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Bellatrix had married Rodolphus Lestrange out of necessity. She was eighteen and vitriolic, too cruel even for some of the most stone-hearted in the pureblood circles, and subservient to no one; Lestrange, five years her senior, shared both her penchant for sadism and a pedigree that stretched past the Middle Ages.

Narcissa had been more selective. She was the beauty of the family, her features delicate where her sisters' were strong, and Lucius Malfoy was handsome, charming, and owned a manor that stretched across a dozen acres of prime British wood.

But Andromeda—rebellious, spiteful Andromeda—despised the cold, restless eyes of her would-be suitors, flinched at the sound of "mudblood" dropping from pale, chapped lips. When Muggle-born Edward Tonks confessed to her shyly at the end of their seventh year, she mulled over the proposal silently. For her parents, it would be the ultimate act of betrayal. Edward promised her love, but love meant a shabby house and scraping through funds and a child brought into a world that despised them.

Andromeda Black, for all her defiance, was still a Slytherin through and through. The next day, she gave Edward a polite rejection and a curt farewell. She could almost hear the sound of his heart breaking into two as she turned away.

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There was a portrait of all three of them hung above the fireplace wall, beside Aunt Walburga's cursed Yuletide vase (covered with a rather gory depiction of a Muggle being burned on the stake as a gaggle of wizards laughed). In it, Narcissa stared owlishly, her pupils shining eerily blue against the flashes of green light that emerged sporadically from the Floo. Bellatrix stared defiantly in the middle, her eyes hooded and vindictive, almost goading. And, positioned in the front, Andromeda was calm and expressionless. Dignified, her mother used to say, just like a Black should be.

Narcissa was the favourite daughter, and Bellatrix was the pride. Cyprus III found the son he had always wanted in Bellatrix's cruel boldness, and Druella projected her younger self in clever, beautiful Narcissa.

Andromeda, always too compassionate for a world not quite ready for love, was the afterthought.

Although it hardly mattered; Andromeda didn't care for the pureblood conspiracy that Bellatrix had thrown herself in, nor was she interested in the debutante parties and balls that Narcissa always seemed to be attending.

The summer before her seventh year, she threw herself into schooling, studying herself mad in the family library. It wasn't as comprehensive as the one in 12 Grimmauld Place—(although she wasn't sure if she wanted to study there; some crazed Black ancestor had cursed half the books in there, rendering their contents worthless)—but it was a distraction. She could forget the smell of mud and dirt and clotted blood that Bellatrix tracked home sometime. She could forget the cloying scent of expensive perfume, the ones that sank into the folds of Narcissa's dress robes and left an aftertaste reminiscent of Belladonna.

"You're being such a bore," Bellatrix declared, peering through the walkway that seperated the library from the main hall.

Andromeda hardly acknowledged her. Bellatrix, who was still in the midst of preparations for her wedding, was in one of her moods again, the kinds that left her hostile and irritable.

Bellatrix walked closer, until she was towering over Andromeda's perch on the armchair. "What, not talking? Does wittle bitty Dromeda think she's better than her sisters, now that she reads some big, big books?"

"Don't talk like that, Bella," Andromeda snapped sharply, and by Merlin she was exhausted. There were N.E.W.T.s to take next year, and fifteen essays due by the end of the summer, and twelve textbooks to read, and Slughorn the incompetent fool to worry about (and how had she not been invited to the Slug Club, and yet Bellatrix and Narcissa had gotten those distinct green envelopes without trying) and, and, and—

"You aren't any fun anymore," Bellatrix said, looking at her with those dark, smouldering eyes. They seemed to burn into her skull, and she looked away, distinctly uncomfortable. "You've turned so... so plain, these days."

Andromeda watched her leave, and tried not to let the words get to her. It didn't matter, she said to herself. She just needed to study, and become a Healer, and get away from this godawful house.

But the words stung regardless, the open wound exacerbated further by the raw, pulsing pain of the truth. Andromeda was the least desirable for company among her sisters, she knew—Bellatrix was seductive and alluring, Narcissa mysterious and enchanting. And Andromeda, in contrast, was cooped up in the house library in the afternoon of a warm summer day, wearing a faintly musty robe that hadn't been washed in three days.

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For a year after graduation, she worked in the Ministry as an intern for the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. She had always been clever with spells, as the Os in her transfiguration and charms N.E.W.T.s proved, and soon it became an almost methodological routine—Finite. Finite. Surgito.

After that she got her recommendation to transfer to St. Mungo's, where she worked in spell damage recovery. Humans were trickier than objects, but the basic concepts were the same. Finite, she thought. Offero. Reverte.

Her mother wrote to her frequently. She had moved out of the ancestral Black home into her own flat in Diagon Ally at first opportunity, but it seemed impossible to escape the her mother's hovering presence.

Andromeda, her mother's slanted handwriting read. It was written in a sort of shimmery ink that changed colors if she stared at it long enough. Mother was particularly fond of it; it had been a gift from Narcissa after a summer trip abroad in France.

The letter was the same as the one that had been sent before, which was in turn the same as the one sent before that.

I hope you'll come back to your senses soon and stop fooling around with your life, the words read, and Andromeda could imagine her mother's stern face as she furiously scribbled the quill on parchment. It's not proper for an unmarried witch to be alone in the proximity of so many men, especially half-breeds and Mudbloods. I must note that your father's good friend Avery has just introduced me to his three lovely young sons, all of whom are handsome and of good pedigree...

It had been Evan Rosier last week, the son of a cousin of her mother's who her mother professed to be quite witty and well-spoken; and Thorfinn Rowle two weeks prior, who was apparently handsome despite his somewhat lacking intelligence.

In her own twisted way, Andromeda realized, her mother worried for her. Bellatrix was too independent to be fussed over, and Narcissa had Lucius Malfoy wrapped twenty different times over her pale white fingers. And Andromeda, who ran amuck after curfew with Muggle-born witches and shivered when Uncle Orion came too close, was the weak link. She's too easily led astray, her mother had said once, when she thought Andromeda was asleep. What if the blood traitors try to come for my daughter...

Still, it felt vexing to be coddled. Andromeda read the letters as any dutiful daughter should, but simply neglected to respond. Half of the letters were scattered in various piles of envelopes over the floor of her flat, the other half vanished away in frustration.

Her mother resorted to setting up blind dates. Andromeda ignored them. Her mother Portkeyed one of the letters. She only remembered trying to toss away the paper when suddenly she was staring at the astonished wizard sitting in front of her at Madam Puddifoot's (a Crabbe, evidently, judging by his generous frame).

She cursed under her breath. The man in front of her grew even more astonished, when, a moment later, she charmed her teacup into a slug and stormed out of the cafe.

"You can't keep scaring off perfectly good young men," Druella Black said disapprovingly, after two ensuing dates failed in a similar fashion.

"Stop sending unregistered Portkeys," Andromeda replied furiously. "I'll report you to the Ministry."

"Your father is the Ministry," Druella replied, and sipped at her tea.

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Her sisters watched the ongoing drama with amusement. Andromeda had a growing hunch Narcissa was the anonymous source her mother seemed to provide all those single, pureblood wizards from.

"Even Goyle doesn't want you," said Bellatrix, laughing, as Andromeda stormed the family home to once again confront her mother. Narcissa's shoulders shook with barely contained mirth.

"Goyle's taste is just as bad as yours," Andromeda snapped back, and tried not to feel slighted.

But late at night, her mother's words from so long ago would echo in her mind. Just what will we do about Dromeda?

Just what would they do with her, indeed.

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Before her sisters had married, the three of them had been collectively known as the Black Sisters. They were the well-bred, well-fed, well-read of society, the darlings of Pureblood Society.

Andromeda had her fair share of suitors, but they all eyed her with casual interest and seemed far more invested in the Black legacy and Gringott vaults. She didn't have the means to drag their hearts in: hook, line, sinker, like her sisters—but she also lacked the interest. The men seemed to sense her coldness, and stayed wary. There were other rich heiresses to court, other young ladies with gold vaults and pure bloodlines rivalling hers.

She stopped attending public events after her fifth year in Hogwarts. While Bellatrix balanced N.E.W.T.s and ballgowns like it was the easiest thing in the world, she instead sat quietly in her room, studying earnestly for her O.W.L.s. She knew by then she wanted to be a healer—she didn't care for fighting or the haughty glory Aurors seemed to carry around, nor did she want to settle for long hours of paperwork and diplomacy like her father.

"You'll never meet anyone, cooped up like that," her mother sniffed, and Flooed Theodora Greengrass to complain about her errant daughter.

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The man was covered with blood and shaking so hard he could barely stand—and yet he was struggling out of the bed, pushing past the Healers in desperation to check on the condition of a far less injured teammate.

Andromeda hurried past an intern and forced him onto the bed.

"I have to see him," said the man, frenzied and panicking.

"You, sir, are a menace," Andromeda hissed. She looked around, and then grimaced at the realization that a Calming Draught was useless in this situation. "Worry about yourself first, before you concern yourself with somebody else."

"I have to see him," the man repeated.

Andromeda, tired of dealing with all the macho bravado from braindead Aurors who thought they knew everything when they clearly didn't, grabbed a nearby (clean) bedpan and whammed it onto his head.

The man fell over, out cold.

"Ma'am," said the intern, her voice shaking.

"Until we undo all the curses on him, using magic could very well overwhelm his body and kill him," Andromeda said matter-of-factly. "Using blunt force is safer." She looked at the man. "Plus, he's an Auror. They're resilient."

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Andromeda had heard of Fabian Prewett before, of course. He was a well-respected Auror from a long line of pure-blood wizards with sizable noses ("You know what they say about men with large noses?" Bellatrix jeered) and Weasley-esque red hair. She had an aunt, too, married to a one Ignatius Prewett, both of whom she had seen vaguely at family gatherings but knew little about.

He looked different than what'd she imagined; he was more handsome, for one, than his uncle. In his sleep, she caught herself admiring the chiseled jut of his chin and the elegant curve of his nose.

She was staring at him when he woke up. Their eyes met for one startled second before he sat up from the bed with the fluidity of someone who hadn't been non-ambulatory for a week.

"You're beautiful," was the first thing that came out of his mouth.

Andromeda stared at him, not quite knowing how to respond. Their faces, she realized afterwards, were less than a wand's distance apart.

He blinked. His eyes were a chestnut brown in the light, with flecks of hazel-green that were only visible at a closer glance.

"That thing you hit me with hurt," he complained, then promptly fainted back onto the bed.

Andromeda would have been more mortified if she hadn't been so flustered.

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Even after he'd been discharged from St. Mungo's, Fabian Prewett was proving himself to be a menace.

"You aren't supposed to be here," Andromeda hissed, nervously looking around the empty spell damage ward's break room. "How'd you even get up here?"

Fabian Prewett smiled at her, an aggravatingly cheeky expression. "Auror privileges." He flashed a badge at her. "I'm here on business."

She scowled. "Your business then, not mine."

He raised an eyebrow. 

He was maddeningly attractive, she had to give him that. There was life in his eyes, a kind of colorful, vibrant life, and he was alive in the way Roldolphus Lestrange or Lucius Malfoy would never be.

"Well, madam," he said, fluttering his eyelashes at her, "I suppose I'll have to make it your business, then."

It was a flurry of activity after that — he leaned in, her breath hitched, and then she was leaning in too—and they were snogging in St. Mungo's, the rational part of her mind screamed, and she had known this man for all but a week, most of which he spent unconscious, mind you—and they pulled apart in a mutual daze, both a little better or worse for the wear.

"Well, that went unexpectedly well," Fabian Prewett said breathily, looking inordinately pleased. A red flush had spread from his ears to his temples, betraying his nervousness. "How about I pick you up this Friday after your shift?"

Andromeda was a Slytherin through and through, but she was defiant. In this political day and age, the Prewetts existed along the cusp of admissibility, only a few leagues better than the Weasleys. Her mother would throw a fit, yes, but she would have to accept the courtship sooner or later. Andromeda would win this petty suitor argument. She would never have to love a man who despised another for purity of their blood and little else. She would never have to pretend to be the perfect pure-blood wife of a man who only saw her as another pawn on his quest for power.

"I'll see you then," she said, a coy smile forming on her face. Her hand itched to grab a quill and parchment.

Oh, the face her mother would make when she read the letter—

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"Really, Dromeda, a Prewett," Bellatrix sniffed. "You could do a lot better than that."

They were both draped around the couches in the meeting room of their family's manor. Andromeda, halfway through A Compendium of Irish Herbology Vol. 2, had been there first, and couldn't help but feel a bit miffed at this breach of privacy—but there was no getting away from Bellatrix once she was interested,

Andromeda turned to look at her drolly. "I suppose, you'd prefer a Goyle?"

"That was just to antagonize you. You don't think Mother would really want you to marry into a family tree tainted with half-bloods and who-knows-what," Bellatrix dismissed. "Well. It's good, at least, that you've gone back to your senses. Don't think I didn't know about that Mudblood in Hogwarts. Had the starry eyes for you, didn't he?"

She laughed, a cruel, high-pitched sound.

She was talking about Edward, Andromeda realized, and felt a slight pang in her heart at the reminder. For a moment, she almost wished desperately that she had accepted his proposal, if only so she wouldn't have to be here right now, facing against age-old prejudices from her own sister—but the thought was erased a moment later, when the more rational part of her brain took over.

"Goodness, Bella, you've gone mad," she said, making a mental note of what page she was on before folding her book closed. "You don't really think I entertained him? I just had a little fun in between some NEWTs."

For a second, an introspective expression flashed over Bellatrix's face, before it was quickly replaced by her usual haughty indifference. 

"Mother's the one that's gone mad," she cackled. "My, when I told her about that Mudblood, she was all up and arms about to transfer you to Durmstrang instead. The fit she threw over Prewett's courtship couldn't even compare."

Andromeda was a little sorry she had missed her mother's reaction, but the letter that had been owled to her office the day after her first date with Fabian—he was just Fabian to her now, and wasn't that so strange?—spoke volumes:

Come home at once.

"Where is she?" Andromeda asked, the thought suddenly occurring to her. "I haven't seen her since I returned."

"Planning the wedding with Madam Prewett, I'd expect," Bellatrix said, and laughed at Andromeda's grimace.