Valkyrie

February 1979

There is, perhaps comically, a doormat reading “the heart is where the home is” at the foot of the door leading to Andromeda Black’s house.

Andromeda Tonks, Alice reminds herself mentally. It is hard sometimes to reconcile the thought of these two people as one: Andromeda Black, with a haughty tilt to her chin and pride seeped into her very marrow, and Andromeda Tonks, a name that implies softness and friendliness. The Andromeda Alice remembers was not soft nor friendly, though perhaps she was an acquired taste, if she managed to get married, anyway.

Alice has been standing on the front steps for several minutes, deliberating how to knock. It is cold, and the wind nips at her exposed cheek, so she bundles herself even tighter into her scarf, glaring at the doorknocker and willing it to open with her mind. People tend to be surprised, but Alice isn’t very good at wandless or even wordless magic. Dorcas has that shit down, but it’s as though a mental block sits on Alice’s brain every time she tries. Frank lets her practice on him, but more often than not she just gets so frustrated she doesn’t even want to fuck afterwards. That is a big deal.

Bite the bullet, Alice. Open the door, you coward. Always that same voice in the back of her mind, always her voice. Her inner monologue, mixed with memories. That’s why she’s here, isn’t it?

Before she can do anything else, Alice steps forward and knocks. Two decisive raps on the door.

A beat.

Two.

A brown-haired man opens the door. He looks soft and rumpled, in a brown jumper and corduroys. In a flash, she remembers him at eighteen, that stupid Head Boy badge pinned to his robes, rolling his eyes fondly at her when she got caught sneaking out past curfew again.

Alice smiles. “Hi, Ted.”

Ted Tonks shakes his head as though in disbelief. “Alice Fortescue. Look at you now. It’s been… what, seven, eight years? C’mere.” Without a second thought, he swoops her up into his arms, hugging her tightly. Alice holds him back, a strange feeling settling across her guts.

“It’s good to see you again.”

Ted finally sets her down and sends a hand through his mussed hair. “You know, you could have come to visit us sooner. You’re one of the few with our address, anyway.”

Alice shifts a little awkwardly. “I wasn’t sure if you guys would want to see me.”

“Pshaw. I always want to see you, kiddo. Andy too. Speaking of, c’mon in. Andy’s in the kitchen with Dora.”

The house is small but quaint. Earthy tones abound, a squashy couch wedged in between bookshelves, a collection of toy trains scattered across the floor. It is all so… domestic, Alice thinks, following as Ted weaves his way through the organized chaos. Hard to imagine the second Black daughter living here.

And she sees her. Andromeda Black, sitting at the tiny dining table, watching fondly as her six-year-old daughter zooms trucks across the floorboards.

“Andy, we’ve got a visitor.” Ted announces proudly, going straight to the fridge and leaving Alice exposed in the entrance. Andromeda’s silver eyes snap to hers. She gets the peculiar feeling of being scanned for information; a look she’s come to understand as purely Black.

Andromeda tilts her chin up. “Hello, Alice.”

Alice nods a little shakily. “Hi, Andromeda. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Nonsense. Come meet Nymphadora.”

At the sound of her name, the little girl’s head snaps up, and her hair goes from black to bright red. Alice takes a startled step back, suddenly having a strange sense of déjà vu.

“Shit, a Metamorphmagus?”

Ted shoots her a look. “Language—” but the damage is already done.

“Shit!” Nymphadora proclaims proudly, as though she has just snatched up a pretty rock to show everyone. Alice, cheeks red, feels Andromeda’s gaze get a little sharper. That is not what she needs right now, especially not with… that memory.

Thankfully, Alice is good with children, her one saving point, and so she manually shifts her brain into her easygoing-friendly mode.

“Merlin, your hair is so cool! Woah! Can you change it on command?”

Nymphadora grins, displaying two missing teeth. “Yup!” Her hair goes green, then purple.

“Wow! Can you do other things too? Can you—” Alice leans in close. “Can you look like me?”

The kid studies her face with a concentration akin to a very old man trying to read. Alice tries not to laugh at the visual. Slowly but surely, she begins to see her features reflected on the small face of the little girl. She grins widely.

“Is that me, standing in front of me? Hey, stop impersonating me!”

Nymphadora giggles, and Alice suddenly wonders what it must be like to have her own child laugh like that one day.

“Ted, I think we are out of bread.” Andromeda announces. “Why don’t you take Nymphadora with you to the market?”

Alice glances up. Andromeda is staring at her, eyes piercing. She knows what you’re here for, the voice whispers. a shiver crawls down Alice’s spine. She hates the feeling of being perceived.

“Aye aye, captain.” Ted salutes and swings Nymphadora up onto his shoulder. “Say goodbye to Alice.” Alice wiggles her fingers at the kid. “Shall we play pirates on the way?” His voice trails off down the hall, until silence.

Alice turns slowly to look at Andromeda.

“Sit.”

Alice sits.

The strangest thing about Andromeda’s eyes is that they aren’t like hers. Hers, when she wasn’t changing them to fit in, settled in an icy blue shade that made her look even more ethereal. There was the same look, the slight squint as they analyzed everything that made you tick, but hers, at least once, was tinged with love.

There is no love in Andromeda’s gaze.

“Why are you here?”

Never one to mince words. Alice sighs, tries to compose her thoughts so as not to come across a blubbering fool. Andromeda is intimidating, always has been, and despite herself, Alice feels that desperate need to win her over.

“I need your help,” is what she settles on, because it most easily encapsulates why she is here. She wouldn’t be if she didn’t need to be.

Andromeda’s eyes narrow even more. “Why mine?”

“Because we have a common interest.”

“Don’t weave riddles around me, Alice. Come right out and say it.”

Alice’s heart is beating out of her chest. To say it means no going back, no repairing this relationship. Andromeda will send her out from her home with a demand that she never return.

But… she needs something. Closure, perhaps. A bridge to the other world. And only Andromeda can provide it.

“I need to speak with Narcissa.”

Narcissa, daffodil. Alice cannot say her name, cannot pick that flower any longer. It will fill every inch of space in her brain if she lets it, memory upon memory of skin upon skin. Alice drowns and chokes on it all, and comes up coughing yellow petals.

Andromeda has not moved. Her arms are folded on the table, possibly concealing clenched fists, or a knife. With the Blacks, you can never be sure. Alice has at least once been on the receiving end of a knife held by the deadly charming Bellatrix Black (she does not recommend the experience, mind you).

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes, you can. Please.” She sounds desperate, but it is beyond hiding.

“Alice, I no longer speak to her. To either of them.”

“But you know how to reach her, don’t you? Please, Andromeda. I’ll never ask anything else of you again.”

Andromeda’s eyes flash. It is that which always feared Alice about her, when she would fly off into one of her rages. That glint was the first clue, the first clue that the girl Alice loved was about to morph into the most terrifying monster she could ever imagine, using every vulnerability she knows to strike.

But Andromeda does not begin screaming, does not hurl the cruellest words she can at Alice’s head. She stays perfectly still. “Why?”

This is progress. Alice pulls herself back down to earth, away from the headspace where her voice keeps whispering, tries to mull over a suitable answer.

“The war is getting worse.”

“Wars tend to do that. Next answer.”

“She’s in danger over there, Andromeda.”

“Would she be in less danger here?”

“With me, yes.”

Andromeda laughs, a strangely flinty sound. “You have a saviour complex, Alice Fortescue.”

“But it’s true. I can protect her.”

“She made her choice, over there. You cannot lure her over with the promise of flimsy love.”

Alice’s cheeks burn. “It’s not flimsy.”

“Aren’t you married?”

They stare at each other from across the table. Andromeda’s lips curl into a slight smile. She is winning, and she knows it.

Alice presses her palms together. “Please, Andromeda. I have to… I have to at least talk to her.”

“Do you know that she would even want to speak with you?”

Alice falters. The smile grows wider.

“I… don’t know. But, I have to try.”

“Alice.” Andromeda leans in. everything about her is sharp and biting. “She is a Death Eater. She is not yours anymore, in any way. She is not fourteen anymore. You are a fool if you think this will change anything.”

“Have I asked you for anything before?” This catches her off guard. Alice knows how to play the Black verbal spars too. After all, she spent two years face to face with one. “Have I given away your location to anyone? I hear Dumbledore and McGonagall are particularly interested in getting you on their side. Wouldn’t it be easy to bring them here?”

Andromeda arches an eyebrow. “That would accomplish very little. I’m a better witch than you are. Threats don’t scare me, Alice.”

“No, but you’re a coward.”

Something pained and complicated flits across her face, covered almost instantly by the Black mask. Alice remembers that vulnerability, and pounces.

“You’re too much a coward to face the side your family all fled to, where your sisters are. Bellatrix has the fucking balls to fight, at least. They both have conviction. Meanwhile you don’t give two shits if the wizarding world lives or dies, if muggles are slaughtered, because all that matters is that the precious Black daughter gets to live out her cottage fantasies with her muggleborn husband and half-blood daughter. What if it was them, huh? He would stop at nothing to watch their brains splatter across the walls, and still, you wouldn’t lift a finger. That’s not self-preservation, Andromeda. That is being a fucking coward.”

Andromeda’s jaw clicks. An almost primal look is in her eye, something base and instinctual. Every bone in her body is rejecting that, family arrogance and pride unable to cope with the truth.

There are two things that a Black values above all: family and greatness. And Andromeda, however much she likes to pretend now that she is a simple housewife, raising her daughter in peace and harmony in the countryside, is a Black down to her very core.

You lot are so easy to manipulate, Alice thinks, that vicious side of herself reveling in her success. She is ashamed of it usually, but here all she can feel is victory.

Finally, Andromeda runs her tongue along her sharp molars. “You are really serious about this, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question, but Alice nods anyway. Andromeda sighs, lowers her head for a moment, considers.

“I have stayed in communication with my… my cousin. I can speak to her and see if we can get her out of the manor to see you.”

“What if I go in?”

Andromeda’s eyes flash warningly again. “Out of the question. If I hear that you took any steps to get into that building, it’s off. I will not have any part in that.”

Alice considers, then nods firmly. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Thank you.”

Andromeda looks at her and slowly shakes her head. “You are one stupid son of a bitch, Alice Fortescue.”

“I know.”

“You need to go. Ted will be back soon with the bread. I’ll tell him you had to leave early.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

The flicker of a cruel smile on her lips is smoothed out quickly. “It does not concern him. By the way, you are no longer welcome in my house.”

Alice smiles sweetly at her as she stands. “I expected as such. When you’re telling Nymphadora bedtime stories, be sure to tell her how you won’t risk your own ass to ensure her future. Isn’t that a cute story?” She points down the hall. “I’ll let myself out, don’t worry.”

As she treks further from the house, Alice shoots a cursory look back. The lot is empty, the wards reinforced. She snorts to herself and keeps walking, letting her anger and cruelty melt away, replaced by that familiar thrum in her chest beating her name over and over again:

Narcissa, Narcissa, Narcissa.

God, those Black sisters drive her mad.

~*~

Amelia gets used to finding the cat outside of her flat every week.

The funny thing is, she’s never really liked cats. Oscar used to play with this stray cat on their street when they were little, always bringing it a bowl of food to eat, but Amelia always found it kind of off-putting: the mangy fur, the jutting spine, the sharp eyes.

This cat is much healthier looking, sleek and gorgeous. There’s the distinct markings around the eyes, so Amelia knows who it is. Not that she wouldn’t anyway, as most cats generally don’t look so stern all the time.

Amelia glances behind her as she walks to the door, making sure no one is looking. It is late and cold, the only people out are a group of teenage girls drunk and giggling down the street. She feels only a brief flash of contempt before her brain moves swiftly along.

“Come on, then.” She says in a dull voice to the cat, who just keeps staring. Fucking animagi, so creepy.

The flat is sparsely decorated, the only sort of indication that someone lives here is a coat strewn across the back of an armchair. Amelia doesn’t spend much time here besides sleeping, admittedly. Right now, it’s all hands-on deck at the Ministry.

She goes to the tiny kitchen, grabs two chipped mugs from the pantry, and turns on the kettle for tea. Behind her, she listens for the pad of cat feet in the hallway, and the soft popping sound of transformation. Minerva only
switches back in the safety of Amelia’s flat.

Safety is a relative term. Her boss, Crouch, has insisted on everyone installing security measures in their homes, given the growing threat. Amelia refuses to do this, not least because she’s fairly certain Crouch would have access to surveillance if they used the spells he recommended. Besides, she can protect herself.

The kettle whistles, and Amelia fills up the mugs with hot water and teabags, bringing them out to the small table. An interesting note she keeps filed away: both she and Minerva take their tea with no milk or sugar.

Minerva, sitting across from her, has dark circles under her eyes, her tight bun slipping loose. She looks completely exhausted. Amelia would be lying if there wasn’t any smugness in her heart as she sits down with her mug pressed against her palms, arching a brow up at Minerva in curiosity.

“The attack on a muggle bar last week. You have a lead?” Minerva asks, sipping at her tea.

Amelia shrugs. “Death Eaters, like we suspected.”

Minerva lets out an exasperated huff. “And?”

“No charges being levied against anyone. It’s being referred to as simple muggle-on-muggle violence. Not our jurisdiction. Scrimgeour keeps pushing for more investigation, but it’s being held up by Malfoy.”

“Is that all?”

Amelia smiles thinly. “Corruption is not common in the Ministry, Minerva.”

Minerva waves a hand in the air. “Humour doesn’t suit you, Amelia.” She says brusquely and drains her cup. “I’ll be back next week. Stay vigilant.” She stands up to go. Amelia follows her with her eyes.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Professor?”

Minerva’s shoulders slump just imperceptibly, and she sucks on her teeth before responding. “We’re still working on it. Crouch is a difficult man to get rid of.”

“Sounds like you’re not trying hard enough.”

Minerva turns her head slightly to glance back at Amelia, still sitting at the table. “Always a pleasure.” She says through gritted teeth and strides away.

Amelia drums her fingers on the wood table, one hand still curled around the mug, deep in thought. It is rare she can actually sit like this, without work, these days. These days. Such a phrase Amelia hopes to never think again. She does not wish to be a part of “these days.”

Before she can think more, she dumps the rest of her tea down the drain, grabs her coat from the chair, and heads back out to the Ministry to spend the night.

~*~

“You really kissed Billy Weasley?!” Nora half-whispers, her eyes wide.

Julia nods proudly, a tinge of pink on her cheeks. “Fuck yeah, I did. And guess what?” They all lean in a little closer, nobody can resist the pull of Julia’s orbit. “I definitely felt his boner too.”

“Ewww!” squeals Claire, recoiling so hard she topples onto her back, feet kicking the air. “That’s so gross!”

“What’s a boner?” Little Kate asks inquisitively, sitting up straight against the headboard as though staying totally still will keep anyone from noticing her curfew has long since past. Sister code, however, overrules anything else.

“You’ll understand when you’re older, Kit.” Julia reaches over to run her knuckles over Kate’s hair, making her try and yank away only to fall off the bed. Nora reaches down quickly to grab her, still looking at Julia.

“What was it like to kiss him? I mean… I haven’t kissed a boy yet.”

“Imagine two soggy pieces of bread on your face, and it keeps making soft moaning noises that suggests it is enjoying it a lot more than you are.” Julia leans back, satisfied at the grimaces her sisters pull.

“That doesn’t sound very pleasant.” Nora’s voice is faintly sad. Kate, wise beyond her years, lightly pats her shoulder in comfort.

Emma shifts her gaze away lazily. The room has a strange, languid feeling to it, as though time has been dipped in honey. Her eyes meet Audrey’s across the room, who winks. Emma doesn’t respond in turn. She has the vaguest sense that she is floating, unable to move her limbs. She doesn’t want to move, though. She wants to stay here forever, under the warm buttery glow of the lamp on Nora’s bedside.

“Who do you want to kiss, Nora?” Audrey asks softly, with that gentleness none of the Vanity sisters have quite learned to master.

Nora blushes deeply and pulls the blanket up over her head to avoid answering. Claire grabs a fistful of Nora’s hair and tugs, pulling her head back up.

“Fine! Fine, I’ll say it… but you can’t laugh at me.”

“It can’t be any worse than Jules’ crush on Warden Bulstrode.” Audrey cracks.

“That was second year, and I was an idiot!” Julia screeches.

Kate sticks her finger against Julia’s mouth. “Shhh, Nora’s trying to talk.”

Nora is beet red, twirling a strand of hair quickly around her finger. “Well—uh.”

“Just spit it out!”

“C’mon, it can’t be that bad.”

Nora shakes her head, and suddenly leans into Audrey’s ear to whisper. Audrey’s face goes from neutral to barely suppressing giggles, eyes bulging.

“Corban YAXLEY????!?!?!”

The girls erupt with laughter. Nora, nearly purple, slides off the bed and underneath it.

“Yaxley, that slimy git? You want to kiss Yaxley???” Julia is clutching her side, leaning her head against Claire, who snorts a laugh.

“Shit, Nora. I mean I could see Longbottom, or even the second Lestrange guy. But Yaxley?”

“I’m never telling you guys anything ever again.” Nora says very solemnly yet muffled from under the bed.

Emma’s hands start to tingle. This is the sign. Every fibre in her body begins to protest, pleading: no no no, let me stay here, I want to stay here, please!

“Emma, where are you going?”

“Emma?”

~*~

She wakes up drenched in sweat back in bed. Laying there, paralyzed under the weight of her memories, she thinks about killing herself today.

But, no.

She gets up, rips her bed sheets off the mattress, and dumps them in a pile by the door of her room. She goes to shower for the first time in about a week and a half, running her fingers through her thick dark hair. She refuses to think because to think means to remember, and to remember means to exist. Emma refuses to exist, not now, not ever.

It is still early in the morning; dawn has not yet arrived. Hestia and Emmy are still asleep, thank merlin. Emma can never quite bear facing them like this. Of course, she always does, not that it isn’t always miserable to do so. She lies and smiles and thinks constantly how terrible it would be for either of them to find her dead body. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.

It is this cycle: Emma thinks of jumping off the ledge of their small flat, she doesn’t, she pretends everything is fine, and life goes on. Rinse and repeat. Not a day goes by that this doesn’t inevitably happen.

Predictable, boring, depressing. Holy trifecta, a sarcastic voice says in her head.

She makes coffee, burns her tongue on it while she tries to decide what to write to Audrey in the letter. “Hey, sorry if I’ve been off the grid for a while, I keep thinking about dying. How’s the pregnancy going?” Emma considers chucking her quill across the room.

She hates this. She hates this place and she hates her flesh and she hates how much she hates everything. The blood in her veins should never have been this corrosive.

Sometimes, if she pauses long enough, she can feel the serrated knife slotting into the vulnerable space between her shoulder blades. That was when she was poisoned. She remembers the soft tongue swiping up the blood from her back and grinning at her in the mirror, teeth stained red, a beautiful and arousing and horrifying and infuriating sight, all because it was her.

Emma wants to kiss her. Emma wants to kill her. Emma wants to burn everything to the ground and live forever in a honey-coated memory that she isn’t all that sure now ever really occurred. Emma wants a lot of things that Emma will never get.

She doesn’t notice the quill’s sharp end digging into the fleshy bit between her thumb and index finger. She doesn’t notice the blood or the pain from behind the strange, glazed feeling. She wants it to hurt; it distresses her that it does not.

A happy memory. It was a happy memory, with her sisters. The last time they were all together. 1972, before beautiful Julia ran off to Taiwan and sensible Audrey settled down in their hometown and little Kate and brave Claire went off to Hogwarts and bashful Nora’s body lay marked in a grave somewhere and reckless Emma came back to fight a war.

This is where she begins to slip again, back into the pit of darkness and anger and blood and salt. The Vanity sisters, long since scattered to the winds, as though someone has kicked a dandelion and spread the seeds across a field.

Emma wants to raze the field to the ground. She wants to scream and cry and burn and die

“Van?”

Emma looks up at Hestia Jones. “Wouldn’t you believe it, my dearest cupcake,” she says, as though nothing has ever been wrong, gesturing at her hand, now overflowing with blood, “that I have gotten myself into a bit of a predicament?”

Rinse and repeat, the cycle goes on.