Chapter Text
ANDROMEDA
The stink of blood and dirt hung heavy in the air as Andromeda staggered away from the mingled outpourings of jubilation and mourning, of grief and celebration, jumping over dead bodies and ducking anyone attempt to grab her.
By the corner of her eyes, Andromeda saw Professors McGonagall and Flitwick moving Tom Riddle’s body away from the Great Hall and the bodies of those who had died fighting him.
Andromeda warped her arms around herself at the sight, eyes burning with unwanted tears and feeling as though she was ready to collapse at any moment. She was used to pain though, be it emotional or physical, so it was easy to keep walking and ignore the warning signs her body was trying to give to her.
Leaving the Great Hall took longer than normal but she soon found herself walking up the half destroyed marble staircase and towards the second floor. Nothing had been left untouched, she noted absentmindedly. Great chunks of stones were missing from the castle's walls, parts of the suits of armors were destroyed, and several portraits had been completely obliterated. Unsurprising, almost every step she took was blocked by rubble and Andromeda had to stop more than once to move it away.
Green-eyes blinked tiredly as she stopped before the large stone gargoyle that guarded the entrance to the Headmaster’s study. It looked a little more picturesque than normal, holding a clawed hand to its head and mumbling angrily about a headache (Could it even get a headache?).
The seventeen years old witch didn’t say a word and observed the statue. Absentmindedly, Andromeda noted that it was missing an ear and one fang.
It took a while for it notice her. The gargoyle seemed ready to fight before it stared, immediately recognizing her despite how horrible she must have looked with dried blood, bruises and bandages all over her body.
“Ah, it’s just you, Potter,” the statue grumbled. “Go on.”
The gargoyle groaned in pain as it moved aside slowly. The wall behind it split in two and Andromeda dragged her feet onto the spiral stone staircase that moved slowly upward like an escalator.
Andromeda blinked once more when she came face to face with a familiar gleaming oak door at the top of the staircase, pushing it open.
The moment she stepped in the room, Andromeda practically jumped out of her skin when an earsplitting noise greeted her. She reached out for her wand without thinking, ears ringing with the sound of explosions, screams and —
Applause.
It was just… It was just applause, she noted, forcing herself to focus and gripping the front of her bloodstained sweater with shaky hands as her heart tried to jump out of her ribcage with how fast it was beating.
Andromeda took a deep, shuddering breath, scanning the circular room. All around the walls, the previous headmasters and headmistresses of Hogwarts were giving her a standing ovation; they waved their hats and in some cases their wigs, they whistled as loud as they could, they reached through their frames to grip each other’s hands and some were practically dancing up and down on the chairs in which they had been painted.
Even Great-Grandfather Phineas Nigellus who rarely, if ever, acknowledged her, declared with his reedy voice, “And let it be noted that she is the Heir to my House!”
Clarisse Potter née Longbottom, Andromeda’s Grandfather’s mother and whose portrait was located above Phineas Nigellus', scoffed.
“That wasn’t what you said two years ago,” she said.
Phineas Nigellus raised his head to glare at the other portrait.
The two of them started to argue but Andromeda ignored them. In silence, the raven-haired teen approached a large portrait half-hidden behind a golden, throne-like chair.
The portraits around them fell silent when they noticed who she was looking at, beaming and mopping their eyes as they leaned in their seats to hear what she had to say. Were she able to, Andromeda would've laughed at the typical wizarding portrait behavior; they had nothing better to do with their time than gossiping and listening in other people’s conversations.
Andromeda opened her mouth to speak only to close it again when she couldn’t come up with anything to say.
And, honestly, the raven-haired witch didn’t even know why she was there in the first place — Her body started to move on its own the moment it clicked in her mind that Tom was finally dead and the war was over. She only started to become aware of where she was going when she reached the gargoyle.
“Andy.”
She blinked, pulling herself out of her thoughts to focus on the portrait before her. Professor Dumbledore, dressed in his finest and brightest robes, stared back with tears sliding down from behind his half-moon spectacles and into his extremely long, silver beard.
“My dear girl,” Professor Dumbledore said, “you did it!”
There was pride emanating from him but Andromeda ignored it as she stared at the portrait with unblinking green eyes. The last thing she wanted from him was pride.
There was nothing to be prideful of.
“You already heard about it all,” she said dryly, rubbing her eyes.
How much time had passed since she left the Great Hall? Five or six minutes? Maybe less?
She had neither wanted nor expected an answer but Professor Dumbledore still laughed and said, “News travel faster than an owl in this castle.”
Other portraits chuckled but she couldn’t bring herself to as much as curl her lips in amusement.
Andromeda closed her eyes, sliding down to the floor and leaning against the side of the headmaster’s chair. Dumbledore must’ve seen something on her face that he didn’t like because his smile dropped and he started to look worried.
“Andy?”
“I…” Andromeda raised her head, staring at the ceiling vacantly. “Tom Riddle is dead.”
“Yes,” Professor Dumbledore replied softly. “Yes, he is.”
Andromeda thought about it for a moment, recalling the gut-wrenching realization that had hit her as she stared at Tom Riddle’s feeble and shrunken body.
“Tom is dead,” she repeated, gripping the front of her sweater as her heart started to hurt. “So, what does that mean for me?”
Professor Dumbledore looked down at her with sad blue-eyes, “I don’t understand, child…”
Andromeda pursued her lips.
While everyone was cheering for her victory against Tom, all Andromeda had managed to do was stare at the man’s body. She hadn’t been happy. If anything, Andromeda was lost.
The moment Tom Riddle died, the raven-haired witch felt like she lost all sense of identity and time. Andromeda couldn’t see a destination from that point on because while all the other students in the castle had plans for the future, she had never expected to live long enough to see her eighteenth birthday.
But there she was…
Alive and with no idea of what to do with her life now that no Dark Lord would be literally haunting her both in her dreams and the waking world.
Maybe that was why she left the Great Hall.
Maybe, the moment she realized just how lost – how insignificant and useless – she was with no Dark Lord to fight, a part of Andromeda knew that Professor Dumbledore would have some kind of answer for her…
Maybe – just maybe – he could even give her a new purpose.
“Andromeda.”
She blinked slowly, huffing a weak laugh. She really needed to stop spacing out.
Raising her head, the green-eyed witch was surprised to see that Professor Dumbledore looked like he was ready to burst into tears again. Only this time it had nothing to do with misplaced pride for her having accomplished a duty that had been given to her before she was even a year old.
It took Andromeda less than a second to understand that she had been speaking out loud.
She averted her eyes, staring at one of the bookshelves at the corner of the room.
“Andromeda,” the old wizard said firmly if not a little heartbroken, “look at me.”
Hesitantly, she turned her head, staring at the tip of Professor Dumbledore’s nose. He leaned back in chair, sighing softly but didn’t say anything about it. The old wizard knew that was the best he would get from her at the moment.
“I shouldn’t have to say this…” the old wizard paused, looking his age for once and leaning closer to his portrait’s frame as though he was trying to reach out for her. “But it was my own mistakes that have lead to this…”
He shook his head slowly when she opened her mouth to speak, raising a hand and silently asking her to listen.
“You’re so much more than the Girl-Who-Lived, Andromeda. So much more.” Surprised, Andromeda flinched back as though he had hit her. Professor Dumbledore looked at her with kind eyes and continued, “You may not think this now, but your life matters and you don’t need a Dark Lord nor do you need to keep fighting to prove anything to anyone — Not even yourself.”
The small witch clenched her fists, ears ringing and lips trembling as she stared at the old Headmaster’s portrait.
“I can’t give you a purpose, dear girl, because you don’t need me to. You’re allowed to be selfish. You’re allowed to throw all expectations to the winds,” Professor Dumbledore continued, blue-eyes filled with care. “You’re free to choose for yourself and to live your life as you see fit.”
She blinked rapidly, eyes burning with boiling hot unshed tears.
Having a choice had never been a possibility for her; as a child, she traded the expectations the Dursleys and their neighbors had of her for the suffocating expectations that came with the Wizarding World. No matter where she was, Andromeda was forced in a role she never wanted.
The concepts of choice and of freedom were so very tempting. But she couldn’t help but to pause, to hesitate and backtrack a little.
It was far too tempting.
And with temptation, there was that horrible and traitorous flick of hope.
Andromeda never had a good relationship with hope; hoping for love from her relatives brought her nothing but punishment, hoping to create a future for herself in the Wizarding World brought disappointment, and hoping for a chance to have a family alongside Sirius brought nothing but broken dreams and grief.
Hope scared her.
Princess Andromeda is forever tied to a rock… the familiar whisper echoed in her ears, mockingly. Andromeda pushed it back, refusing to hear the rest, refusing to hear the words that were once said in graveyard and started the process of destroying who she was.
No, she couldn’t allow it – him – to intervene. At least not now.
“Even…” she trailed off, inhaling a lungful of air despite knowing that it was a bad idea because of the wound on her neck. It ached and she could feel and taste the blood but the witch ignored it. “Even if I have no idea of what to do?”
“You will learn,” Professor Dumbledore said firmly.
“Even if I make mistakes?”
There was a pause and she looked into his eyes to find them twinkling brightly. Professor Dumbledore smiled widely, making a grand gesture with his hands.
“But, Andromeda, of course you’re going to make mistakes,” he let out a joyous little laugh. “How do you think you’ll grow and learn?”
Professor Dumbledore winked and she felt like a little eleven years once more; trapped in bed in the Hospital Wing and sharing sweets with the Headmaster who was more than happy to help her with her homework.
“Life would be far too boring if it was perfect.”
That was all Andromeda needed. She hiccupped, feeling as though a invisible weight had been ripped from her shoulders.
The green-eyed teen curled into herself, hugging her knees to her chest. She bit her to tongue, trying and failing miserably to keep the tears at bay. It was a losing battle. So, she allowed herself to sob and wail, the sound rolling out a like a wave of desperate hope as it echoed through the walls of the study.
Andromeda buried her face into her knees, trying to muffle the sound and refusing to as much as glimpse the looks of pity that were surely being sent her way.
She cried, hoping – almost praying – that Professor Dumbledore was right about her having a choice, about her being allowed to make mistakes. Andromeda wanted to stop being scared. Andromeda wanted to be selfish — She wanted so badly to be able to dream as she once had and find something for herself.
Andromeda had no idea of where to begin. She had never been allowed to choose anything for herself, not even the length of her hair or the clothes she wore.
But…
But having a choice meant that she could try.
She wanted to try.