Ficlet: Her Use of Colour
Title: Her Use of Colour
Summary: Andromeda's paints lay untouched in the back of the closet.
Characters/Pairings: Andromeda Tonks, mentions of Ted and Nymphadora
Genre: Gen
Beta: None
Rating/Warnings: PG no warnings.
Medium: Ficlet
Word Count: 808
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: No
If yes, your Tumblr username: N/A
Andromeda's paints lay untouched in the back of the closet.
She could not remember the last time she had painted. Having paint at all had been an afterthought, the collection hastily shrunken with a charm and shoved into the side of her trunk. When she'd arrived at Ted's place they had been packed away with the rest of her things, Andy trying her best not to cry as she unfolded her gowns to hang in the closet. The paints, she had not cried over. She'd just forgotten them.
In happier days she had painted almost daily, her use of colour and texture adapting to each new chapter of her life. Andromeda had painted her surroundings, the things that mattered to her: her gardens, her family, her Ted.
A painting of Ted hung in the living room; he insisted on keeping it there. "I hate that old thing," Andy said from time to time, glancing upon it with disdain. All she could see were the flaws, the misplaced spots of colour, the way his eyes never quite looked at anything specific. She hadn't captured the real Ted, the amount of love she had for him. But he loved it.
"If you take that down, I'm leaving," Ted would say, grinning, and then he'd pull his wife in for a kiss.
But Andromeda had stopped painting soon after her wedding day. It wasn't that she was unhappy; all she had to do was look at her husband and her heart would soar again with the knowledge that she had done the right thing. But she had lost her inspiration, somehow. And so the paints sat in the closet.
Ted would not ask her the reason, but he would also never speak the name his love had once worn, had once lived under, had once been proud of. Neither of them would speak the name of Black.
It had been the Blacks to foster Andy's love of painting, and the Blacks who had driven it from her. To touch her instruments of art, to think of putting brush to canvas...it reminded her too much of home, the grand mansion in which she had grown up, the study in which she had crafted whilst her mother played her music beside her, whilst her sister danced or posed, Narcissa a constant source of inspiration for her family, the muse which gave life to many a piece.
She could pretend that her life had become too busy, that she had to fix up the house, keep things clean, learn to be a proper adult and a good wife. But Andy - Dromeda, as she became - just could not bear to keep any rememberances of her past. She was an entirely different person now; the paints had been of her other life, the one she had erased the night she climbed out the window of her childhood home.
Several years passed and they were happy together, secure in the knowledge that they had one another despite anything that went on around them, that they had forged a connection which would always be more powerful than the forces which would otherwise attempt to tear them apart. Andromeda Tonks had chosen her soulmate and she loved him, loved him as strongly as any woman could love any man. She loved Ted, and she was happy. And when she discovered that she was expecting a child, the tears she shed were not those of regret or loneliness, but ones of joy.
Life. Life went on and it evolved, it shed its past and created new futures. Andy prayed that her daughter would grow up in a world which would no longer judge by the colour of one's blood. "Nymphadora," she whispered, cradling her newborn tightly in her arms, and felt her heart burst anew.
And when she opened the closet four days later, hoping to find a clean blanket for her baby, Andromeda noticed her paint set for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. Colour...her daughter should have fresh, beautiful colour in her world.
Nymphadora cooed and fidgeted as her mother worked, the brush flying over the canvas as though its owner had never stopped painting. Andy flung colour into space, filling white empty expanse with bold strokes and flaming emotion. How had she stopped this; how had she ever associated art with despair? Art was living; it was love and strength. Andromeda would not lose herself to the past again, she would not regret anything she had done. Andromeda would paint, and it would free her soul, would bring accomplishment and beauty to her heart.
She would dress the walls of her daughter's room with colour, and would keep her paints out of the closet from now on. Ted would be proud of her; she would be proud of herself.
Andromeda would paint again.
Crystal//Hufflepuff//27 points
Summary: Andromeda's paints lay untouched in the back of the closet.
Characters/Pairings: Andromeda Tonks, mentions of Ted and Nymphadora
Genre: Gen
Beta: None
Rating/Warnings: PG no warnings.
Medium: Ficlet
Word Count: 808
Can the Order post to Tumblr?: No
If yes, your Tumblr username: N/A
Andromeda's paints lay untouched in the back of the closet.
She could not remember the last time she had painted. Having paint at all had been an afterthought, the collection hastily shrunken with a charm and shoved into the side of her trunk. When she'd arrived at Ted's place they had been packed away with the rest of her things, Andy trying her best not to cry as she unfolded her gowns to hang in the closet. The paints, she had not cried over. She'd just forgotten them.
In happier days she had painted almost daily, her use of colour and texture adapting to each new chapter of her life. Andromeda had painted her surroundings, the things that mattered to her: her gardens, her family, her Ted.
A painting of Ted hung in the living room; he insisted on keeping it there. "I hate that old thing," Andy said from time to time, glancing upon it with disdain. All she could see were the flaws, the misplaced spots of colour, the way his eyes never quite looked at anything specific. She hadn't captured the real Ted, the amount of love she had for him. But he loved it.
"If you take that down, I'm leaving," Ted would say, grinning, and then he'd pull his wife in for a kiss.
But Andromeda had stopped painting soon after her wedding day. It wasn't that she was unhappy; all she had to do was look at her husband and her heart would soar again with the knowledge that she had done the right thing. But she had lost her inspiration, somehow. And so the paints sat in the closet.
Ted would not ask her the reason, but he would also never speak the name his love had once worn, had once lived under, had once been proud of. Neither of them would speak the name of Black.
It had been the Blacks to foster Andy's love of painting, and the Blacks who had driven it from her. To touch her instruments of art, to think of putting brush to canvas...it reminded her too much of home, the grand mansion in which she had grown up, the study in which she had crafted whilst her mother played her music beside her, whilst her sister danced or posed, Narcissa a constant source of inspiration for her family, the muse which gave life to many a piece.
She could pretend that her life had become too busy, that she had to fix up the house, keep things clean, learn to be a proper adult and a good wife. But Andy - Dromeda, as she became - just could not bear to keep any rememberances of her past. She was an entirely different person now; the paints had been of her other life, the one she had erased the night she climbed out the window of her childhood home.
Several years passed and they were happy together, secure in the knowledge that they had one another despite anything that went on around them, that they had forged a connection which would always be more powerful than the forces which would otherwise attempt to tear them apart. Andromeda Tonks had chosen her soulmate and she loved him, loved him as strongly as any woman could love any man. She loved Ted, and she was happy. And when she discovered that she was expecting a child, the tears she shed were not those of regret or loneliness, but ones of joy.
Life. Life went on and it evolved, it shed its past and created new futures. Andy prayed that her daughter would grow up in a world which would no longer judge by the colour of one's blood. "Nymphadora," she whispered, cradling her newborn tightly in her arms, and felt her heart burst anew.
And when she opened the closet four days later, hoping to find a clean blanket for her baby, Andromeda noticed her paint set for the first time in what felt like lifetimes. Colour...her daughter should have fresh, beautiful colour in her world.
Nymphadora cooed and fidgeted as her mother worked, the brush flying over the canvas as though its owner had never stopped painting. Andy flung colour into space, filling white empty expanse with bold strokes and flaming emotion. How had she stopped this; how had she ever associated art with despair? Art was living; it was love and strength. Andromeda would not lose herself to the past again, she would not regret anything she had done. Andromeda would paint, and it would free her soul, would bring accomplishment and beauty to her heart.
She would dress the walls of her daughter's room with colour, and would keep her paints out of the closet from now on. Ted would be proud of her; she would be proud of herself.
Andromeda would paint again.
Crystal//Hufflepuff//27 points