Unbind me. Andromeda frees Rodolphus. Beyond that, use your imagination.
Andromeda does not enjoy nor find it beneficial to remember something so far back, so normally she does not.
Normally she doesn’t have Rodolphus Lestrange bound to a radiator in the abandoned house she has taken up in.
Alastor Moody brushes by her with a man, black sack over his head but there is something peculiar in the way that Rod moves which she recognizes immediately. He moves like a tiger, you can see the twist of hips and flex of muscles under a finely groomed coat which you know he takes great pride in. Beautiful but powerful, deadly. Even being forced down on the ground he maintains a certain amount of grace.
Andromeda recognizes him immediately and she doesn’t stop cursing herself for such a stumble in the hours that pass.
Dromeda, the woman, sits in a chair opposite the hooded man and remains silent while thinking of Dromeda, the girl. He talks and talks and talks with such a light, casual tone you would think that he was over for tea. But he isn’t. The big, ferocious cat sitting opposite of her is here for one reason only.
Rodolphus Lestrange is here to die.
Too indoctrinated Alastor Moody told her as he shot her a pointed look. Those types never talk, no matter what you try, better off dead. Normally she would be inclined to agree.
The conversation plays back to her over the jabbering of Rodolphus. He is quite good at taunts, but she has always been better at turning a deaf ear to anything said her way. He doesn’t know she is there and he doesn’t ever have to know. Because Moody is right - a dead Death Eater is the best kind there is. If it saves one person a bit of suffering than good riddance. Dromeda should wait until Alastor gets back with those necessary for the execution, the last ditch effort to get some memories or information out of him using a very alternative means than that which was once used in the Aurors. Rodolphus Lestrange sits and talks, not knowing his father is dead and soon he’ll find out, soon he’ll join him.
This shouldn’t bother Andromeda.
But he saved her life once.
Her father sometimes carried a very ornate cane. Crafted by goblins, strong, sturdy - an absolute nightmare to be struck with when it was found out you spent some time with your muggle-born friends in a weekend you were supposed to be visiting your cousins. She knew she was in trouble when she woke up and found that her sisters were gone along with her mother. The manor was never quite large enough when it was only Andie, her father, and his grievances against her. The cane was strong, she thought probably even more-so than her cheekbone. It was sturdy, crafted by goblins and magic and perfect for doling out an appropriate punishment for those in danger of being a blood traitor.
Andy saw her own blood drip down to the floor and considered for a moment that it would be a cane crafted by magic which would finally do her in, she thought of this and then thought that made their blood wasn’t all that magical after all. It stained persian carpet all the same.
"Ah, Cygnus," she heard. The same casual tone he speaks with now.
He moved like a tiger and soon she was looking at the back of Rodolphus’ legs.
It is entirely possible he wasn’t saving her; possible he happened to have the business he said he did. There was a passing fancy that Bellatrix had sent him - twisted as their relationship could be he did always manage to give Bella what she wanted.
Sore back and bruised (possibly broken) cheek-boned Andie found her way to her feet and then was quickly told to get the house elves to work on refreshments for their guest in the kitchen.
Andromeda’s back aches now, though she isn’t sure why. A self-inflicted punishment for the steps she takes forward perhaps. Because she can not stop herself anymore than she could have stopped her father. She crouches, reaches and pulls.
"Ah, Andromeda," he says easily. As easily as he did years before, as if he meant to be here - as if he knew she would be.
"Shut up," she whispers, feeling tears burn the backs of her eyes already out of guilt. "Finite incantatem," she stutters out the counter-curse and watches his arms fall to his sides. She ignores all chatter, all attempts to get inside of her head. Impossible, really when she is already cursing herself. They should have never trusted someone like her with such a task. She isn’t even a member of the Order, she has to business here and now she will need to find her own way out as soon as possible. "Now we’re even. Now go. Go or I swear I’ll do you in myself."
He stands and it takes him disapparating for her to understand a reference she only learned from those muggle-born friends that got her in so much trouble. He isn’t a tiger at all, he’s the Chesire Cat.
