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Chapter 46: Andrómeda’s situation (1)
🕑 Added 2025-10-08 22:56:45 +0000 UTC[Pov of Andromeda Black]
I woke up at the same time as always. Seven o’clock sharp. Not because of an alarm, but out of habit. Or maybe discipline. Or because my mind, even half-asleep, already knew it was midweek. And classes don’t stop.
I opened my eyes without laziness. The curtains of my bed remained closed, but I could hear the faint whispers of the other girls. Falsely kind words.
A kind of automatic courtesy that didn’t require my participation.
And I didn’t offer it.
It wasn’t always like that.
In first year, I used to laugh with them. Share enchanted nail polishes, try out designer perfumes, debate which last name sounded more elegant.
And then I started to really listen.
To what they actually thought about certain topics. How they referred to Muggle-borns, how they spoke of “impurities” with that subtle tone that didn’t shout, but reeked.
A truly stupid realization that made me distance myself. Now I only nod when they greet me, and ignore them for the rest of the day.
I got dressed in silence, with the efficiency of someone who already knows the order of every garment without thinking.
The Slytherin crest gleamed on my chest like an uncomfortable reminder of what they expect me to be, and what I refuse to become.
While fastening the robe with precision, without looking at anyone, I heard my roommates’ voices.
“A hundred points? Seriously? That’s totally unfair!” said a sharp voice, filled with indignation and barely contained panic.
Yes, Dumbledore’s punishment had been one hundred points, not counting the individual detentions of those involved. Until yesterday afternoon, we had one hundred and ten. Now, ten.
And to think I’d even earned a few this month, though not because I cared about the stupid House Cup.
“Yeah. And that Ollivander guy with that unbearable smile through the whole trial he staged. ‘The trash has been punished.’ Who does he think he is?”
“Just for selling quills that write in mid-air he already thinks he’s a celebrity. What does he think he is, a young Dumbledore?” another snapped.
“A Dumbledore who wears glasses indoors and has an ego bigger than the entire castle,” finished another, earning a chorus of muffled giggles.
And then another voice spoke, colder, drier.
Cassiopeia.
“That’s not the worst part,” she said in her usual offended-snake tone. “The worst part is that no one stopped him. Everyone applauded him. Even McGonagall. Dumbledore himself was laughing inside.”
Pause.
“And now they lump all of us together with Mulciber and Rosier. All because of some Gryffindor with a hero complex.”
I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as I adjusted the clasp of my cloak. That’s exactly how they thought. Not a word about the first-year girl.
About the insults. About the threats. About the broken quill she’d probably spent her savings on. Nothing. They only cared about the humiliation. The lost points. Their wounded prestige.
“Still, you have to admit it… that he beat Mulciber was shocking,” said one of them with a surprised little laugh. “Mulciber looks like a troll straight out of a cave! And with how brutish he is! Sometimes he smiles at me and I get scared!”
“Yeah, yeah. Evan’s harder to read,” added another. “He’s more about brains and always smiling like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Like he’s always thinking dark thoughts.”
“And still, Ollivander humiliated them both!” exclaimed a third, in an energetic whisper, as if the truth itself stung.
Silence. A few seconds.
“It’s just that… he’s an Ollivander,” Cassiopeia finally said, as if that explained everything. “He’s not a Mudblood. He’s got a surname. A lineage. A real inventor. Rich. Charming. And handsome. With that smile that says: I know you’re looking at me, and I love it.”
“And that way he talks,” added another, sighing softly. “Makes you want to kiss him just to shut him up.”
They all laughed like girls talking about a professional Quidditch player, not the boy who had publicly humiliated half their house.
“He’s egocentric.”
“Arrogant.”
“Conceited.”
“And still… you can’t stop looking at him when he walks in.”
More laughter.
This time nervous. Guilty.
Because even they, with their green-and-silver loyalties, felt some interest in Ryan Ollivander.
“Do you think if we talked to him, he’d sell us one of those quills?” one murmured. “I saw two Ravenclaws in the library yesterday using one. They were sending messages through the air without making a sound.”
“Yeah, I saw it too. There are versions for fifteen galleons, exclusive models.”
“But if we talk to him now, we’ll look like traitors,” another quickly whispered, lowering her voice.
“After what happened yesterday, he became Slytherin’s enemy. Or at least, the guy who made us look ridiculous in front of all Hogwarts.”
“Yeah. Not the right time. Maybe in a few weeks, when this all blows over.”
I turned toward the door. I didn’t want to hear any more. I had classes to attend, and a breakfast to pretend to enjoy.
I crossed the hallway without looking back. Every step was mechanical, as if my body knew the route better than I did. I descended the stairs and passed through the stone arches leading to the Great Hall.
At this hour, the Great Hall wasn’t completely full, but the air was buzzing, clearly charged by yesterday’s events. Everyone was talking about the same thing.
I even noticed several students reading the golden letters Ryan had written, the riddle.
They’re still there? The enchanted quill I bought over a month ago kept letters floating for about four hours before fading.
But this had been more than ten hours. And it wasn’t even the same version. The stroke was brighter, sharper. Definitely an upgraded quill.
Always so theatrical.
I searched for the blonde hair of my younger sister, but I couldn’t find her.
It bothered me more than it should have. Because if there was anyone around whom I could breathe somewhat naturally, it was her.
Despite her efforts to fit in, her careful speech, that well-bred grace everyone praised… I knew there were doubts inside her. Frictions.
Not fractures like mine, nor open arguments like the ones I had with our parents or with Bellatrix.
But they were there.
I sighed.
I sat alone, as I almost always did. With the prefect badge on my chest and an invisible distance between me and most of Slytherin.
Then something caught my attention.
A first-year girl entered the Great Hall, surrounded by several older Hufflepuff students.
Freckles. Glasses.
Eliza, I thought. There was no other explanation for why she had such an escort.
Everyone from her house seemed to rally around her. Some greeted her with soft smiles; others simply sat beside her, as if to make sure she felt safe. Her first-year friends were there too, clinging to her like tiny shields.
I watched as she spoke to Amelia Bones, the sixth-year prefect, and her brother Edgar, a fifth-year.
Then she pulled something out of her robe. A quill. It had a long, elegant body, blue and green plumage, almost iridescent.
A peacock feather. Enchanted.
The same one Sprout mentioned yesterday. The one Ryan gave her to comfort her after Mulciber and Rosier broke hers.
He hadn’t said it himself.
He hadn’t used it to look better than he already did.
Only Sprout mentioned it, when she arrived with the testimony. As something Eliza, through tears, had shared.
I kept looking at her for another second.
And for the first time since I sat down that morning…
I felt something close to relief. Because amid all the theatrics, the grandiose phrases, and that charming arrogance that clung to him like an invisible cloak, Ryan Ollivander had done something deeply good.
As I kept eating, the usual murmur of the Great Hall began to grow louder.
From the Slytherin side, I saw several fifth-years arriving.
Lucius Malfoy, walking with that steady stride and his perpetual air of nobility. Rabastan Lestrange beside him. A few steps later came Rodolphus, his older brother, already a sixth-year, followed closely by Bellatrix.
My older sister.
I recognized her by the way she walked, chin high, that defiant gaze that never left her even when she was sleep-deprived. And behind her, calmer but visibly uncomfortable, came Narcissa.
My younger sister. Her robe immaculate, as always. Hair neatly tied back.
She was accompanied by two of her “friends,” the kind who spoke as if reciting memorized lines from family gatherings.
They stopped for a moment. I saw Narcissa hesitate. Her eyes swept over the table, glancing sideways. She saw me. And for a second, just one, her steps faltered.
As if she’d considered sitting with me. But in the end, she followed the others and sat with the group.
I said nothing. Didn’t even bother to feel annoyed. My situation with our family wasn’t great, and that was nothing new. This summer I’d argued with our mother more than usual, quietly, but firmly.
With Bellatrix, there wasn’t even room for that anymore. Just the brush of a few words, and we were already at war.
It had all started back in third year, when I committed what, to them, was my first great offense: choosing Muggle Studies as an elective.
The reaction had been disproportionate. Almost theatrical. Chaos at home. Horrified looks, lectures about bloodlines, and veiled threats about dishonor.
Even in Slytherin, among my classmates, the rumor spread as if I had committed heresy. As if the wizarding world itself were collapsing because a Black wanted to learn about electricity and trains.
In the end, after heavy pressure and a meeting between my parents and the school, I had to change the subject.
It wasn’t a choice. It was an imposition. And I didn’t forget it.
Since then, the distance grew, not only with my family, but with most of my own house as well.
And this year, when classes began, I didn’t bother pretending closeness anymore. Nor playing the game of appearances.
As a prefect, I did what had to be done. Even if it meant going against my own.
Just a week ago, I deducted five points from a student for calling a third-year Ravenclaw boy a “Mudblood.”
A pure-blood supremacist, close friend of Lucius. He looked at me as if I had committed treason.
Perhaps I had, in their eyes.
That’s why I ended up here, in this uncomfortable, in-between, marginal position.
Not submissive enough to belong. But not rebellious enough to be cast out.
Though of course, it wasn’t as severe as my cousin Sirius’s case.
He was in fourth year, and the rumors said it wouldn’t be long before he was erased from the family tree.
I still had a respected name. A façade. A margin. But I knew that margin was getting thinner with each passing day.
As I continued eating, the doors of the Great Hall opened once more.
Ryan walked in, and not alone. He was followed by a group that drew attention immediately: Fabian and Gideon Prewett, Gryffindor’s Beaters, loud as ever, laughing uproariously.
Callum and Jamie, always together, from my same year.
Several girls walked nearby too: Marlene McKinnon, smiling in a way she hadn’t in months, his ex, if the rumors were true. Though from the way she looked at him, maybe she didn’t want to be his ex anymore.
Emmeline Vance, from a respected family, with a more neutral expression, calm but not cold, close to the group. Alicia, a fellow prefect, known for her strictness, and yet smiling faintly.
Celeste Faraday, ever elegant. And Dorcas Meadowes, the confident Chaser.
Ryan walked at the center, his glasses a trademark feature. He spoke with animated gestures, with an eloquence that drew genuine laughter, even bursts of it.
Even from that distance, I could see the way he moved his hands when he talked.
He commanded attention with an ease that was almost irritating.
And behind them, more Gryffindors.
As if a whole procession had formed that had celebrated all night long.
Sirius. My cousin. Robe slightly messy but still stylish, with that charming rebel air he wore like both shield and banner.
He laughed freely, pointing openly toward the Slytherin table.
Next to him, James Potter, same year, same audacity, same proud tilt of his chin as he locked eyes directly with Snape and his group.
I could almost feel Severus tense up from here. He and the other fourth-years, Wilkes, Avery, all froze for a moment.
As if they knew difficult weeks were coming.
Behind the group, a little farther back, walked other figures.
Lily Evans. I remembered her well. She was one of the ones who had stood up to speak yesterday. She’d even admitted to helping with the riddle.
A Gryffindor with spirit. Beside her walked a dark-haired friend, listening intently as the two followed the group.
And at that moment, I noticed that Eliza, the first-year girl, had stood up from her table. Along with her friends, she started hurrying toward Ryan, nervous but eager, as if they were about to greet a celebrity.
