Like Andrómeda was Bella’s,
Bellatrix was always hers.
Blackened blood, the rest —
Don’t matter, family —
Forever first.
⠀
War brews slowly;
First — in headlines,
Then — behind closed doors
Of a dining room of home,
Only somewhat hers.
⠀
Bella — queen-corruption,
Brightest-blackest star.
Lord’s Lieutenant in the making,
Suddenly — so far.
⠀
Andy — firmly in the middle,
Yearning for marked praise.
But it’s all reserved for Riddle;
Andy’s world — ablaze.
⠀
So Drómeda finds her solace
Under sky of midnight stars. At the tower,
She’s lawless — “Black, wake up,
You’ve gone too far.”
⠀
One step back, then two, then three;
Her attempts — futile.
The inviting arms of Teddy
Determíned to lure her in.
⠀
Teddy’s warmth — Drómeda’s heaven;
Androméda — raised in hell.
Water — wine, herself — caged-chained;
Need to run — desire to quell.
⠀
War is real, and so are horrors
Of Andrómeda’s safe place.
Bella — a devote Death Eater,
Teddy's hunter, fall from grace.
⠀
Teddy — fearful, full of danger,
Yet with Drómeda — she’s safe.
French Riviera, boats and Muggles —
An attempt that has been made.
⠀
War is here, and sides are chosen;
Right and wrong — twin-scheming pair.
Put on stage, Drómeda’s frozen —
“Bella, murder? Who's to blame?”
Always Bella’s, always Black;
Bella — the Dark Lord’s.
Teddy — Andy’s from the start,
Yet Droméda — never hers.
⠀
Lines are drawn, the dream is over,
Androméda drinks to live.
She’s lost, adrift, has fallen —
Blind devotion’s got to give.
⠀
Choice is made, the game has started,
Androméda — bound by chains.
Count’s on, her wish — half-granted;
Graveyard waits until next May.