| She wants to write that she is wrong, that this is what it should be like, that Andromeda sealed the fate of her daughter and unborn grandchild, even if that child wasn't part-werewolf to begin with, years and years ago. But in her mind, she had never seen them murdered – gone, yes, and the disjoint is glaringly obvious now, but not... murdered. Just gone.
Of course, even during the first war, she couldn't escape the news, but how could she reconcile "Family found brutally murdered in their own home" with the husband who bounced their baby boy on his knee, the sister who had always been there for her?
And now she knows the stone-cold terror that comes with knowing that the Dark Lord wishes harm upon your child. She has seen the look in her sister's eyes that means she wouldn't be deterred by her victim's age or defencelessness, if she was given the order. And she knows that Lucius wouldn't have options. |
What can I tell you? If you roam with wild beasts, they will act according to their nature. They will abandon you, regardless of your state. And they will kill, given the chance. They won't hesitate. A child's life is a trivial matter, to them.
| She loves them, still. Her husband, in spite of his cowardice and arrogance and the fact that he got them in so deep. Her sister, even though she has shifted, warped almost beyond recognition. |
There is nothing that can be done.
| She doesn't sign it. Her handwriting is extravagant, the paper expensive and beautiful, and when she looks at the letter, it's as if it's something from a different time.
Two days later, Tonks receives another one, unsigned again: |
I saved my son's life by insisting on an old friend's support. There is nothing the Dark Lord does not think of, but friendship and love are harder to predict than pride and bravery.
| And, hours later: |
A simple calming draught soothes morning sickness much more efficiently than one meant for nausea.
no subject
| She wants to write that she is wrong, that this is what it should be like, that Andromeda sealed the fate of her daughter and unborn grandchild, even if that child wasn't part-werewolf to begin with, years and years ago. But in her mind, she had never seen them murdered – gone, yes, and the disjoint is glaringly obvious now, but not... murdered. Just gone.
Of course, even during the first war, she couldn't escape the news, but how could she reconcile "Family found brutally murdered in their own home" with the husband who bounced their baby boy on his knee, the sister who had always been there for her?
And now she knows the stone-cold terror that comes with knowing that the Dark Lord wishes harm upon your child. She has seen the look in her sister's eyes that means she wouldn't be deterred by her victim's age or defencelessness, if she was given the order. And she knows that Lucius wouldn't have options. |
What can I tell you? If you roam with wild beasts, they will act according to their nature. They will abandon you, regardless of your state. And they will kill, given the chance. They won't hesitate. A child's life is a trivial matter, to them.
| She loves them, still. Her husband, in spite of his cowardice and arrogance and the fact that he got them in so deep. Her sister, even though she has shifted, warped almost beyond recognition. |
There is nothing that can be done.
| She doesn't sign it. Her handwriting is extravagant, the paper expensive and beautiful, and when she looks at the letter, it's as if it's something from a different time.
Two days later, Tonks receives another one, unsigned again: |
I saved my son's life by insisting on an old friend's support. There is nothing the Dark Lord does not think of, but friendship and love are harder to predict than pride and bravery.
| And, hours later: |
A simple calming draught soothes morning sickness much more efficiently than one meant for nausea.