starfishstar

SHELTER AT YOUR DOOR

Summary: Over the years, one young man keeps turning up at Andromeda's door.

Pairing: Andromeda/Remus (As a long-time Remus/Tonks writer I did feel strange at first about writing this pairing...but there's no infidelity or anything – it's an entirely alternate scenario where the Tonks family as we know it doesn't exist.)

Characters: Andromeda, Remus, Sirius, other characters

Words: ~12,700 (in 9 short chapters)

Notes: Okay, see, two things happened.

First, I wrote a (canon-compliant) story about Andromeda and Ted and how they got together, so I spent a lot of time thinking about Andromeda’s transformation from dutiful Black family daughter to rebel who abandoned her family for love. How much of that was innate to her personality and her own sense of justice, how much of it was thanks to the catalyst of meeting Ted? Where might she have ended up if they’d never met?

Second, I wrote a (canon-compliant) Remus/Tonks story that included a conversation between Remus and Andromeda. And as I wrote it I realized, man, I have to be so careful not to let the interaction between these two have even a whiff of anything that could read as potentially romantic, because how weird and wrong would that be? She’s his mother-in-law! He’s married to her daughter! But it’s hard not to write Andromeda and Remus interacting like peers, because I do think they have a lot in common, and they’re of the same age cohort – just seven years apart.

Then, accidentally, a third thing happened. Mind wandering while on a long hike, I found myself spinning out this AU scenario where Andromeda’s life went very differently. And then I was so intrigued I couldn’t stop!

I’m a canon shipper at heart, and a devoted writer of Remus/Tonks stories. And I feel okay about this very, very AU pairing only because this is indeed entirely AU, set in a world where Tonks and her family as we know it never even existed.

(My Andromeda/Ted story, if you want to know my imagining of Andromeda’s canon backstory before delving into this AU version of the same, is “A New World Bursting Into Bloom.” That’s not necessary in order to read this story, though!)

Thank you to stereolightning for beta-reading!

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

SHELTER AT YOUR DOOR

I. Dogs on the Doorstep (1975)

Andromeda opened the door of Malfoy Manor and was not in the least surprised to find Sirius standing there.

Lately, her cousin had started showing up on her doorstep with depressing regularity. He was fifteen now, dark haired and too handsome for his own good, and hell-bent on disagreeing with his parents in every way he could. During summer holidays and school breaks he was forever getting himself thrown out of Uncle Orion and Auntie Walburga's house, at which point he would turn up like a lost dog here at the Manor, Andromeda's marital home.

"'Lo, Andromeda," Sirius said, aiming for casual despite his chattering teeth. He had his arms clenched around himself in the late spring chill, clearly having stormed out of his parents' house once again without the foresight to grab a warm cloak. "Can we come in for a bit?"

That plural pronoun "we" was because Sirius had a friend along with him, Remus Lupin this time. Unlike Sirius, Remus was sensibly outfitted in a grey cardigan and smiling apologetically.

More often than not, when Sirius turned up at Andromeda's door, he did so with a friend or two in tow. Sometimes it was reckless James Potter, who was no better than Sirius when it came to thinking things through – or not thinking things through – before he did something rash. Or sycophantic Peter Pettigrew, who did Sirius no good either, fawning over his every move. Or sometimes, as today, it was quiet Remus Lupin, who Andromeda was coming to suspect might be the sole sensible person in her young cousin's increasingly unmoored life.

And yes, Andromeda included herself in that assessment, knew she fell into the category of dangerously foolish people who did not serve her cousin as role models. She was married to a man she detested, and had detested all through school and through the many family functions over the years, at which Lucius had smirked at her from behind that pale blonde fringe, knowing that their parents intended them for one another and that she couldn't do a thing about it.

There wasn't a great deal of choice, when you were born a daughter of the Black family. The old, pure-blood families had first and foremost to ensure the continuance of their magical line, so you married the man your family chose for you, or risked being disowned.

So Andromeda had let them marry her off to Malfoy, because she didn't want to be disowned, did she?

Pushing aside her uncomfortable reflections, Andromeda arched an eyebrow at Sirius, but stepped back to let the two of them pass.

"Thanks, Andromeda," Remus murmured as he passed her. "And sorry for, you know." He jerked his head in Sirius' direction.

Andromeda only let Sirius into the house when Lucius was away, knowing how her husband disapproved of her rebellious cousin, but Lucius was away much of the time these days. Andromeda didn't like the company her husband kept, and she didn't like at all the way he smirked whenever the Dark Lord was mentioned, as if he and he alone were in possession of a wonderful secret.

Was this was the world in which Andromeda wanted her child growing up, surrounded by self-satisfied, cruel people who loved the Dark Arts above all else? How could it be that irresponsible Sirius was already showing more spine than Andromeda ever had done?

She ushered Sirius and Remus into the sitting room and brought them tea (because it was the civilised thing to do, even if Sirius didn't care about such things) and chocolate biscuits (because they always seemed to be hungry, these growing teenage boys).

Andromeda's small son, Isidore, was sprawled in the middle of the rich brocade carpet. He was playing with his Indefatigable Jumping Frog, the tips of his own hair going a wispy green colour as his body concentrated intently on his play. It made Andromeda smile, that flash of unintentional brightness clashing with the obsessively coordinated colour scheme of the Manor. At two years old, Isidore's transformations were still largely accidental, but Andromeda secretly looked forward to what Isidore might do once he was old enough to exercise his Metamorphmagus abilities deliberately.

Lucius had wanted to name the baby Draco, but at that, Andromeda had finally put her foot down. Enough with the constellation names, enough with that weight of tradition. Had it made any of them happy, bearing these proud Black family names that repeated again and again through the generations, turning up like unlucky Knuts? Had it done them any good, Bellatrix with her icy-eyed Rodolphus who made Andromeda's blood run cold, Sirius frantically rebelling as if his very life depended on it, Regulus who never seemed to do anything but pout?

Andromeda had named her son Isidore, because he was indeed a gift, the only member of the family she was sure she could love without restraint.

Sirius merely ruffled Isidore's green-tipped blonde hair distractedly as he passed by on his way to do some sprawling of his own on the gilt-edged chaise longue, but Remus stopped to kneel down on the carpet beside the boy. "Hullo, Izzy," he said. "What have you got there? A frog?"

"A jumping frog," Isidore said, and started explaining, in his sweet-pitched baby voice, all about his frog and how it liked to jump "really, really high, up to the ceiling, even!" Remus listened and nodded along seriously. They made an unexpectedly sweet picture, the lanky teen with sandy hair falling in his eyes, devoting his whole attention to the chubby-cheeked two-year-old.

Andromeda's heart clenched as she wondered, When was the last time Isidore's own father looked at him like that? Lucius was pleased to have a son, certainly, but he didn't show much interest in Isidore beyond his function as heir. Lucius' passion was all for power and intrigue, not for getting to know his own child.

"I swear, one of these days I'm gonna leave for good," Sirius was proclaiming from the chaise longue. He had his head flung dramatically over its back, one hand trailing against the floor like that of some fainting Victorian maiden. "Won't they be sorry then, though? I don't have to put up with their crap if I don't want to."

Deep in the hidden recesses of Andromeda's mind, she felt a sense of determination of her own beginning to take shape.

II. An Owl at the Window (1979)

Andromeda woke to a harsh, irregular rapping sound, like hail on a metal roof. She gasped as sleep lurched away from her, then forcibly calmed her breathing when she remembered where she was.

Home. Her own home, hers and Isidore's. She had not shared a bed or a life with Lucius for over a year now, and Andromeda hadn't looked back from that decision for even a moment.

After Andromeda had left, taking her son and a very few possessions and slipping away in the night as if she were the thief, not Lucius and his terrifying cronies, her husband had ranted and raved and threatened in increasingly alarming letters to hunt her down.

Andromeda had made her new home, a little cottage in a Muggle village, Unplottable and Disillusioned it and was a hair's breadth away from finding someone to perform a Fidelius Charm – throwing herself at Professor Dumbledore's mercy, if need be, for lack of anyone else in her life she trusted enough to ask – when Lucius had abruptly lost interest.

The Dark Lord had probably told him that Andromeda, as a traitor to their kind, wasn't worth the fuss. He had likely promised to provide Lucius with a better and purer woman, one with whom he would have many more pure-blood sons, in exchange for Lucius' unquestioning loyalty to the Dark Lord's plots. Whatever it was that had diverted Lucius, Andromeda didn't much care, if it turned his attention away from her and Isidore.

And then today, on a rare and reluctantly undertaken shopping trip to Diagon Alley, Andromeda had overheard the excited chatter.

She didn't like going to Diagon Alley. It was a painful reminder of the things she did miss from the world she'd left: the quirky, colourful shops, the sensation of magic zinging through the air around her – these were things Andromeda missed in self-imposed exile in her little cottage, where she quietly led a mostly-Muggle life.

Besides, in Diagon Alley she spent her time fearing at every turn that she would run into someone she didn't want to see – or someone who didn't want to see her. Andromeda didn't know what kind of violence Bellatrix might do, if confronted in the flesh with her blood-traitor sister.

This time, when she went to pick up a few magical toys for Isidore and spellbooks for herself, Andromeda had managed not to run into anyone she hadn't wished to see. But she had overheard the chatter, on street corners and in shop doorways, about the season's big news: handsome, well-connected Lucius Malfoy was remarrying, to beautiful, demure Narcissa Black.

Andromeda had wondered if they would. An ancient wizarding tradition (no longer followed by most people, but Blacks and Malfoys would be the most determinedly anachronistic, even among pure-bloods) said that when a man's wife died, he could exercise his right to take her unmarried sister as his second spouse. Andromeda was dead as far as her family were concerned. And while Lucius hadn't cared much one way or another about Andromeda herself, he'd certainly liked being connected to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

And Narcissa, for reasons unfathomable, had always thought Lucius Malfoy an absolute catch.

What a pair they would make, passers-by were saying to each other in Diagon Alley, gorgeous Narcissa Black and glamorous Lucius Malfoy.

What a shame he didn't pick the right sister the first time round, Andromeda heard a beaky-nosed little wizard whispering to a pock-faced shop assistant leaning in the doorway of Twilfitt and Tatting's.

Anyone who was anyone would be at the wedding, Andromeda heard one pink-cheeked witch exclaiming to another outside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. Andromeda cut her shopping trip short, returning home without the books she'd wanted, finding it difficult to catch her breath but feeling shatteringly glad that, these days, she was not considered "anyone."

She searched herself for signs of jealousy, of anger, but couldn't find it in herself to care that she'd been so thoroughly erased from the world she'd once inhabited. Not if it meant freedom from fear, for herself and her son.

At least she'd managed to secure her share of the Black family gold before her parents had heard the news of her departure and disowned her. At least Isidore remained, as he had always been, a gentle-hearted, easy-going child.

Andromeda often found herself studying him anxiously, searching for marks left on him by those years of growing up in a house where Dark wizards whispered in the library at all hours of the night, but she saw none. Isidore was hale and hearty, and content at his Muggle primary school, a cheerful place where the corridors were adorned with riotous crayon drawings and figures cut inexpertly from construction paper.

Around them, the wizarding world was falling apart, lurching into horrifying open war, but at least Andromeda had managed to keep her child safe.

She tried not to worry too much about Sirius, who had finished Hogwarts now and got his own flat, after Uncle Alphard had passed away and left both Andromeda and Sirius some gold. Though they never talked about it more than obliquely, Andromeda knew Sirius and his friends were deeply involved in the counter-movement against the Dark Lord. All Andromeda could do was hope those impulsive and good-hearted boys knew what they were doing.

She tried not to think too much about Regulus, bearing all the weight as sole heir to the Black family, now that Sirius had left them. It didn't do to dwell on Regulus. There were only so many Andromeda could save.

The rapping sound continued. Andromeda was lost in her thoughts, there in the darkness of her bedroom, adrift in half-surfaced memories of a hail-strewn night when they were small – Narcissa couldn't have been more than four – and a freak storm late in summer had brought balls of ice pounding down on the roof of their country mansion. Father had let all three of them, Bella and Andromeda and Cissy, sit up late with him in the golden-domed observatory at the top of the house, listening to the hail that slammed against the glass panels of the roof so hard that Andromeda felt sure at any moment the glass would shatter and the whole house come tumbling down.

But this wasn't hail, making such a noise at the window of Andromeda's cottage; it was an owl, tapping its beak impatiently, insistently, against the bedroom window. An owl with a letter clutched in its talons, and the determined expression of a bird that knew its obligations and would not consent to leave until they had been discharged.

Andromeda fumbled her way out of the bedclothes, crossed to the window and lifted the latch. The owl tumbled inside, gave a disgruntled hoot, then dropped the letter at Andromeda's feet and soared back out through the open window without so much as waiting for an owl treat.

Andromeda bent to pick up the letter, a piece of parchment hastily tied with a bit of string and bearing no address, only her name. She picked apart the badly knotted string and unrolled the parchment, a strange trepidation rising in her chest.

Regulus is dead, read Sirius' untidy scrawl, the letters cramped and tortured in a way Andromeda had never seen them before. Just thought you would want to know.

III. A Wayfaring Stranger (1981)

As fireworks burst into riotous bloom in the sky throughout the country – Voldemort was gone, it was over – Andromeda opened her door to a hesitant knock, and Remus Lupin fairly fell into her cottage, his face chalky pale, his eyes stricken and wide.

"They're dead," he said, staring blindly ahead as Andromeda steered him into the sitting room and then to the sofa, where he sank like a stone onto the cushions. "It was Sirius." Then he simply repeated himself. "They're dead, oh my god, it was Sirius."

Andromeda gripped his hand, for his comfort or her own, she didn't know. "What was Sirius?" she asked. She'd heard the horrific news of James and Lily Potter's deaths, heard of the miraculous survival of their infant son, Harry, the same age as Narcissa's boy. She'd mourned the Potters' deaths as if they had been her own friends, for the sake of all they'd done for Sirius over the years. But she hadn't had any news of her troublesome cousin himself.

Voice breaking with grief, Remus told her: Sirius had betrayed James and Lily to Voldemort, then killed Peter. Sirius had been arrested and taken straight to Azkaban. Sirius was gone.

When Isidore arrived home from school that afternoon, Andromeda asked him to please keep his voice low, because their friend Remus was visiting and he wasn't feeling well, so he was taking a nap on the sofa. Isidore nodded his understanding, then settled himself quietly on the floor with a favourite book next to where Remus lay insensible to the world around him. Isidore's hair even began subtly to shift until it was the same shade as Remus', something Andromeda had noticed often happened when he was feeling empathy.

Andromeda and Isidore ate a quiet dinner in the kitchen, worked through the maths and geography questions that were his homework for the next day, and read a bedtime story together, tucked in close in the big wooden rocking chair that stood in the corner of his bedroom, and all the while Andromeda carefully didn't think about Sirius.

She checked on their visitor throughout the evening, but Remus, his face lined and so grey with pain that Andromeda began to worry he truly was ill, slept like the dead all through that horrible day and awful night. Once Isidore was in bed, Andromeda pulled a footstool up next to the sofa and watched Remus sleep, as though keeping that vigil might somehow make any of it less true.

Deep in the dark of night, when she could no longer find excuses for staying awake, Andromeda, too, went upstairs to bed, but sleep eluded her. She tossed and turned, eyes burning but dry.

When she woke in the pale hours of dawn, having finally fallen into a fitful, brief sleep, Andromeda came downstairs to find Remus gone, leaving behind no trace of his presence but a note on the kitchen table, in his distinctively precise hand:

Andromeda, thank you for everything. I'm leaving England. I can't stay here. I'm sorry.

RJL

Andromeda stared for a long time at the note she held. Then she laid it gently back down on the tabletop, went upstairs to Isidore's room and gathered his warm, sleeping weight into her arms. Only then did she cry, silently, so as not to wake her son.

She cried for Sirius, and the person he could have been. She cried for his friends Lily and James and Peter, their deaths so senseless. She cried for baby Harry, orphaned overnight, too young to know his parents and the good people they had been. She cried for Remus, who'd lost everyone he loved. And she cried a little, too, for herself and Isidore, left now with no family at all.

Andromeda knew perfectly well that Remus, ever conscientious even in the depths of his grief, had closed the door behind himself when he left. Yet she couldn't help but feel as if an icy, invisible wind were tearing through her house, lifting drapes and lampshades and the leaves of books, getting its claws under everything that was not firmly fastened down, ripping away all she had thought she knew.

(continue to next part HERE)