Andromeda Tonks (notquiteyet) wrote in reoccurrence, @ 2020-07-28 13:56:00 |
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Entry tags: | tonks andromeda, tonks nymphadora, tonks ted |
Who: Andromeda Tonks, Nymphadora Tonks, Ted Tonks. The Tonkses, everybody.
What: Ted (no longer dead)
When: Sunday 26 July
Where: Wales
Warnings: SAD
The morning was a blur Andromeda could barely remember; the disappearance of Ted’s beloved jacket and the ensuing implications of what that meant after all suspects in purloining it were cleared had spawned a flurry of activity that ended with her and Nymphadora stumbling about in the Welsh countryside, desperately looking for signs of him. She was running on a sort of manic, tight energy; every sense hyperaware, every nerve on edge. For hours now, they had combed through the landscape, and she had no desire to rest or eat or stop until they found him. It wasn’t an option; he was lost, and alone, and alive. Her focus, like her sight, was spectacularly tunnel-visioned.
Andromeda had not dared allow herself hope when people began returning from the dead. Hope was something she could and did have for other people, but for years it was something she broadly denied herself (or perhaps the world denied it to her; she didn’t think too hard about it, only frequently reminded herself there was no use in it for her anymore). But then Nymphadora returned. Then Regulus reached out and acknowledged her. Then Draco showed himself to be something different than his parents. Little springs of an emotion she had avoided for years, that bubbled up and fed into it and she couldn’t help but fall asleep sometimes imagining Ted’s warm and comforting presence beside her once more.
It had to be him. It had to. The thought that this was a false alarm and something else happened to his jacket was too much for Andromeda to bear. When the nameless official transferred Ted’s remains into her care, he had handed the blood stained garment back to her and advised her not to look inside the casket with so much concern in his voice that, had she been more in her right mind, she would have immediately suspected his sympathies lay with her rather than the regime he was delivering bodies for. As it was, his tone was enough to make her comply; she never looked, and weeks later when Bellatrix admitted to his murder she was grateful she hadn’t.
No, she wouldn’t think about it; they would keep looking, and they would find him, but as the hours ticked on the stress and the anticipation and the worry and the years weighed heavier and heavier on her, to the point where an idea that she normally wouldn’t have even indulged a second thought on not only merited a quick weigh up of benefits and costs but a verbalisation. “There’s another way we could find him.”