A Place Of Ramblings

Thank you so much everyone for being so patient while I fill requests! Here’s the first one. Thank you, @skeptiquexx, for making me step outside my usual pairings. It was a challenge to write but I enjoyed it!

Title: Still Standing

Rating: G

Word Count: 16,000

Summary: After the war, Percy testifies against his corrupted Ministry colleagues and is sent to the Scottish lowlands to live under the protection of a witness security program.

Imagine if Lily Potter had become the Potions professor at Hogwarts. If Voldemort had killed James, but she and Harry had survived, both shielded by the power of her love. 

Imagine how Lily Potter would encourage the Weasley twins in the things they were good at, instead of scolding them like everyone else in their lives, because she remembers what it was like growing up with the Marauders. Imagine how seriously they would have taken their studies with just a little bit of praise for the things they were doing right, because they were clearly smart boys. Imagine how much smarter they could be if only somebody realized their intelligence and encouraged it—somebody like Lily Potter. 

Imagine how gently Lily Potter would correct little Neville Longbottom, whose face looked just like his mother’s and whose eyes were filled with fear. Imagine how many of her lessons she would try to relate back to Herbology to help him understand, how patient she would be if he was having trouble. Imagine how she would praise him and boost his confidence, how she would help him with his other studies as well because, after all, Alice and Frank were practically family. 

Imagine Lily Potter teaching Nymphadora Tonks. One powerful ex-auror teaching an outspoken, quirky, auror-to-be. Imagine how much respect those two women would have had for each other, especially when Lily heard Tonks’ aspirations and Tonks heard of Lily’s time in the Order. 

Imagine how Lily Potter would have protected Harry whenever he was in danger, like nobody else in the school could. Imagine her specifically forbidding Harry from going anywhere near the Philosopher’s Stone, but knowing that he won’t listen because he’s his father’s son. Imagine her finding out that Harry had gone missing in the middle of the night, and rushing past all of the spells to get to where he’s battling with Quirrel. Imagine the fury that would have erupted from her wand. Imagine how safe and loved Harry would have felt. 

Imagine how nurturing Lily Potter would have been to little Ginny, who she recognizes as a little lost and scared. Imagine her keeping a very close eye on the only Weasley girl and becoming rather concerned, deciding to send Molly and Arthur an owl. Imagine how quickly she would have found out about the diary, because little Ginny finally has someone to confide in other than the dark lord, and shutting it down completely in the name of keeping her honorary neice safe. 

Imagine how proud Lily Potter would have been of Hermione, another muggle-born girl facing prejudice, yet rising to the top of her class. Imagine her appreciating the disadvantage that Hermione had, having not come from a wizarding family, and admiring every answer the girl could provide. Imagine how encouraging she would have been of Hermione’s intelligence rather than dismissive, how often she would assure her that blood status had nothing to do with a person’s character. 

Imagine how fond Lily Potter would have been of Luna. Luna may not look like much but she was a free spirit and a kind soul, the kind of person that a woman like Lily could appreciate in the dark ages they were living through. Imagine Lily giving Luna a fond smile every time their eyes met, and glaring down anyone who made fun of her differences. Imagine how protective she would have been of little Luna Lovegood, who had few friends and reminded her of herself before she had met Severus. 

Imagine how fond Lily Potter would be of the pranksters, but not too fond to keep them in check while they were in her class. 

Imagine the points Lily Potter would deduct from students she caught saying the word ‘mudblood.’ Imagine the detentions she would give, the long conversations she would have with the offended and offensive students, the letters she would send home to both parties’ parents. Imagine how proactive she would be in spreading tolerance throughout the younger students and stopping intolerance in the older ones. 

Imagine how much Lily Potter would have helped Ron Weasley, who was forever copying off of Hermione’s notes and essays. Imagine how thoroughly she would explain the things he wasn’t understsanding, how hard she would work to keep his attention on the lesson during class. 

for @hprarepairnet valentine’s challenge and @hpshipsnet rarepairs event: fleur delacour x penelope clearwater

for valentine’s day, fleur takes penelope to paris. they spend the afternoon baking heart-shaped cookies in their airbnb and and lazing around in bed. at night, penelope reads fleur to sleep.

for @slytherdornet and @hprarepairnet spring challenge: blaise zabini x ginny weasley

for @slytherdornet and @hprarepairnet weasley ship challenge: percy weasley x pansy parkinson

See your eyes in a darkened room Look at mine, see where your thoughts stray to ‘Cause I get chills every time that you Almost touch me They’re sayin’, “no, he’s a lighted fuse” But they don’t know you like I’d like to

for @hprarepairnet weasley ship challenge: arthur weasley x molly prewettt

The Christmas tree sparkled in the corner, a plate of half eaten mince pies sat on the coffee table.

The floorboard creaked under his foot, making her look up and see him there, a smile immediately lighting up her face.

“Here.” George passed her a cup of tea, watching as the steam rose up.

“There you are! I was beginning to think you’d fallen asleep at the table.” She chuckled, opening up the blanket so he could scooch in underneath next to her.

He smiled, shaking his head and holding his hand out. “Let’s go outside.”

Hermione’s eyes widened and she furrowed her brow. “George, it’s freezing out there. I’m pretty sure it was snowing earlier.”

“Humour me. Please?” George’s eyes met hers and his heart skipped. As usual.

She huffed, standing up and wrapping the orange throw around her body. “Fine. But this is coming with me. I don’t want to catch a cold so close to Christmas.”

“You’ll be fine, come on.” He moved to wrap his arm around her shoulders to guide her out the garden door.

There was a light sprinkling of snow on the ground which crunched under their feet.

They walked towards the large tree by the pond in comfortable silence, George’s fingers playing with the ends of her hair. They found their familiar seat at the bottom of the trunk and Hermione opened up the blanket to let him come inside it with her.

George slid closer to her side and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, his arm snaking around her waist as she took a sip of her tea.

“I love winter.” He murmured, staring out at the water and the fireflies dancing on the surface.

Hermione shivered beside him. “I think I’d take summer right now. Why did you want to come and sit out here?”

George paused, his heart picking up pace. “I have something for you.” Hermione’s eyebrows rose. “An early Christmas present if you will.”

Hermione tucked her head closer to his, butting his shoulder. “You’re full of surprises tonight.”

George smiled lightly, shifting in his seat to look at her properly. “Do you remember what happened here 2 years ago?”

“I was sat here watching the fireflies and you came out with a cup of tea and sat with me. You told me you loved me and then you- then you kissed me.” Hermione smiled shyly, blushing slightly at the memory. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget that night.”

George reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, wrapped box. “Open it.” He passed it to her and she handed him her tea to hold as she fiddled with the wrapping paper.

When she opened it up, she gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “George, it’s-it’s...”

“Hermione, I promise to keep kissing you unexpectedly. I promise to love you every single day for the rest of our lives, even when you don’t want me to. I promise to bring you a cup of tea every day.” Hermione laughed, tears pricking at her eyes. “I promise to dance with you when you’re sad. I promise you the world, love. Whatever you want, I’ll get it for you.”

“George, I-“

“Will you marry-“ his sentence was cut off as her lips met his in a sweet, tender kiss.

George pulled away. “You didn’t let me fin-“

It’s dark, the only light coming from streams of moonlight twisting through the stained glass windows, sending streaks of colour across the marble floor. The air felt heavy and cold - Draco stares up at through the wrought-iron banisters and tries to suppress his shiver.

The trunk lands on the floor with a clatter, the noise echoing around the empty house. With a curse Draco flicks his wand, heaving it back into the air. “Mother.”

He thinks Narcissa looks a bit like a ghost - her silence nightgown and white hair, washed out and empty like the marble floor. “What are you doing?”

Draco whips his head up, something like anger blooming in his chest. “No,” he says, sharply enough that Narcissa takes a short step back, fingers trailing on the bannister. “Don’t pretend, Mother. You’re not stupid.”

Narcissa tilts her head. She descends down the stairs, stopping just above of Draco and suddenly Draco’s five again, watching her put on her diamond earrings in front of the old mirror in her bedroom. They’re stars, Mummy! he had said, and Narcissa had merely smiled.

He takes a sharp breath, fingers clenched where they pressed into the handle of his wand, the wood digging into the flesh of his palm. “I’m leaving,” he says, and Narcissa closes her eyes. “I’m leaving. You and father and everything. I’m done.”

It feels strange saying the words, unraveling into the empty space between him and his mother. He’s said them many times before, to Harry and Pansy and Blaise but never his Mother.

It felt a bit like falling, the strange bottoming in his stomach, the twisted apprehension. Draco grips his wand even tighter, heart hammering in his chest.

“Draco,” Narcissa says, and he hears the slightest tremble in her voice, the fragile edge of tears. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his Mother cry, not even when he was curled up on the floor in the foyer, Voldemort’s laughter ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. His mother was like stone - beautful but unbending and he didn’t expect her to bend now.

“Don’t,” he breathes. The words are less solid than he would like them to be and he has to force them out again. “Don’t. Don’t pretend that - that you care, that you care for anything more than your investment - “

Narcissa raises her gaze, eyes like steel in the darkness of the room. “You’re not a parent,” she says simply, her voice so much smaller than Draco remembers. “You don’t - “

Draco shakes his head, trying but failing to keep the bitter twist of a smile from stretching over his mouth. He’s learnt that from Harry, he thinks, the sardonic edge of humor, the laughter that only came as everything fell apart. “You’re lying. You don’t care about me. You don’t love me.”

“Draco, I - “

“If you did,” Draco starts, his voice low and cold. “If you didn’t you wouldn’t have let him mark me.”

He sees the words hit his mother, as if she had been doused in cold water. Narcissa draws herself back up, face suddenly void of emotion.

“I did it so you could survive,” she hisses, the colour slowly draining from her cheeks. “I did it so that when he wins, you would be safe because you are my son.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Draco says scornfully. It’s the closest he’s ever come to outright questioning his mother.

“The Order is not in the habit of killing children,” Narcissa says coldly. “But the Dark Lord is more than acquainted with it.”

Draco swallows. He thinks of them, Harry and Ron and Hermione, Luna and Neville and Ginny, the way they had come back from the Ministry covered in ash and blood, the wounds and the curse-marks and then tear-tracks carved onto their cheeks.

“You’re wrong,” he says. “The Order is more than willing to kill their children.”

Narcissa opens her mouth then closes it. She casts her gaze upstairs, towards the bedroom where Lucius slept, her face still impassive. Draco breathes through gritted teeth, eyes pleading even as he tried to keep his face still.

“Please,” he says. “Please. Mother. I’m going.”

Narcissa cuts her gaze to him. “And if I stop you?”

“Don’t,” he breathes. His wand feels like a rod of burning metal in his hand, searing into his soul as he swings it up, points it at his mother’s chest.

Narcissa merely cocks her head. “You wouldn’t.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know what I would do anymore.”

Narcissa stares back at him. They’re still for a heartbeat - one, two. Draco stares at his hand and tries to imagine it; the bolt of energy, the way his mother’s body would fly backward, a splay of limbs and hair, the folds of her nightgown on the staircase. His hand shakes - he forces a deep breath, eyes still locked on his mother’s.

Finally, Narcissa looks down. “Where will you go?”

Draco swallows. His arm feels like wood as he forces it to his side, finger aching suddenly with a vengeance. “To Harry,” he says, and just saying it makes him feel better, like sunlight running through his veins. “I’ll stay with him for a bit, and then - “

Narcissa holds up a hand, fingers elegant and graceful. “No. You cannot tell me anymore.”

Draco blinks. “Mother - “

“No,” she says again. She closes her eyes and Draco suddenly understands, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing worse. “Your father is a Death Eater. Your family are Death Eaters. You should treat us as such.”

“Mother - “

Narcissa shakes her head and Draco swallows, every bone in his body going heavy. With a nod he turns away, shoulders set as he stares at the door.

YESSSSS! That was kind of my thought process for Serving of Servants too. I felt like Merlin was supposed to be a leader in his own right but he just got so focused on Arthur it’s almost like he forgot.

Don’t get me wrong. Arthur is a priority but I wanted to see Merlin doing more shit like with Freya, Mordred, and Aithusa. Sneaking magical creatures out. Aiding sorcerers. Hell, narratively speaking why weren’t we even introduced to more GOOD sorcerers?? We’re supposed to WANT magic to be free???

You hit all the points here. Season 1 merlin was BUILT for that shit and his heart was so big I’m surprised he didn’t just start setting up camps right then and there. I actually find it kind of OOC that never happened. Maybe if Merlin had just asked a bit more like you said then maybe that could have developed. Or like, if one druid was like “wait...maybe we should give him the PowerPoint version of this” because Merlin’s magical guidance was admittedly slim there... Even without the knowledge he was their leader i still narrow my eyes at how little he did.

ALSO THEY MISSED THE COOLEST RESISTANCE NAME. Tell me - TELL ME that something like “Knights of Emrys” isn’t the fucking most metal name for this group of sorcerers fighting under Uther’s reign? Like. Bruh. Then that could have spurred the rhetoric of Arthur being like “but who is Emrys?” And you could have had ARTHUR finding out “yo, there’s this powerful magic being. I wonder who it could be?”

Omg and there could have been a bunch of people doing low key hilarious shit too. Like all of Merlin’s “fighters” wear scarves somewhere on them as a sign they are part of the rebellion bc of the scarves Merlin wears and he’s like “I hate it...but whatever. It works.”

AND NONMAGIC USERS JOINING AS ALLIES! Stay with me here. Picture Merlin rolling up and finding Gwen at one of these meetings. And there’s of course a reveal and all but Merlin is confused because “Gwen, you don’t have magic” and Gwen gets quiet before telling Merlin that no, she doesn’t, but Uther has accused her of witchcraft before...not even violent witchcraft either. Saving her FATHER was her supposed magical crime and it made her realize how wrong the whole thing was. So now you got Gwen in the loop. Oh, and Lancelot obviously. He walks up his to training and grins as he subtly shows his scarf and asks if he could be made an officer. Merlin obviously says yes and now both Gwen and Lancelot are some of the highest ranking in the rebellion along with other super rad magic people that are well-developed with good backstories.

And obviously Morgana too. Merlin wouldn’t have had to even reveal himself. He could have snuck her to one of his camps with people he trusted to take care of her.

OH! And a secret lair. Y’all we could have HAD A SECRET MAGIC LAIR. In a mountain. It could have been in freaking mountain. A mountain full of magical, rebellious people as a save haven. God damnit. We could have HAD A MAGIC MOUNTAIN. I’m so pressed. Lord. Okay.

Also, the reveal.... like. It’s Camlann. Battle is happening and suddenly Arthur is like “I don’t think we can win” and it’s all sad and then BAM! Merlin walks up with a FUCKING SQUAD OF MAGIC BITCHES READY TO GO. They do that cliché thing where they stand on a hill looking super cool as the music gets loud and Arthur sees Merlin up front like “what???” And whoever is leading the Saxons (bc Morgana is cool now) is like “who are you?” And you get the cheesy drum beat before Merlin goes “Emrys” and then they attack.

hp rarepairs: susan bones x cormac mclaggen

“So. Want to be my arm candy?”

“You just want me for my rocking bod.”

Cedric’s death is one of the most important events in the entire series. Tonally and emotionally for both the reader and Harry. It’s significant. When I was eight years old and reading Goblet of Fire I threw my copy of the book across the room when Cedric’s body hit the ground. It completely changed the Harry Potter books for me. It’s a turning point for the series and for Harry as a person.

THEN WE HAVE THIS FUCKING PLAY.

This mess not only trivialises Cedric’s death within the narrative, it destroys it as an emotional blow for the reader. Cedric’s death was significant because Cedric himself was not significant. He was seventeen year old kid, he was on the quidditch team, he had a girlfriend, he was normal, kind, happy. His death was important bc he’s the first real death we experience in the narrative and it’s just this normal kid; a casualty of a war he had nothing to do with. His death charges the events of the next book, and marks a change in Harry that drives his characterisation for the rest of the series. 

Harry is plagued by nightmares of Cedric for months. Cedric’s ghost haunts his relationship with Cho, and both bolsters and hinders his ability to teach Dumbledore’s Army. His perspective of Cedric’s death defines the tragedy of Order of the Phoenix, and of the series as a whole:  “all that stuff was luck” Harry says of his achievements to the DA kids. It’s all luck. Throughout Harry Potter we keep coming back to luck. It was luck that saw Cedric in the graveyard that night and it was luck that saw Voldemort choose the Potters instead of the Longbottoms on Halloween in 1981. A prophecy that speaks with the surety of fate comes down to a chance between two different boys. The dichotomy between fate and chance and the fallacy of being “chosen” in Harry Potter is thematically critical to the series, and Cedric’s death is a part of that. 

He knew all the spells, he was one of the best wizards Hogwarts had to offer. The Goblet of Fire chose him. “He did know this stuff,” Harry says, “He was really good at it, or he could never have got to the middle of that maze…but if Voldemort really wants to kill you, you don’t stand a chance.” The absolute randomness of death and suffering is held in the grief that lies in Cedric’s wake, and it echoes through the next three books. Cedric, who was good, and kind, and normal, who died because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And now?? You come at me like “oh don’t worry! Cedric’s death is a Good Thing because otherwise this normal kid who has never been presented as anything but kind and well intentioned would have become a death eater that went on to shape how the world falls to absolute evil!!”  LIKE??? WHAT KIND OF EMOTIONAL NARRATIVE STRUCTURE IS THIS. It strips the event of Cedric’s death of all pathos. It completely destroys its emotional significance. It’s so completely at odds with the thematic progression of the original series I’m actually astounded to see it set down in ink by the very woman who wrote it.

when did she stop believing in her parents’s values ?

was it hard for her to admit her feelings for a muggleborn ?

what was her relationship with her sisters ?

when was the first time she argued with her parents about her values ?

how did she meet teddy ?

was dating him her first act of rebellion toward her parents ?

please please please tell me she secretley owned mugle clothes and records ?

how did she react when teddy asked her out/asked teddy out ?

how did she feel about being disowned ?

why the hell did she call her daughter nymphadora ?

what did she do during the first war ?

was she a feminist ?

was she queer ?

did she have a job ?

what was her hopes and dreams ?

how did she feel about having a punk kid ?

and a punk grandson ?

we know she’s badass, but how much exactly ?

was she pressured by her own family to end her relationship with teddy ?

did she play quidditch ?

was she traumatized by her family like sirius was ?

what was her strongest subject ?

did she have a lot of friends in her house ? in the other houses ?

was she as beautiful as she is in my head ?

what was her patronus ? and what memory did she think of while conjuring one ?

what kind of mother was she ?

how much did she yell on remus for leaving her pregnant daughter ?

how did she feel about him in a general way ?

what did she say about them both to teddy when he grew up ?

how did she feel about teddy being named after her dead husband ?

Andromeda Tonks, whose world has been upended, who can no longer hear anything but a strange buzz in her ears and the crash of the china as she slams into a nearby counter.

Andromeda, who thinks that something’s not right, something’s wrong because Lee Jordan is a nice boy who wouldn’t lie about this, wouldn’t lie about things like this, but he must be because Ted can’t…he can’t have—

Then the buzzing stops and there’s a strange wailing sound coming from the parlour…Nymphadora, Nymphadora.

Andromeda Tonks, who runs on unsteady legs back to the living room to catch her daughter before she falls to the ground, her tears hot and heavy and splashing against her mother’s arms.

Andromeda Tonks, who sinks to the ground and holds her sobbing daughter to her chest and rocks her as she stares unseeingly at the floral wallpaper Ted had always detested.

Andromeda Tonks, who has to keep it together for her daughter’s sake—for her grandson’s sake—even as her hands are shaking and her mind is numbing and her heart is breaking.

Andromeda Tonks, no, Andromeda Black now, who comforts her Dora until Remus Apparates to their door and all three of them hold each other until Dora’s all but cried herself to sleep.

Andromeda, who feels only cold and numb but touches Remus’ rough cheek in thanks when he cleans up the kitchen and brings Dora up to bed.

Andromeda, whose wall of dignity and grace from years and years of Black upbringing finally collapses and she falls heavily on the couch because it’s the middle of the night now but she can’t she can’t go back up to the bedroom full of his things or the study that still smells like him or even the kitchen because he’d bloody bought that tea set

Andromeda, who can no longer stop the tears and the screams she tries to muffle by shoving her fists against her mouth and the agony is too much and she can be there for her daughter and her son-in-law tomorrow because it is too much right now and she’s panicking and gasping because she can’t remember Teddy’s voice she can’t remember she can’t remember— 

It’s many hours later before Andromeda’s throat grows hoarse and closes up and she just stares across the dark room with tears still sliding down her face and Teddy’s grin burned into the backs of her eyes.

Andromeda Black, who can hear many things: the cars passing on the street outside, Teddy’s whoop of delight when he jumped into the lake that afternoon in their fifth year, branches tapping the windowpane, Teddy telling her he loves her in a voice that’s raw and low and brittle as ice, a neighbour’s dog barking at nothing, Teddy laughing laughing laughing

Andromeda Black, who finally gets up from her sleepless dark eternity on the sofa at six in the morning with tear tracks on her sticky face and teeth marks on her fingers, who goes to the loo and washes her face and fixes her hair, who rebuilds that wall of strength and quiet courage and no, she’s not Andromeda Black, she’s bloody Andromeda Tonks and Ted Tonks will always be her husband and their lives aren’t over yet.

Andromeda Tonks, who marches onward for her daughter and her grandson and herself, who helps Dora give birth to a healthy baby boy, who squeezes her daughter and son-in-law’s hands when she hears her grandson’s name.

Andromeda Tonks, who goes back to that bedroom and that study—eventually—and tidies it up but just a little, even if just to remember the exasperated chuckle Teddy always used to make when she cleaned up after him.

Andromeda Tonks, who watches Remus Lupin come and go with more bruises and scratches and shadows under his eyes, and who then (after weeks of arguments) tentatively lets Dora back out because she trusts Remus to bring Dora back and trusts Dora to bring Remus back and they trust her to care for their son, their Teddy Lupin. 

Until one day, that horrible day in May, where they go and they don’t come back.

And Andromeda Tonks, who thinks she’s been here before, been in this suspended state of buzzing and silence and horrible clarity, feels as though the ground is swallowing her whole as she stares at Dora’s Lupin and her Dora, her beautiful beautiful baby girl, her darlingdearestdea—

Andromeda Tonks, whose legs refuse to let her fall even as she gazes at her daughter’s peaceful face and thinks about how she’s failed Dora, failed Ted, failed the baby sleeping in the other room that has Dora’s mouth and Ted’s ears and—

Andromeda Tonks, who sees only blurs, who accepts condolences without listening, who returns stiffly to the house that once held everything and is now empty and silent and cold.

Andromeda Tonks, who no longer has any more strength to give, who no longer has any more tears to cry, who no longer feels anything except the throbbing throbbing pain in her chest that's’ never really gone away and is now threatening to crack her open because none of this was supposed to happen because being a Muggle-born wasn’t ever supposed to be a bad thing and this war wasn’t ever supposed to last this long and her sister wasn’t ever supposed to kill her own niece and she wasn’t ever supposed to have to outlive her own daughter, her own Nymphadora…

Andromeda Tonks, who finds that there are always more tears to cry, and this time when she collapses she’s scared she won’t ever be able to get back up again because all the walls of poise and dignity are down crumbling disintegrating and she won’t bother building them back up again—she doesn’t want to because it was that family that built them in the first place scorching them into her like a brand and that family that helped start this bloody war and that family that took away her entire world

Andromeda Tonks, who this time is silent in her grief, Andromeda Tonks, who is drowning in the feeling of her chest caving in and her mind screaming and her heart a writhing living broken flame burning and burning and— 

Andromeda, who through the tunneling blackness her existence has now become hears the wails of the one person, one thing she cannot abandon, because her health and spirit and sanity would fail before she dared to fail him; her grandson, her Teddy, her Dora’s pride and joy. 

Andromeda Tonks, who claws her way out of the empty chasm with no answer and furiously shakes away the numbness, who pulls herself up on her shaking legs and can almost hear Dora and Ted telling her to get up get up get up

Andromeda Tonks, who makes it to her grandson and scoops him up and holds him to her chest and sinks to the parlor floor where she’d held her devastated daughter once upon a time, cooing and fussing and crying alongside him for a mother who won’t ever return.

Andromeda Tonks, who remembers everything: Ted raising Dora above his head in the sunlight, the feel of his stubble in the morning, Dora’s giggles as she turns her hair pink blue green, those canary yellow sneakers she adored, licking the ice cream off Dora’s cheeks, Ted’s horrible singing when they stargazed on the Quidditch pitch in seventh year, Dora’s cartoons in the margins of her letters home, the three of them all together and hugging and laughing—and she knows she can be strong for Teddy and herself because she’s Andromeda Black and Andromeda Tonks and she will be the very best of both because this is her daughter’s son in her arms and their lives aren’t over yet.

Andromeda Tonks, who has risen and fallen and risen again and who will keep on rising for herself and for this boy, her grandson, her Teddy Lupin, and remind him all the rest of their days just how much his mummy and daddy and grandpa Ted and grandma Dromeda would always love him and love him and love him.