, who thought honoring his memory was foolish given what terrible actions his family had been responsible. In a way, that might have been easier to swallow. She swallows, blinks, and then straightens briefly to her feet. “Hang on,” she says, and she gets him the glass of water he’d requested to begin with, fumbling behind the bar amongst shards of shattered pints and sticky liquid and bits of fruit. Andromeda reappears quickly back at his side, pressing a glass into his good hand. “Trying to make a statement, I guess. Lash out. I don’t know,” is the lackluster explanation she finally offers. “Here - this is going to be cold, but it’ll help.” Producing a makeshift bundle of ice wrapped in a dish towel, she touches it gingerly to his bad eye. 

[ofandromedas-blog]

cissas‌:

She doesn’t like being tripped up– eager to placate her sister earlier with an almost-apology, only for the very same sentiment to come back to bite her. “What I meant,” she responds tersely, “is that I thought your judgement was potentially inaccurate and that I dealt with my assumption unfairly. I should have taken your word for it for the sake of keeping you calm and waited until the identity had been confirmed.” There is nothing easy in admitting she was, perhaps, at fault, but the difficulty is lessened slightly by the additional truth of, “It isn’t as though your own reaction was fair.” 

Unhealthy. The word hangs in the air, threatening and unwanted. “No.” Narcissa tries to fend it off with the sharp syllable, refusing to accept fault. “You don’t understand. I’m being tactical. Clever.” Who was Andromeda to say how things should be done, how they should be dealt with? Had her sister made any sort of attempt whatsoever to try and fix the gaping wound their family currently bore? The instinct to protect herself from criticism cracks through her composure, posture shifting into something more defensive. “It’s easy for you to say that it shouldn’t be the only thing that matters, you’ve fallen off the radar and couldn’t care less about what the public think of you – but how they perceive me and the family business is my job. My life. I am nothing without my reputation.” That was the risk that came with working to stay on top of society’s ladder: it was a dangerously long way to fall. Her sister’s lack of acknowledgement towards that fact grates, countless reminders of just how important all of this was to her clearly haven fallen on deaf ears. 

“I think you’ll find that I can marry someone to do all that and I will.” She settles Andromeda with a look of cold expectancy. “Unless you have a better idea?” Green eyes examine her with all the intense concentration of a doctor attempting to diagnose the cause of something wrong. She doesn’t ask to her ribs and skull prized open, heart and brain studied, but her sister does so anyway and presents her findings with questions that cut like a scalpel through flesh. “Both reputation and distraction,” Narcissa replies quietly, honest but smarting, gaze skimming the rug on the floor. “Amongst other reasons.” Avoiding looking at her sibling, she moves to sit on the far end of the loveseat, smoothing down the black material of her dress as she does so. Maya had done a good job. The comment on Lucius is what snaps her attention back to Andromeda, the judgement towards her choice taken personally. “I know him far more than you, clearly, if you think that I could do better.” The set of her brow softens after a heartbeat. “He cares about me, Andy. And he’s charming and handsome and the Malfoy name is so pure and unmarred.” Her pros-list is endless; she’s been over it a hundred times. “There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind on this.”

Narcissa’s explanation is almost worse than her half-apology from earlier. Admitting that she should have humored Andromeda with the understanding that she still probably misidentified her cousin. She’d been up close and personal, for God’s sake - it wasn’t like she’d spotted a corpse from across the car park and freaked out unnecessarily. “Maybe not. Instead of being defensive, perhaps I should have agreed that I’d potentially checked the pulse of someone who wasn’t Regulus for the sake of keeping you calm. And recognized that your denial was a coping mechanism rather than a personal attack.” Petty, maybe, but Andromeda can’t help but reflect Narcissa’s own flimsy regret. Neither of them were likely to admit they were wrong. Talking about it was useless and why she usually forced herself to let it go.  

‘Tactful’, she decides, is the perfect label to describe all of Narcissa’s actions in the wake of Regulus’ passing. Narcissa offers a glimpse of an apology with the expectation that Andromeda will accept it quickly, pulling the family back together once more. She fails to visibly mourn the loss of a family member to maintain an appearance of grace and poise, hesitant to the public see the cracks in a meticulously-curated business. And she intends to marry Lucius Malfoy so that the press might turn a blind eye on what could only be described as a smudge in the Black family legacy. But nothing is truly being fixed. Narcissa is willing to sacrifice her happiness under the guise that a spotless reputation is enough to make her happy. “It doesn’t have to be that way, Cissa,” Andromeda insists. “You could do whatever you wanted.” She pauses, and the reminder of the House of Black’s corruption strikes unexpectedly, her looming conversation with Ted coming to the forefront of her mind. “Have you ever thought of starting your own fashion house? You and Maya could certainly do it. And then you’d be able to build a business model from the ground up, start from scratch, do what you wanted. It could alleviate the pressure of being associated with this big thing,”  she adds, emphasizing the final word with a vague wave of her hand to indicate perhaps the entirety of the Sacred. What Andromeda doesn’t say is that Narcissa could avoid the fallout of the House of Black scandal if she severed ties sooner rather than later. 

Talking about Lucius irritates her, and she wishes she hadn’t opened that door of conversation. “But do you even like him?” she prods further. “I get it, generations before us have gotten hitched just for the sake of family alliances or whatever, but doesn’t that seem a little archaic now? You think he’s pretty to look at and he’s not an ass and he has a powerful family name - don’t you see any flaws in that argument? Have you even gone on a date? A weekend trip to France is a distraction, not exchanging vows.” She sighs, pivoting on her perch so that she’s angled toward her sister’s seat. “I’m not - I don’t want to upset you. I just worry about you selling yourself short, Cissa. That’s all.”

[solynda]

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

“I know,” he confesses, sounding somewhat defeated. “The collateral damage is, like, all I’ve been able to think about for the past two days. I’ve been knocking back sleeping pills just to get my thoughts to shut up for a few hours.” He punctuates the confession with a sheepish look, staring at the now empty shot glass as the temptation to down another grows ever louder. Dark eyes lift to meet her own, appreciating her warning but none the less deterred. “I’ve got to try, otherwise I won’t forgive myself if she gets caught up in it all. And besides–” Ted heeds the alcohol’s call, rum splashing into the glass, needing something to wash his following words down with, “–I’m beginning to think hurt and disappointment might be how it’s destined to end between me and her anyway.” The rum stings the back of his throat but not half as much as the truth.

“Interesting and unexpected are actually the exact words used to describe me in bed,” he jokes, lips caught in a grin that swiftly becomes a wince, shaking his head at his own half-hearted attempt at humour. Her efforts to peer inside his brain and figure him out is regarded with a thoughtful hum, knuckles brushing idly against the stubble lining his jaw. “Yeah– I’m not sure I want to know what it says about me, to be honest.” That he gets attached? That he’s too quick to trust? That he needs a friend who’s a bloke? “I definitely didn’t say your name just to give you a confidence boost, though. That’s why I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us, because you’re the only person I can talk to about– certain things. And I’m guessing that there aren’t many people you can talk to about it either.” Ted shrugs as if to soften his assumption, ready to dismiss it if she told him otherwise. His attention catches on her fiddling, wondering whether the inability to keep still was habitual or a sign that she’s stressed. “Trust me, you’re not rambling,” he tells her with a breath of laughter. “I had a punter spend ten minutes trying to explain to me why Australia aren’t going to win the Ashes this year. Fucking unprompted. I don’t even like cricket.”

                                                            — * |   🕒   | * —

His head is spinning and the taste of blood in his mouth is thick and metallic. Phone torches dance through his vision like fireflies, squinting into the bright light as someone approaches. Ted sits up and regrets it instantly, his body protesting loudly, adrenaline draining away to be replaced with a variety of aches and pains. “Hey,” he manages to choke out to the figure hovering near him, their face difficult to make out. He tries to open his other eye without success. Leaning backwards, skull knocking against the front of the bar, the tip of his tongue probes the stinging cut on his bottom lip. “Would you mind getting me some water?”

Andromeda can understand the irresistible temptation to entice a loved one away from the corruption of high-society living. She wonders if he sees the same glimpses of good in Maya. What she doesn’t tell him is that Maya loves Narcissa perhaps more than she cares for Ted, their friendship a resolute, bizarre sort of a loyalty that could keep Maya firmly tied to the House of Black. She welcomes the shift in subject matter, not wanting to think about her sisters anymore after such a depressing conversation in the conservatory hours earlier. Instead, Andromeda recognizes that Ted is trying to lighten the mood. The joke manages to straighten her frown. It’s the sentiment following that manages to coax a shadow of a smile, the corners of her lips quirking just a moment. “No,” she admits. It doesn’t justify that Andromeda has effectively dragged Ted into an age-old conspiracy without his permission. “At the risk of sounding dramatic, I don’t talk much to anyone about anything.” So it means something, is what Andromeda leaves unsaid.  

                                                                    - - - - -

Darkness. Gunshots. Screaming. When silence comes, punctuated only by the soft coughs and groans of the injured (and someone is softly weeping, she thinks), she’s on the floor near the window - or at least, it’s what Andromeda guesses by the accidental crunch and prick of glass in her palm when she pulls herself upright. It’s more difficult than ever to think when the retreating roar of the motorbikes - the motorbike - announces the departure of the pub’s assailants. Everything is sluggish as she stumbles to her feet, grasping the window ledge, and then the sight of a crimson-stained collar is what jolt-starts her into crisis mode. 

She nearly drops her phone as she fumbles it out of her pocket, swipes up, manages to activate the flashlight and shines it on the face of...Ted. Her stomach sinks. Seeing him bloody, bruised, and seemingly only half-conscious nearly makes her knees wobbly all over again and it’s almost a saving grace she’s crouching down on her knees at his side. Her fucking funeral heels weren’t made for this. “Ted,” she breathes, setting her phone down on the floor face-up so the light illuminates the underside of the bar. A passerby jostles her, a muffled voice talking to emergency services on their mobile that fades into the background.  “Hi. It’s me. Try not to move. You’re - I don’t know how hurt you are.” A hand briefly touches his cheek - an instinctual gesture, hoping to coax him to the present and pull him farther from unconsciousness. The blood glistening on his chin seems to be coming from a split lower lip, and the tissue around his eye has swollen angrily. She wonders if he can even see her. The palm flattens against his face gently, bruises already blossoming against his dark skin. “Don’t worry about trying to pull that eye open, okay? It seems pretty swollen. Can you tell me what hurts?”

[ofandromedas-blog]

cissas‌:

Narcissa takes her sister’s silence to mean that she was right and that Andromeda could find no further argument to fight back at her with. It’s one part familiar and two parts exhausting to deal with, their bickering having grown more frequent of late. The stress of recent events is likely to blame, but a small seed of doubt has taken root in the back of her skull whispering of the notion that this was, perhaps, the new normal, their differences having grown too great. “That was precisely my point,” she responds against her better judgement for the sake of defending previous actions, “if you were ineloquent you could have just as easily have been misled as to the identity. Your lack of care with the phone call made me assume that your judgement wasn’t at its best. For all I knew, you could have found anyone. You were emotional.” 

She waits patiently, none too pleased to be gawked at with an expression of such disbelief but stubborn enough to fair Andromeda’s reaction for the sake of explaining herself when she was finished throwing questions at her. “Marrying Lucius means that I get to become Narcissa Malfoy,” she says primly, the name pretty on her tongue. “Let’s face it: nobody wants to be a Black after all that’s happened, Andy. Tragedy sticks and the public’s sympathy only lasts so long. I can’t present myself to the world as someone to aspire to be like when there’s this much drama and death involved.” Her mind snags on all that Bellatrix and Lucius had told her. Being part of two families would surely equate to double the protection from the darker powers at work. “I’ll still be a Black, of course, but I need the grandeur and beauty and loveliness of a wedding to distract from all of this.” She gestures vaguely, gently, at the black of their dresses and the heaviness of the house. “It will give our parents something to look forward to, too. They need it.” Convinced of her plan and its multiple benefits, Narcissa shakes her head at the final query. “Not yet, no. But I’m sure I can persuade him. It’s a good deal.” A reassuring smile is offered to Andromeda, falling away when she adds, “Please don’t tell anyone. Not yet, at least.”

Emotional. The label sticks, crawling beneath her skin and settling uncomfortably in the pit of her stomach. With time, Andromeda’s becoming increasingly more aware of just how strongly bottling feelings is encouraged in the Sacred. Narcissa declaring Andromeda’s emotional response as an insult saddens more than angers her. Her usual reaction would be to raise her hackles, to chip away at the blonde’s equally-thick armor in an attempt to level the playing field or defend her actions until they part ways frustrated. The somber event that continues beyond the conservatory doors manages to have a different effect. “So you don’t think you reacted unfairly.” She doesn’t enjoy pointing out Narcissa’s self-inflicted contradiction like she usually might. 

With a small, slow shake of her head Andromeda examines her sister’s steady blue gaze, searching for any remnants of true logic. “I understand you’re trying to mend things - with me, with the public, with everyone. But I have to be honest with you, Cissa. This isn’t how it should be done. The way you - all of us, me included - deal with things is...unhealthy.” Reality is delivered honestly, but without malice. Chewing her lower lip, she steps away from Narcissa to  perch lightly on the arm of her mother’s imported love seat. “And how the public perceives us shouldn’t be the only thing that matters. You can’t just - marry someone to make the world think everything is all fine and dandy when you’re actually unhappy and pretending not to be.” She continues to study her younger sister seriously, a frown pulling at her lips. “Is that really all this is about? Your reputation? Or are you wanting a distraction?” This, at least, is something Andromeda can understand. She’d spent the past few years in particular focusing solely on work to fool herself into thinking the rest of her personal life could be dealt with later. “How well do you really know Lucius, anyway? You could do much better.”

[ofandromedas-blog]

cissas‌:

The bus. Narcissa can’t tell if Andromeda had intentionally brought up her specific travel plans with the intention of being irritating, so she shoots her sister a long, meaningful look full of judgement. “You know it would be safer to have a chauffeur drive you home.” Her point is made half under her breath, not wishing to bicker but just as keen to have some sort of say on the matter. “Or an Uber, even.” She attempts to push past the continued tension that lies between them, but it proves difficult to ignore. There was something disheartening in the fact that their conversations these days seemed to involve disagreement and arguing more than anything else, soothed only by the bittersweet fact that it didn’t seem any different when Andromeda spoke with their parents or with Bellatrix. “I’m hardly eloquent at three in the morning. Anything implied was unintentional.” That wasn’t entirely true but it made herself feel better to shirk some of the blame.

“It wasn’t the event that made me–” she begins, only to shake her head and brush aside the specifics of her thought process, the lack of mourning at the wake striking her as a tasteful choice rather than Andromeda’s suggestion of it being otherwise. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About family and what it means.” Narcissa pauses. Typically, she’d leave her point there. Allow her sister to put the pieces together however she so wished and then likely get annoyed when their two opinions didn’t match. But if the past week has taught her anything, it’s that you couldn’t rely on others to know how you were feeling – particularly when you were someone like herself, keeping emotions under tight lock and key. “I suppose I had tricked myself into believing that our family was fine after Sirius but, with Regulus gone, I realised that I don’t know how to fix this. And I don’t think I can, Andy. Our name has become one of gossip and conspiracy. It doesn’t hold the sense of aspiration it used to – who would want to be a Black when we can’t even hold ourselves together?” She’s spent the last twenty-seven years trying to uphold an image of perfection; to sacrifice it now would be foolish. “So I’ve decided that I’m going to ask Lucius to marry me.”

Andromeda literally bites her tongue, the brief smarting pain enough of a reminder that playing into tangental side-arguments is counterproductive for all parties involved. She’s well aware how her affinity for public transportation sits with Narcissa, and just as aware that the last thing she wants to do is sit uncomfortably in the back one of many expensive cars at the Blacks’ disposal while a strange, stuffy man drives her home. She leaves the sentiment unaddressed, instead grabbing on to the second. A part of her wants to pull up their archived conversation and flash the phone screen, as though to force Narcissa to recall they’d both been very intentionally hurtful. The root of the problem. Being at one another’s throats in the aftermath of a death was exactly the dysfunctional family dynamic they seemed to be dancing around. “I wasn’t either, considering I’d just stumbled upon a body,” she reminds her. Everything that comes out of her mouth seems to come across like a competition, a knee-jerk reaction Andromeda can’t quite shake. 

But concern begins to seep in, replacing Andromeda’s pettier frustrations. Narcissa’s distress feels suddenly very tangible. A subtle shift, but one possibly only sisters could detect. And so her eyes flicker from the pretty flowers outside to her sister’s distant expression. The middle sister had always been the moody one, the one too honest, letting her thoughts spill out of her mouth behind closed doors unrestrained. Narcissa was different. For her to be speaking of the growing faults in their familial relationships was a rare occurrence. “But the gossip isn’t -” she starts, and she means to say ‘the most important thing’ - but it’s then that the blonde’s proposed solution sticks its landing. “What?! Did you just - did I hear you right?” Jaw dropped, she turns to face her sister properly with an utterly bewildered expression. “How - what does marrying Lucius Malfoy have to do with the family? How would that fix it? Does he know this is the plan?”

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

A part of him is glad for the people surrounding them. It forces him to catch himself before he can utter something too honest, focusing his words while trying to keep his tone even. Whispers sounded too obviously like they were conspiring, although in the noise of the pub he doubts many are listening out for anything that isn’t idle chatter. Another part of him is frustrated by it, ducking his head for a moment of respite from Andromeda’s gaze and all the things he can’t currently say aloud. “You’d gain just as much as you’d lose,” he attempts to convince her, leaning into the bar, arms sticking to damp laminate, raising his chin to look at her from her own height. “Everything about your life screams freedom. Besides, you could still lose anyway. Stuff like this always comes out in the end. Surely it would be better if you were involved than–” Ted looks pointedly at an assumedly off-duty Daisy Hookum, doing his best to remain covert, “–letting them uncover it themselves at some point, right?” He holds his tongue on just how much could be redeemable when it comes to drug traffickers in positions of power. 

His features shift into a faint expression of grief at Maya’s unspoken name, unhappiness clawing at his chest, the reminder of how he feels about her an unwanted one ( as if he didn’t think about it enough ). “Hey.” The warning is spoken under his breath, impulsively clasping Andromeda’s wrist. “She’d be better off away from it all. Safer, too. So don’t– please don’t bring her into this.” He lets go just as abruptly as he’d grabbed her, reaching for a shot glass to fill with the nearest spirit, knocking back the liquid with a wince, his paycheck beginning to look as though it would end up back in the tills. 

He nods, a hint of tension dropping from his shoulders, not wishing for Andromeda to blame him but just as unkeen for her to blame herself. The ones guilty were those she didn’t want to hold accountable. Her question and the observation that accompanies it takes him by surprise, mouth parting to answer. “My friend, Emma.” Only, he couldn’t talk to her about this and he certainly couldn’t talk to her about Maya, not without risking an argument. “Maya, sometimes.” But less than he’d like – and again, the two topics troubling him were out of bounds, as much as he wants to discuss the latter properly with her. He toys restlessly with the hair by his temple, only able to name one other person. “You.” 

Andromeda didn’t come here for this. But it’s impossible to brush the subject to the side, packing it away in a box and taping it shut until two days from now, when Ted’s earnest face is level with hers. The subtle mention of Daisy strikes a nerve that Ted is probably entirely unaware of. Given the events of five days ago, she’s well-aware that her best friend would be very interested to know what information Andromeda has been locking away for the past decade. It manages to off-rail her for just a few moments, gaze flicking over to the back of Daisy’s head, imagining how the detective would react. Angry, perhaps. Thinking less of her for being complicit. “I don’t know. It goes back farther than you think.” But she knows he’s right; with how unhinged politics were lately, she wouldn’t be surprised if the House of Black unraveled on its own in her lifetime. 

The unexpected sensation of his fingers wrapping not tightly, but firmly enough around her wrist nearly makes Andromeda jump. “I’m not trying to upset you,” she explains, honest. “A few days ago I might have, sure. But not now. I just - I want you to - there’s going to be collateral damage with something like this.” Normally articulate, the combination of a difficult, rarely-spoken-of subject and the creeping paranoia make it difficult for her to properly explain what she means. The corners of her mouth pull into a frown, frustrated with herself. Though the height of the counter (or her own lack of height) makes it somewhat difficult to obtain proximity now that he’s retreated to the closest bottle of rum, she leans forward. “I know what it’s like to try to pull someone out, and how disappointing it is when it doesn’t happen. And I don’t want you to hurt like that. Or at least, be prepared for that possibility.” 

You. Andromeda’s brow creases between her eyes. She thinks she cares about Ted more than what makes sense, but in her mind it was always one-sided. As an extraordinarily good-hearted person, Ted seems to be the sort that has an effect on people. But being singled out - presumably as a relative stranger compared to Emma and Maya - confuses her. “Interesting,” is what she mulls aloud. Realizing it’s cryptic, she clarifies, “Unexpected.” The faint warmth of his implication is something she can’t quite explain. “I wasn’t fishing. I was just curious. Who people confide in can say a lot about them, but to be honest I don’t know what it says about you.” She lets out a huff, having absently peeled a strip of label from her beer bottle and now rolling it between her forefinger and thumb. “Ah, now I’m rambling. It’s been a long day. I think my brain’s a bit fried.” 

[ofandromedas-blog]

cissas‌:

Of course their mother had persuaded Andromeda to don a House of Black dress. Narcissa is silently pleased, having undoubtedly tried to do precisely the same had she turned up in a label-less off-the-rack piece. She nods delicately in approval, not daring to risk disturbing the pins in her hair. “She could have brought you some accessories down to wear.” Reaching for her tennis bracelet, she fiddles with the clasp, brow set in a frown of concentration until it’s freed, stepping closer to Andromeda. “Here.” The jewellery is looped around her sister’s wrist, not taking no for an answer, thumbnail catching the trigger on the fifth try. “That’s much better,” she muses, satisfied when it’s secured, gemstones glinting in the light of the conservatory. “Now people can complement your bracelet as a conversation starter when they wish to start a conversation with you.” Appearance was everything – she’s seen the guestlist for the wake and is well aware of how long it’s been since some of them were graced with the presence of the Black’s middle daughter.

“Cared,” she corrects, only to press her lips together with the unwanted realisation that Andromeda could quite easily be speaking about Sirius. The reminders of just how worn-thin their family was becoming were growing increasingly regular, sending a weight sinking through her chest like a pebble through water every time. “I never questioned whether or not you were sad.” Regret lingers, seemingly incapable of speaking to her sister without feeling the need to defend herself. “I know,” she adds, softening her voice, the entirety of her focus set on the other, chin held level. “I know you are.” Narcissa clasps her hands neatly in front of her. “We all are.” She half expects Andromeda to dispute the statement, steeling herself just in case. It would be unsurprising, quite frankly, given the minimal tears shed at the burial. “We’ve never been very good at this, have we? Being a family.” As much as she doesn’t want to hear it, it’s a truth she’s determined to voice for her own sake. The sound of a door shutting in the hallway prompts her to pause, alert as she listens for retreating footsteps, not wishing to be overheard by eavesdroppers. Her expression flickers, troubled, attention returning to her sister. 

Narcissa knows Andromeda is about to protest, and she presumes it’s why the blonde leaves little room for argument. The thin sparkling band is heavier than she expects, slung delicately around her slim wrist and clasped before she can so much as conjure up a proper protest. The moment feels reminiscent of when they’d both been small. A younger Narcissa had enjoyed dressing Andromeda up like a doll when properly humored, coaching her into whom to talk to and what to say. It sits differently now. Socializing is the last thing on Andromeda’s mind. “Thank you,” is what she says instead. “I’ll return it before I catch the bus home.” She makes a mental note to leave it on Narcissa’s vanity, knowing very well her sister might insist she keep it if returned in person. Such a pretty, expensive thing doesn’t belong in her flat. 

The past tense nearly makes Andromeda wince, stirring up the self-inflicted guilt and mental image of Regulus’ bloodied body in the car park. “It was implied,” she can’t help but remind her. Not that Andromeda had been any kinder - she had been in shock, hackles rising the moment Narcissa had questioned her, probably tactless - but it feels more difficult to bury their argument than usual. Andromeda steps across her mother’s inherited Moroccan-style rug, heels muffled against the plush, to hover at Narcissa’s side, facing the window. The hydrangea bushes used to be her favorite. She can see them lining the back walkway, dotted with freshly-bloomed smudges of blue and white. “No,” Andromeda agrees. It surprises her to her Narcissa say such a thing aloud. The funeral seems to have put her sister in her own brand of mood. “It seems easier to ignore most days, but in times like this - when bad things happen - it just exposes how dysfunctional we are. I mean, aside from everyone being hushed and wearing black, this is essentially a social.” A puff of air escapes her lips, and she steals a glimpse at Narcissa. “I’m surprised to hear you say it.” 

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

She’s right, he supposes. He probably shouldn’t be offering emotional support to someone who has plagued him with a truth he’s struggling to know what to do with, not after she’s requested seven days – five now – during which time she could quite easily erase the mistake of letting slip a family secret with a quick call to whoever it was she warned him could hurt him and his family. And yet, he still feels as though he has some responsibility to ensure that she’s ok. Journalists, good ones at least, were meant to work with their sources, not against them. His current inability to publish anything that she’s told him set aside, it was his prompting and his apparent lack of desire to screw her over which had led Andromeda to share what she knew. What he now knew. What they both knew. “Maybe,” he replies, his words feeling sluggish with the weight that hangs in the air between them, the tension of unspoken emotion winding its way around beer pumps and bottle tops. “But I probably shouldn’t do a lot of things, so–” His shrug is half-hearted, staring at a mark on the bar’s surface that he rubs at idly with the pad of his thumb. 

“I don’t–” Ted speaks before thinking, cutting himself off only to restart, the furrow of his brow faint. “I want to do something. About it. But I don’t want to do it alone, Andromeda. That’s what I meant, before– when I suggested that you could help me. I get that it’s a difficult decision, though. And,” he exhales, wanting to get his thoughts out, having spent the last two days with them fogging up his mind, “I just– I want you to know you can still talk to me. I meant what I promised you.” He forces himself to meet her gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards briefly into a sorry excuse for a smile that barely lasts a heartbeat, uncertain that he’d ever be able to regain her trust but stubbornly good-willed enough to not know when to stop trying. “I really am sorry. For everything.”

The it - Andromeda has to consciously stifle the instinct to peer at their surroundings and ensure nobody is eavesdropping. Nobody in the pub could possibly know what he was referring to, and yet she feels as though her family’s breath is prickling at the back of her neck. The day preceding had done nothing but encourage any pre-existing paranoia. Truth be told, she hadn’t done a single thing to either prevent nor encourage the secret she’d uttered to Ted in the alleyway. The seven days she’d requested ticking away far too quickly, and now the time she’d so desperately negotiated for was essentially useless given she hadn’t the faintest idea what she wanted to do with it. 

“Do you?” she prompts, though this time it isn’t malicious - she doesn’t think she could be angry with Ted today even if she tried. “I’d lose everything.” Disliking how melodramatic she sounds the moment the words leave her lips, her nose scrunches. “Not everything. But I haven’t alienated myself entirely because there are, erm, some parts that feel - redeemable.” Now Andromeda’s having difficulty being vague. How can she articulate to Ted that the very people he despises have glimmers of good in them, that sometimes she still catches a glimpse of the sisters she’d once known and loved in the first place? “Sometimes you can’t help who you love. Maybe you can relate.” Perhaps a stretch to imply that Ted loves Maya Zabini, but it’s a thinly-veiled hypothesis based on the way he’d looked talking about her outside of the House of Black. “Which, speaking of - maybe you can understand. It’d hurt her, too.”

 It’s difficult to skirt around such an honest display of emotion when Ted’s dark eyes are boring into hers, gleaming with a concern that simultaneously stumps her and leaves her uncertain. “I know.” It’s as close as Andromeda can get to accepting his apology. She worries the edges of her bottle’s label with her thumb. “Who do you talk to? I get the impression you want to look after everyone - what does that leave you with?”

[kittym]

Notes; Tuesday 25th June 2019, 10:40. Black Manor. Narcissa & Andromeda. @ofandromedas​.

She’s fine. What isn’t fine is that the catering team preparing food for the wake have misplaced the single most important ingredient for a salad nicoise ( which she points out that, without the tuna, would be a very unappetising-sounding egg salad ) and the groundskeeper is still inexplicably yet to rake the gravel back from where the flower delivery van made an elegantly too-sharp u-turn and sent the tiny stones scattering into the border of the front lawn. Narcissa’s heels click against hardwood floor, avoiding the too-tense atmosphere of the drawing-room where she can hear someone pouring yet another glass of wine and instead seeking a moment to herself in the conservatory. The summer sun shines bright through the dutifully polished glass and it seems typical that the weather should be so beautiful on a day like this when it rains like near-clockwork on her birthday every year. She admires the garden from the window, tables and chairs set in place, far more accustomed to attending brunch on the lawn than a wake. 

Using the reflection to fix her hair, a brief flurry of movement behind her shoulder makes Narcissa pause and turn her head, lips pursing at the sight of Andromeda. It had been easy to refrain from speaking with her properly at the funeral, the silence respectful, but she regards her sister now with a delicate frown that’s more troubled than annoyed. “You’re wearing my favourite piece from the Spring Ready-To-Wear collection,” she observes, wondering whether their mother or Bellatrix had forced it upon her. There’s a weighted pause, turning to face Andromeda as Maya’s words meander through her mind. You have to keep close the family you still have. “I was unfair to you, wasn’t I?” she whispers quietly. It takes a moment before she can meet the green-eyed gaze of the other, offering a smile – a small, fragile thing that flits across her lips and doesn’t feel quite as sturdy as it ought to. She’s fine. “It’s been a difficult month for everyone. We should let bygones be bygones.”

[ofandromedas-blog]

Regulus’ services are about as void of warmth as one might expect. Sacred 28 funerals, Andromeda notices, have a brilliant way of building up the deceased in question using the most vague, generic terminology possible. A brilliantly ambitious boy, taken too young, a devoted son and friend to all. But what, she wonders, was Regulus really like? Nobody speaks of it. And given that Andromeda was never close enough to her youngest cousin to truly know, it’s as though his real character is shut away in the casket along with him. Sentenced to only be spoken of in hushed, respectful, and revered tones without much substance. Her pre-existing pessimistic mood only feeds on the depressing affair, sealed with the glimpse she hadn’t really needed of his too-pale face, and Andromeda is wishing his services were over when they’d only barely begun. 

It is customary for her to steal moments to herself during events. Today is no exception. Andromeda escapes the drawing room relatively easily, skipping past the dining room (even the idea of refreshments makes her feel queasy) and making a silent beeline for the conservatory. The back of her sister’s head halts her at the threshold, breath going still. Briefly, Andromeda considers slipping away just as quietly as she had come, only entertaining the thought for seconds before her sister’s blue eyes catch her. “Mother suggested I wear it,” she responds, unknowingly answering Narcissa’s silent question simply because it’s the first thing that pops into her head. What follows sends Andromeda further into uncertain territory. As much as she can’t quite let go of what had been said, it’s so terribly tempting to let their argument go and brush it swiftly under the metaphorical rug. She sucks in a soft breath, exhales, then ghosts past the archway to step closer to Narcissa. “I care about him,” are the words that tumble free from her lips. “And I’m sad that he’s gone. You know that, right?”

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

People tend to utter a rightfully confused sounding oh whenever they piece the seemingly unbalanced facts of Ted’s life together: a journalist for a small news organisation; living in London; living alone in London in a flat that isn’t great but also isn’t in the basement; makes minimum wage; takes public transport. He doesn’t often tell people of his on-the-side employments, plural, but mostly because they’re so sporadic and prone to changing. Working the odd evening shift at the pub, though, was perhaps his favourite. Marlene is good to him and the punters are too, the occasional coin clinking into the tip jar that he’ll graciously refuse to take at the end of the night for the sake of the more permanent staff. Wiping down the beer-slick surface of the bar, he offers the occasional sympathetic smile but can’t help wondering just how many people here actually new Regulus. This was far from the fashion house heir’s crowd if assumptions served him well. But that particular train of thought is swiftly derailed (and consequently proved wrong), however, as Andromeda emerges in front of him. 

“Hi,” he says back, the response lost in her own words as she makes the very clear point of not being here for any form of conversation with him about – well – the elephant that had wandered into the room with her. He discards of the rag in his hands, dropping it into the sink. “No, he– I don’t know where he went. He was here. Not working, just– talking and drinking.” Dark eyes flick to the black of her outfit and then to the difficult to read expression on her face before turning his back to her to grab an IPA from the fridge. “Here.” The bottle is set down in offering, tentative in the wake of their last discussion. She hadn’t wanted to talk about Regulus then so he makes the assumption that she won’t want to now – only to worry that she might assume he doesn’t care (about her cousin, about what’s happened, about her ). “I’m still here for you, you know. If you need me.”

A newfound, awkward sort of discomfort barricades Andromeda from the ease she’d once felt in Ted’s company. Before, she might have been relieved to see the tall, scruffy-haired reporter after the parade of Sacred 28 members she’d entertained all day. Now, she feels very unsure of how to proceed, tip-toeing around the subject that seems too monstrous to address in the middle of the buzzing pub. Or, at all. And then there’s the memory of how he’d looked at her when they’d had the conversation. The image has inevitably warped and exaggerated over the course of the past few days, ending with Ted staring at her like she’d slain an innocent teen herself. 

She accepts news of Sirius’ unknown location with a curt nod, the fleeting sense of purpose she’d grasped onto so desperately only moments ago now slipping through her fingers. The brief silence is filled with the hefty clink of a full bottle against laminate. Andromeda’s eyes steal a proper glimpse at him before she accepts the offering, the glass already slick with condensation. “Thanks,” she replies. Before she can consider retreating to search for Sirius he adds an assurance that catches Andromeda entirely off-guard, leaving her staring at him for perhaps a moment too long before she raises the beer to her lips (if only to occupy her hands). “You probably shouldn’t be,” is what she says finally. The man across the bar should be angry with her, or at least giving her some degree of a cold shoulder. What Andromeda thinks she really means, though, is that Ted has already been dragged into her mess without asking. He doesn’t deserve to drown in it. 

[ofandromedas-blog]

dci-daisy‌:

Daisy knew they’d have eyes on them. Everything would be monitored when they got to the station. If the mole was real and not some hoax made up to drive her up the wall with frustration, they’d be watching too. In the car, at least they had a little while to talk. Andromeda’s declaration of trust meant more to Daisy than she’d care to admit. “I’m a cynical bitch,” Daisy replied. “People lie, and they have secrets, but I trust you too.” She sighed, not because trusting Andromeda was difficult, but simply because talking about her feelings at all was challenging to her.

“I know you didn’t do this. You don’t have to convince me.” The very fact Andromeda felt the need to plea, ‘I swear’, it broke her heart. “Stop it. It’s not your fault. They might have done this even if you’d paid the ransom. His death is on the hands of the person who hurt him. Nobody else. Especially not you.” She just wanted to reach into the back seat and squeeze her hand, to hold her and reassure her, to have a damn beer with her and help her. But they were almost at the station, and there would be eyes on them. “Just try and stay calm, okay? You’re a witness, not a suspect.”

“Thanks.” Relief douses over her nerves like cool water. Daisy is her friend, but Andromeda knows how seriously she takes her work; she wouldn’t vouch for Andromeda’s innocence unless she truly believed it, both from a personal standpoint and a professional one. Even if she isn’t as lucky with Daisy’s colleagues, she can shelve any apprehension of being wrongly framed a suspect with the detective in the driver’s seat on her side. Part of her aversion is, of course, personal - nobody wants to be accused of something so terrible - but more than anything else, Andromeda doesn’t want the investigation to waste time. Whomever had delivered Regulus’ final blow was still a mystery. 

The car slows as Daisy nears the station, and Andromeda’s hands twist in her lap. “Calm. Witness. Got it,” she echoes in understanding. She feels a bit less shaken up than she had at the scene, the combination of quiet and Daisy’s reassurance making composure seem feasible. As the vehicle turns into the car park she can see the fluorescent lights through cracked blinds, reminding her vaguely of the hospital she’d just left. “God, I feel like you’re my lawyer or something. Like I need you to tell me what to say or not to say so I don’t end up in cuffs. Guess it’s just the adrenaline.” She pauses a beat, the half-hearted attempt at a joke more truthful than Andromeda liked to admit. “Look, if you need to go back - I can hold my own here, alright? Especially if you’re going to get flack from the higher-ups because of bias.” 

[ofandromedas-blog]

— 25th of june. 11:30 pm. the leaky bucket. @atted

It’s been a day. 

Sacred 28 gatherings are always an affair, and funeral processions are no exception; this is hardly Andromeda’s first run around the block, and yet she still finds herself winded once she finally extracts herself from the Black estate. Exchanging niceties about her dead cousin, tension crackling between and only visible to the Black sisters, the stupid House of Black dress her mother had guilted her into donning: it all leaves Andromeda queasy. And if that doesn’t do it, the notification on her phone that Albus Dumbledore has been pinned as Regulus’ murderer does. 

Andromeda feels herself slipping through her own grasp with every passing hour, and it irks her to feel so vastly out-of-control of her own circumstances. The last thing she wants to do (for once) is drown at home alone. Busy hands, she thinks, couldn’t even distract her from the her  cousin’s death and the resulting ripple effect. And more than usual, the company of the other Sacred 28 members seems to suck her dry of any residual sympathy. Regulus Black is dead, but his legacy - and the press, the funds it’ll garner - matter the most. 

Lily Evans’ invite to The Leaky Bucket after the wake manages to stick, and Andromeda finds herself appearing at the threshold of the pub late in the evening, primarily with a mission to set eyes on her living cousin. Sirius, she thinks, serves as a reminder that their genetic pool is not entirely incapable of full human emotion but also hope that survival after severing ties is possible. At any rate, Andromeda is one of few people who could understand how Sirius could be feeling. Checking on him is the least she could do. 

The warmth of the Leaky Bucket envelops her the moment she steps inside. It’s distracting just for a moment, and Andromeda hesitates, feeling both out-of-place but also like she could stand there for at least an hour, just listening to orchestra of laughter and clinking glass. Then, her goal manages to creep its way back in. Grounded with a newfound sense of purpose separate from her own flimsy stability she weaves through the milling crowd to the bar, eyes searching for Marlene’s familiar shaggy hair bobbing behind the countertop. What Andromeda finds instead actually seems to clear the breath straight from her lungs, surprise settling in and threatening to upheave her. In the wake of their last conversation, Ted is one of the very last people Andromeda wants to see tonight. Face-to-face with the journalist whose easy smile shifts with her appearance, she’s at a loss for words before she manages to scrounge something up. “Hey. I’m, uh, looking for Sirius. Have you seen him around?”

[ofandromedas-blog]

bellatrixism‌:

“It’s the other way ‘round for me, Andy,” Bella sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose to keep her voice calm. “Keeping up appearances is a good thing for me to do.” She speaks in a matter of fact tone, but frustration still colors the edge of her words. Bella can’t claim to love her parents, she doesn’t think she can claim to love anyone, but Andy and Cissa are different. Andy is different; they’re supposed to understand each other, how they were wired, despite their fundamentally opposed views. Andy was supposed to be the one who understood just how much it took for Bella to pretend to be like their peers. It strikes her then, that perhaps her younger sister had severed ties earlier than she may have believed.

Her jaw sets and she bites her tongue, gaze turning to look at anything else. “Yes, I’m sure you’d like this to be our fault, wouldn’t you? It’d make it easier to justify the distance.” Resentment and ire are beginning to twist her insides in a way that makes her queasy – she needs to move, she needs a release before she takes it out on Andy. Chugging the last of the coffee, Bella stands, restless energy encouraging her to pace. She pivots to face her younger sister directly, ponytail flicking  “It’s not exactly a secret that you think you’re better than us. You’re a doctor, you save lives, great,” Each word is spat with venom and bile, and though she stands still, Bella seems to be quivering with pent-up rage.  “But at the end of the day, you’re a Black, Andromeda. And that’ll never change.”

Bellatrix manages to extract an inkling of truth. It would be easier to justify Andromeda’s distance if she knew the Blacks were at least partially to blame for murder. Up until this point the wrongdoings of the Sacred had been vaguely acknowledged but somewhat shrouded in mystery, with Andromeda left to imagine what sorts of terrible things could be happening behind closed doors. What’s happened to Regulus feels too close to ignore. It’s not as though he’s a random target, a civilian on the street that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. No, her cousin was targeted for his surname. And she’s inclined to believe that someone, somewhere thinks they deserved to be chipped away at until the once-powerful family is wittled down to nothing. A hatred like that is born from a reason.

Determined to appear unbothered, Andromeda schools her expression into something casual and dismissive. “I don’t think I’m better than anyone. This isn’t a competition, Bella. I’m well aware I’m a Black, but I’m not about to rely on ‘being a Black’ to get farther ahead any more than I have to.” A small puff of exasperation escapes her lips and she unfurls her legs from where she’d curled them beneath her, rising from the couch and pretending as though Bellatrix’s stare wasn’t piercing straight through her. “In the grand scheme of things, all that matters is getting Regulus home. I’m rainchecking this argument until then.” She passes Bellatrix, ghosting around her stiffened sister back into the kitchen. “Have a good run.” 

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

As defensive as she is of him keeping quiet in order to ( what he can only assume is ) protect them, there’s an underlying current to the entire situation that sets Ted even more on edge than someone who had just been told that a very famous, very influential fashion company was trafficking drugs typically would be. For all Andromeda’s uncertainty in her answer, there lies a jarring fact: she’s scared of them. It twists his stomach, palms clammy despite feeling cold. What did it take to make someone believe that their own kin was capable of murdering anyone who shared their secret? Was she scared for his life or – worse, given that she shared the same blood as those accused – her own? He feels sick. And sad. And there’s a headache creeping through the back of his skull that feels like it’s settling in for the long haul unless he finds some paracetamol to take soon. “Yeah, well–” He rubs at a temple in vain. “It’s a bit late for carrying it alone now that I do know. I mean, that’d be worse, right?” He’s not sure he’ll know what to do with this information if Andromeda ends up disappearing on him for the sake of keeping him out of it. Whatever it was exactly. He assumes it’s more than the occasional cannabis smuggling across county lines, that’s for certain. 

“A week,” he echoes, searching the green depths of her eyes, uncertain of what she would achieve in seven days. Would she get her family to hide all that they can? Would she erase all traces of their apparent illegal activities? Ted exhales, uncertain of how they’d managed to get here – but only half-regretting it, if he was honest. Despite the vocalised risks that still circle his mind like sharks, this was the sort of knowledge that could dethrone the rich from their prided positions of power. Sure, it would take a lot of time, effort and money to truly get any justice, but at least he could start by hitting them where it hurts: their reputation in the public eye. “One week.” He nods in agreement, accepting her request. “I won’t tell anyone until then. I won’t utter a word of it.” Their trust in one another has been worn thin by this conversation so he tacks on a small smile that wavers slightly before disappearing again. “I promise.”

A crease appears between her eyes, mildly and briefly confused - what was worse, exactly? In Andromeda’s opinion, letting slip her family’s darkest secret to a reporter was far less desirable than dealing with it on her own. She recalls when she’d first received word of Regulus’ disappearance in her hospital office, how Ted had seemed so reluctant to leave her without the company of someone else. Again reminded of how differently the pair of them operated - what, possibly, had compelled Andromeda to like Ted in the first place - she merely dismisses his comment with a small wave of her hand. Explaining Andromeda’s preferred strategy of coping is a wormhole she isn’t emotionally equipped to go into, much less in a dingy alley. Her attention is briefly diverted down the way, where a side door to the tailor shop bangs open and an employee tosses a bag of trash into a dumpster. 

Relief is what coaxes her back to Ted, minimal but enough to assuage her instinctual dread for the time being. A week. What Andromeda will do in the period of 7 days, she doesn’t know, but it’s far better than Ted dropping hints on FlooNet and tagging the Black family members in links to Quibbler stories. Perhaps if she were a better person she would have expended ore energy trying to convince him to forget it altogether - she expects Bellatrix or Narcissa would have threatened him to remain silent. Since that isn’t exactly her style, she would have needed to resort to pleading. Still, there’s something in her that holds her back. Pride, maybe, but moreso uncertainty. For the first time in a while Andromeda is very unsure of what it is she wants. “Thank you,” she says finally, releasing a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. Regardless of how Ted had lied to her, again, Andromeda is inclined to believe his promise. Feeling like she needs to give him a reason, she adds, “There’s just a lot going on at home right now. With Reg.” It’s not a proper truth, not by a longshot and she’s sure Ted can see straight through it, but it’s at least part of the truth. Restlessness leaves her shifting her weight between her feet, and she checks her watch. “I should go. Work. I’ll - ah - be in touch.”

[ofandromedas-blog]

vanityemmas‌:

It’s interesting to hear that Andromeda is friends with some of Auror’s members, when Daisy herself worked to protect her, her sisters, and those associated with them. It makes her wonder if Andromeda knows what’s going on behind the scenes on Emma’s part, or if Daisy was involved in similar efforts to Emma without the Death Eater title the latter donned. She ruled out the former option, for Andromeda was always a smart one, and seemingly wouldn’t shy away from confronting Emma on her involvement with the families she had left behind so many years ago, especially given her own reputation for not being so involved in their business ventures. As for the latter, Emma wasn’t quite sure. Daisy was a driven woman, and it’s why she respected her so much, but she had always believed her drive for justice was genuine due to how relentless it could be. Perhaps that was just good acting, and she, like Emma, wanted to keep order in balance over the scales of justice. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about that if you’re not comfortable. It’s all I’ve been hearing the past few days, and I’m sure it’s not been to different for you, too.” It felt wrong to suggest a break from the trauma her family must have been going through, for while Emma could technically take off her lab coat and go home, the Blacks could not enter their own without feeling the absence of the boy Emma took. Maybe she was the one who needed that break.

“Not your fault your mum stuck you with a name that’s hard to spell,” Emma tried to tease as she took her own coffee. Her name, of course, was spelled correctly, as it was pretty difficult to mess up four letters (though people still managed to do that). “Thanks.” The coffee was a slight distraction from her feelings, the warmth in her hand pulling her thoughts away very briefly from the corrosive heat bubbling in her stomach, worry and guilt threatening to eat at her until nothing remained. “Yeah, that’s pretty smart,” she replies, knowing Andromeda was thinking about this in only the most practical of senses. “It must be good having other people around, too, I guess.” Emma took a long sip of her drink following that, knowing Andromeda didn’t often enjoy the company of her own family. She didn’t quite know why she said it; maybe it was a projection of her own feelings, the thought that she might be less worried if she didn’t go home to an empty flat where her only companions were her own vile thoughts that fed off of her most volatile emotions of the moment, with the current one being paranoia. “It’s nice to have a distraction, especially when it’s something you’re real passionate about. How’s that been going, by the way? The whole surgeon thing?”

“Nah, it’s okay,” Andromeda dismisses. Yes, it’s all she’s been hearing about it and yes, she’s selfishly tired of talking about her young cousin’s disappearance but Emma’s questions grate on her much less than others asking purely out of obligation. The edge of prescribed small talk hovering over them is far preferable to the overly gushy condolences she’s fallen victim to. “At least you get it. And you’re not going to offer up some obligatory casserole because you feel like you have to be worried about my well-being. Unless you were planning on doing that, in which case...I have to go.” She offers a small, tight smile, making it clear she’s joking. “There haven’t been any new developments, have there? Not that you can tell me if there were, I’m sure, but I have to ask anyway.”

A small chuckle slips out before she can stifle it. Emma doesn’t mean anything by it - most people would find comfort surrounded by family. It isn’t Emma’s fault the Blacks are highly dysfunctional at best. “It can be. I haven’t spent a ton of time with my family recently, so it’s been nice to catch up even though the circumstances are shit. But, I have to admit, I think the house might implode with all of us under one roof for more than a week. Bella and I in particular tend to grate on everyone’s nerves, or each other’s nerves, so...” Sipping from the paper cup, she finds more solace in the hot coffee than she did in her mother’s terse embrace earlier that morning. “Honestly, great. I’m in orthopedics now which is basically bone and muscle stuff. Means I get to do all kinds of things, keeps it exciting. And it’s nice to finally not have someone hovering over your shoulder, breathing down your neck to make sure you don’t nick an artery or something by accident. I take it you’re enjoying what you’re doing, too? I’ve heard through the grapevine you’re brilliant.”

[ofandromedas-blog]

atted‌:

She’s right – he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand quite what’s happening because, if he’s frank, he hadn’t anticipated being told a truly ground-shaking truth from the lips of someone who, up until this point, had kept her cards close to her chest and had been difficult to read at the best of times. Her loyalty towards her family only serves to confuse him further, the crease in the centre of his brow growing deeper as he searches for something to say. For anything to say, given that he was stood here opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. “So what– because they’re family, you’re fine with sitting back to let them fund and fuel the city’s drug trade forever?” Worse, she’d be asking him to do the same. He holds no for the Sacred 28, nor for abuse of power. She knows this, that’s what really stings. “I guess you got me back pretty quick for the shit about befriending you for a story, huh? Now we both feel manipulated and hurt. Fun times.”

Ted drags a heel across the concrete beneath his shoe, scuffing at the rubber trim, the urge to fidget through his sense of distress growing with every passing second. He should have swallowed his earlier concerns and visited Maya. Even if it had culminated in an argument, at least it would have been an easier one to deal with in comparison to this. Except– except he would have been in the jaws of the monsters and none the wiser. If Andromeda wasn’t going to help him look for evidence, perhaps he could do it on his own with a briefly and very gratefully borrowed security pass that bears the image of a woman he adores. “Fuck.” He lets out the curse on the breath of an exhale, slumping back against the wall feeling drained. “I’m listening,” he manages to promise, although he does so tentatively, uncertain as to whether he wants to hear anything else that leaves Andromeda’s lips. It turns out he doesn’t, but he learns that too late. “You’re not willing to risk others finding out because they might end up dead? Great. I guess I’m just – what – collateral damage? Did you get tired of being the only one with a so-called conscience who knows and decided it’d be great to dump some of the weight of it on me?” 

He hates everything about this. From the request for secrecy to the fact that they’re both incapable of looking one another in the eye for more than a couple of seconds. “They’ve killed people before, haven’t they? That’s why you want me to stay quiet.” Ted shakes his head, half-defiant half-apologetic. “I don’t know if I can do that, Andromeda. I know there are risks but, shit– this isn’t something I can just ignore.”

“No, I’m not fine with it,” she contests insistently. “It’s why I’m not involved.” Because Andromeda far from approves of the House of Black side business, much less the terrible ripple effect it has. But she understands what Ted means. By not severing the hold the House of Black has on her entirely, keeping quiet and letting them stifle her for the sake of love, it makes her complicit. She’s quickly reminded of the last conversation she’d had with Narcissa. Ted only drives the stake deeper, stirring up all of the suppressed remorse and discontent she’s harbored for years. The sting of his betrayal smarts, now in the context of knowing she’d pulled him into a dark secret so flippantly. 

He fires question after question, and Andromeda can’t decide if she’s angry, sad, or something in-between. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to fan her own animosity when Ted looks so upset. “I don’t know what they’ve done. But it’s possible,” she says finally, a hand briefly raising to rub the back of her neck. That makes it that much harder, she thinks; on the surface it’s best to remain oblivious, but her imagination is dangerous when left unbounded. The moment of calm is something Andromeda seizes and holds onto desperately, unable to quell her thumping heartbeat but at least able to regain some glimpse of composure. Now, Andromeda is only panicked. Fearful not only that Ted will end up on some hypothetical hitlist, but that her family members will end up on a very different but equally terrible hitlist. If Regulus was harmed for being adjacent to the Black crimes, publicizing what happened behind closed doors would be a chaos.

Even if it’s what they all deserved.

Now very still, Andromeda takes in another deep breath. Fear tastes metallic on her tongue. “I wasn’t thinking when I told you. I was angry with you, but you aren’t the only one I’m angry with, and it was...spiteful. I’m the one who should carry it, not you.” She winces, hating how self-righteous she sounds. But now she needs to deal with the consequences of her actions. A problem in need of a solution. She trudges on. “There’s a lot you don’t know, especially with what’s happened recently. If you can’t keep quiet, I get it, just...give me a week.” A week to figure out how Andromeda is going to fix this - or how she’s going to dismember her personal life. “One week, and you can do whatever you need to do. I’ll owe you.”