["Kaleidoscope" update] Porridge
I haven't had as much fic-writing time as I would have liked, lately, but working on this one in tiny little pieces has at least been a stress-reliever!
As always, I intend this as a stand-alone story within the Kaleidoscope series, but it's also part of the same story arc as Breaking Point and Messages -- what I'm thinking of as the "in-laws sequence," heh.
Porridge (2638 words | PG)
Andromeda finds that the loss of her husband and the imminent arrival of her grandson have changed the way she views her son-in-law. But she has built her share of the walls between them, and it may be too late for her to pull them down.
Porridge
A soft knock on the half-open study door made Andromeda start and look up.
Her son-in-law hovered in the doorway, poised to knock again, but when she raised her eyebrows in invitation, he lowered his hand and offered a hesitant smile instead.
"I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment."
"Of course." She traced out an arc with her wand that sent a stack of musty dragonhide ledgers from the wing chair to a safe spot underneath her writing desk. "Do come in and sit down."
Remus stepped gingerly around the piles of parchment on the floor. They were growing taller every day-Andromeda had gone up to the attic and pulled out all the letters and documents she could find that pertained to the Black family, and now she was combing through them page by page in search of any information that might possibly be of some vague use to the Order of the Phoenix.
She should have started this project three years ago, of course. But once upon a time, she had wanted to keep herself, and her family, safely away from Dumbledore and his penchant for stirring up trouble.
This year, trouble had found her. And her daughter's little family-to-be. And Ted-
Andromeda blinked, hard, and blocked that train of thought, watching Remus lower himself stiffly into the wing chair. He didn't look well at all; there was a decidedly grey cast to his complexion, and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth were especially pronounced today. She was more or less used to his patterns by now, but his rather haggard appearance right before the full moon was still a little disconcerting.
Remus smiled again, a swift, careful smile. His manner was friendly, as always, but his eyes were guarded.
As always.
It was only fair, she supposed, for him to return suspicion with suspicion. She hadn't exactly been warm toward him at first-this man who started out so afraid to be a husband, and then a father, that he had broken Nymphadora's heart twice.
"Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?" Andromeda was honestly rather curious. The two of them had settled into something of an uneasy truce this spring, but Remus rarely sought her out for idle conversation.
He sighed a little, not quite meeting her gaze. "There's a full moon tonight."
"Yes." A lunar chart had been hung in a convenient spot in the kitchen, after all, so that everyone in the house could keep track of these things. "I know."
Remus nodded, but it took him a moment to begin speaking again.
"Has Nymphadora told you that she's been having contractions from time to time?"
"No." Andromeda frowned, counting days. According to Poppy Pomfrey, the baby wasn't due for another two weeks.
"They aren't very frequent," said Remus quickly. "It's only been a few times a day. But if anything were to happen tonight-" He pressed his lips together. "I would like to ask a favour."
Andromeda managed to hide a wry smile. If she had learnt anything about her son-in-law over the last eight months, it was that he hated asking for favours nearly as much as he was mortified by having to discuss his lycanthropy. This was not, it seemed, his lucky day.
"I'll be here tonight," she assured him. "I won't leave Nymphadora alone."
Remus nodded. "Thank you. But-"
His mask had slipped; now he was looking at her with an almost desperate intensity that was very different from the careful politeness she usually saw.
She was curious again.
He tried to smile. "It's not only that. It's-I'd give anything to know, if our son-"
His throat seemed to close up over those words. But it clearly wasn't panic, not this time.
"-if anything happens."
Remus pulled a little plastic Muggle mirror out of his pocket, one of the many two-way mirrors he'd Charmed for the Order, and held it out to her. "Would you let me know?"
Andromeda stared at the thing.
She couldn't raise her hand to take it from him.
He flushed. "You won't have to see anything. I'll keep out of the line of sight while I'm transformed. But if you could just speak into the mirror, and tell me if anything happens, and how Dora's doing..."
Speak into the mirror.
Andromeda felt herself blanch.
"Oh," Remus whispered, suddenly understanding. "Oh, Merlin. Andromeda, I'm sorry."
She hadn't used one of these mirrors since the night that Ted had told her he was in a tight spot, that he might not have a chance to contact her again for a few hours-
Since the last time she had spoken to her husband alive.
Anguished compassion displaced the careful reserve in her son-in-law's eyes, and Andromeda could not-could not-look at it. She focused on the mirror instead, clutched in the white-knuckled grip of a hand that was already showing traces of a pre-moon tremor.
This mirror was green. It wasn't like the blue pair she and Ted had used.
Andromeda took a deep breath.
Remus was asking this favour of her because his concern for Nymphadora, and the weight of his impending fatherhood, were enough to make him set aside his stiff, prickly pride and admit that he needed help.
And it was, after all, Remus who had given them their mirrors in the first place. The last few months of Ted's life would have been far lonelier for both of them without that.
She reached out and closed her fingers around the little green trinket, nodding slowly.
"It's all right," she said, around the ache in her throat. "I'll do it. If anything happens, I will tell you right away."
"Thank you."
His smile was still swift, but it wasn't quite as guarded this time.
. * . * .
"Oh, don't get up yet!" Nymphadora's voice sounded from the living room, breaking the drowsy silence that had settled over the little house. "You still have a few minutes."
Andromeda rubbed the back of her neck and stretched her shoulders. If Remus was getting ready to leave, two more hours must have slipped past since their little talk. Not that she minded; every time she lost herself poring over old property records, it kept her from thinking about-anything else.
She crossed the study to the doorway that opened onto the living room.
Remus was, indeed, sitting upright on the sofa. Nymphadora could usually coax him into lying down with his head in her lap (or on her knee, now that she didn't have much lap to speak of) for the last hour or so before he had to leave for the transformation. This little ritual seemed to be the only thing that stopped his restless pacing as moonrise neared-not even his obvious exhaustion kept him still, but Nymphadora's fingers gently stroking the greying hair could do it.
Now, he seemed to be gathering his waning strength to stand, until suddenly he leaned toward Nymphadora again. He said something in a low voice and brushed his thumb along the line of her jaw, and there was a bright, eager light in his eyes that put a smile of pure joy on Nymphadora's face.
Only, Andromeda knew with utter certainty that if she stepped out into the living room, that light would go out faster than a wordless Nox. Such a soul-baring look of love was not something a careful man would show.
A wave of weary anger washed over her, and she thumped a fist softly against the doorjamb. It was so stupid, the way they danced around each other, always so cautious and polite. Especially in times like these.
And she was the one who had laid the first bricks in the wall that loomed between them.
"No! I'm not going to promise you that!" The vehemence in Nymphadora's voice caught Andromeda's attention.
She peered around the door again to see her daughter scowling up at Remus, who now stood (swaying slightly) with his arms crossed and his jaw set very firmly.
"Andromeda?" he called. She stepped out into the living room, and he turned to her for the second time that day with a look of appeal. "You agree, don't you? Nymphadora should most certainly not be on her feet tonight just to make porridge for my breakfast. I can fix myself some toast and jam when I come back in the morning. Or fry an egg."
Nymphadora's face was stormy, and she opened her mouth to argue, but Andromeda spoke first. "Remus is absolutely right, love. Especially if you've been having contractions?"
She raised an eyebrow, pointedly, and her daughter had the grace to look sheepish through her scowl.
"Sorry, Mum," Nymphadora muttered. "I didn't think it was worth getting everyone all fussed about that yet."
"Dora." Remus settled himself on the sofa once more and caught her hands in his, looking straight into her eyes. "I'll be worrying all night if I think you're overdoing things. Please-no porridge."
Nymphadora stared back, unconvinced.
"I'll be fine." He gave her a wry smile. "I managed for years on my own. You know that."
The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, and he glanced at it distractedly. "I'd better go." He leaned in for a gentle kiss. "Promise me?"
Nymphadora sighed. "All right," she said, rather crossly. "No porridge."
Remus stood, and Nymphadora looked up at him, contrite now. "Take care of yourself," she whispered. "I'll see you in the morning."
Taking a firm grip on the battered leather coin purse that was one of the Weasley twins' Confundus Portkeys, Remus wished them good night. Then he touched the Portkey with his wand and vanished.
Nymphadora crumpled, burying her face in her hands. "It's not fair. He shouldn't have made me promise."
Andromeda perched beside her daughter on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders. It wasn't like Nymphadora to be this petulant, but surely she was drowning in hormones.
And neither of them had really been themselves, this last month.
"He really will be all right fending for himself in the morning, you know," she said softly.
"I know." Nymphadora raised a tear-stained face. "But fixing porridge is the only thing I can do to make a difference for him." She closed her eyes. "For anyone."
Andromeda pulled her daughter into the tightest hug she could manage around a bellyful of grandson. It was too late to make a difference for some people.
But maybe not for everyone.
. * . * .
The house was dark and silent, except for a single pool of lamplight where Andromeda sat at her dressing table. She had cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair; now she was ready for bed.
Except for one thing.
She looked down to see her own face, staring mutely up at her from the little green mirror.
Her gaze slid past the mirror and found a framed photo of Ted, waving cheerfully at the camera with that great broad smile that always used to mean, Things will be fine, Dromeda, you'll see.
Remus had asked for this. It was the first time he had ever freely asked her for anything.
Pressing her lips together, she raised her wand and tapped it firmly against the mirror's plastic frame.
Her reflection wavered and disappeared. A bleak stone wall came into view, with what looked like the corner of a bed in the foreground, as though the other mirror were propped up against a pillow. The room in the mirror was dim, lit only by flickering firelight.
"Remus?" Andromeda frowned. "I hope you can hear me."
Silence.
She cleared her throat. "I only wanted to let you know that Nymphadora is fine. She's gone to bed, in fact. I don't think anything is going to happen tonight."
Silence again. Nothing moved in the mirror but the shadows from the firelight.
Andromeda sighed. "If you can hear me, could you let me know, please? I'd like to be certain you've received the news."
Still nothing, for a moment. But then came the faintest of yips.
She smiled, in spite of herself, suddenly reminded of an Alsatian she'd been fond of as a girl. "That's all right, then. I'll let you know if anything changes."
She picked up her wand to tap the mirror again, in order to clear it. But then she hesitated.
"Try to get some rest tonight, Remus. We'll see you in the morning."
. * . * .
Andromeda had spelled her wand to chime at moonset and wake her up-partly so that she could send Nymphadora back to bed, if necessary. But when she peeked in through her daughter's bedroom door, which had been left ajar, she saw that Nymphadora was, mercifully, asleep.
She pulled the door closed and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
She had only just finished fixing herself a cup of tea when Remus appeared, clutching his Portkey. He was off balance when his feet first touched the floor, but he quickly caught the edge of the counter and managed to keep himself upright.
Andromeda swallowed. This was the first time she had seen her son-in-law immediately after his transformation. He looked grey and shaky, and there were dark rings under his eyes.
Those eyes burned, though, when he turned to her. "Is Dora all right?"
"She's fine-she's still asleep." Andromeda frowned. "Sit down, Remus. You look like you're about to fall over."
He limped the few steps to the table and dropped into a chair, breathing rather heavily. "Thank you for letting me know, last night." Even his voice was painfully hoarse.
"That's quite all right." Andromeda turned to the cauldron that sat on the cooker under a Warming Charm and ladled out a bowl of porridge. She set it at Remus's place, along with a pitcher of cream, and sat down at the table across from him.
Remus stared at the bowl, and then up at Andromeda again. "But Nymphadora promised."
Andromeda watched him steadily, noting his dismay and concern, so close to the surface now. Maybe his exhaustion made it harder for him to keep the mask in place.
She sipped at her tea. "Do you know the story behind the porridge?"
Remus blinked once. "Well, Dora did tell me she learned the recipe from her father."
"That's right," said Andromeda, lost for a moment in the memory of a young Ted, laughing as a small girl with pink pigtails added enough cinnamon to turn the porridge brown.
She closed her eyes firmly and opened them again to a silent kitchen, dim in the early-morning light, and a pair of weary eyes that were fixed intently on hers.
"Ted's mother would make it for him when he was ill, or had a football match or an examination. Nymphadora always loved it, too. Ted would fix it whenever she was feeling tired or sad, or on the days when she was leaving to go back to Hogwarts."
"So it's the family comfort food," said Remus softly. A faint flush coloured his cheeks. "That's why Nymphadora is always so insistent about making it for me after moons." But then he frowned. "I still wish she hadn't made it this time, though. She needs her rest."
"It's all right," said Andromeda. "Nymphadora didn't make the porridge this time."
Remus sat very still for the space of a few heartbeats. She smiled a little at the look of puzzlement on his face.
But then a smile of his own appeared-not the swift, furtive one he usually gave her, but a slow, warm smile that lit up his eyes from within.
"Thank you, Andromeda."
She reached across the table and touched his arm briefly. "You're welcome."
Andromeda thought she could trust him to catch all of the meanings she'd put into those words.
. * fin * .
Author's note: The question of timing that drives the plot of this story has a certain similarity with that in godricgal's lovely pre-DH story All That's Required. But-believe it or not-I've had the germ of this idea in the back of my mind since before I read hers, so I hope no one minds that I've played around with a similar premise. (And yes, that does mean that I'm slooooow at getting things written!)
"Kaleidoscope" series index
.
As always, I intend this as a stand-alone story within the Kaleidoscope series, but it's also part of the same story arc as Breaking Point and Messages -- what I'm thinking of as the "in-laws sequence," heh.
Porridge (2638 words | PG)
Andromeda finds that the loss of her husband and the imminent arrival of her grandson have changed the way she views her son-in-law. But she has built her share of the walls between them, and it may be too late for her to pull them down.
Porridge
A soft knock on the half-open study door made Andromeda start and look up.
Her son-in-law hovered in the doorway, poised to knock again, but when she raised her eyebrows in invitation, he lowered his hand and offered a hesitant smile instead.
"I was wondering if I might speak with you for a moment."
"Of course." She traced out an arc with her wand that sent a stack of musty dragonhide ledgers from the wing chair to a safe spot underneath her writing desk. "Do come in and sit down."
Remus stepped gingerly around the piles of parchment on the floor. They were growing taller every day-Andromeda had gone up to the attic and pulled out all the letters and documents she could find that pertained to the Black family, and now she was combing through them page by page in search of any information that might possibly be of some vague use to the Order of the Phoenix.
She should have started this project three years ago, of course. But once upon a time, she had wanted to keep herself, and her family, safely away from Dumbledore and his penchant for stirring up trouble.
This year, trouble had found her. And her daughter's little family-to-be. And Ted-
Andromeda blinked, hard, and blocked that train of thought, watching Remus lower himself stiffly into the wing chair. He didn't look well at all; there was a decidedly grey cast to his complexion, and the fine lines around his eyes and mouth were especially pronounced today. She was more or less used to his patterns by now, but his rather haggard appearance right before the full moon was still a little disconcerting.
Remus smiled again, a swift, careful smile. His manner was friendly, as always, but his eyes were guarded.
As always.
It was only fair, she supposed, for him to return suspicion with suspicion. She hadn't exactly been warm toward him at first-this man who started out so afraid to be a husband, and then a father, that he had broken Nymphadora's heart twice.
"Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?" Andromeda was honestly rather curious. The two of them had settled into something of an uneasy truce this spring, but Remus rarely sought her out for idle conversation.
He sighed a little, not quite meeting her gaze. "There's a full moon tonight."
"Yes." A lunar chart had been hung in a convenient spot in the kitchen, after all, so that everyone in the house could keep track of these things. "I know."
Remus nodded, but it took him a moment to begin speaking again.
"Has Nymphadora told you that she's been having contractions from time to time?"
"No." Andromeda frowned, counting days. According to Poppy Pomfrey, the baby wasn't due for another two weeks.
"They aren't very frequent," said Remus quickly. "It's only been a few times a day. But if anything were to happen tonight-" He pressed his lips together. "I would like to ask a favour."
Andromeda managed to hide a wry smile. If she had learnt anything about her son-in-law over the last eight months, it was that he hated asking for favours nearly as much as he was mortified by having to discuss his lycanthropy. This was not, it seemed, his lucky day.
"I'll be here tonight," she assured him. "I won't leave Nymphadora alone."
Remus nodded. "Thank you. But-"
His mask had slipped; now he was looking at her with an almost desperate intensity that was very different from the careful politeness she usually saw.
She was curious again.
He tried to smile. "It's not only that. It's-I'd give anything to know, if our son-"
His throat seemed to close up over those words. But it clearly wasn't panic, not this time.
"-if anything happens."
Remus pulled a little plastic Muggle mirror out of his pocket, one of the many two-way mirrors he'd Charmed for the Order, and held it out to her. "Would you let me know?"
Andromeda stared at the thing.
She couldn't raise her hand to take it from him.
He flushed. "You won't have to see anything. I'll keep out of the line of sight while I'm transformed. But if you could just speak into the mirror, and tell me if anything happens, and how Dora's doing..."
Speak into the mirror.
Andromeda felt herself blanch.
"Oh," Remus whispered, suddenly understanding. "Oh, Merlin. Andromeda, I'm sorry."
She hadn't used one of these mirrors since the night that Ted had told her he was in a tight spot, that he might not have a chance to contact her again for a few hours-
Since the last time she had spoken to her husband alive.
Anguished compassion displaced the careful reserve in her son-in-law's eyes, and Andromeda could not-could not-look at it. She focused on the mirror instead, clutched in the white-knuckled grip of a hand that was already showing traces of a pre-moon tremor.
This mirror was green. It wasn't like the blue pair she and Ted had used.
Andromeda took a deep breath.
Remus was asking this favour of her because his concern for Nymphadora, and the weight of his impending fatherhood, were enough to make him set aside his stiff, prickly pride and admit that he needed help.
And it was, after all, Remus who had given them their mirrors in the first place. The last few months of Ted's life would have been far lonelier for both of them without that.
She reached out and closed her fingers around the little green trinket, nodding slowly.
"It's all right," she said, around the ache in her throat. "I'll do it. If anything happens, I will tell you right away."
"Thank you."
His smile was still swift, but it wasn't quite as guarded this time.
. * . * .
"Oh, don't get up yet!" Nymphadora's voice sounded from the living room, breaking the drowsy silence that had settled over the little house. "You still have a few minutes."
Andromeda rubbed the back of her neck and stretched her shoulders. If Remus was getting ready to leave, two more hours must have slipped past since their little talk. Not that she minded; every time she lost herself poring over old property records, it kept her from thinking about-anything else.
She crossed the study to the doorway that opened onto the living room.
Remus was, indeed, sitting upright on the sofa. Nymphadora could usually coax him into lying down with his head in her lap (or on her knee, now that she didn't have much lap to speak of) for the last hour or so before he had to leave for the transformation. This little ritual seemed to be the only thing that stopped his restless pacing as moonrise neared-not even his obvious exhaustion kept him still, but Nymphadora's fingers gently stroking the greying hair could do it.
Now, he seemed to be gathering his waning strength to stand, until suddenly he leaned toward Nymphadora again. He said something in a low voice and brushed his thumb along the line of her jaw, and there was a bright, eager light in his eyes that put a smile of pure joy on Nymphadora's face.
Only, Andromeda knew with utter certainty that if she stepped out into the living room, that light would go out faster than a wordless Nox. Such a soul-baring look of love was not something a careful man would show.
A wave of weary anger washed over her, and she thumped a fist softly against the doorjamb. It was so stupid, the way they danced around each other, always so cautious and polite. Especially in times like these.
And she was the one who had laid the first bricks in the wall that loomed between them.
"No! I'm not going to promise you that!" The vehemence in Nymphadora's voice caught Andromeda's attention.
She peered around the door again to see her daughter scowling up at Remus, who now stood (swaying slightly) with his arms crossed and his jaw set very firmly.
"Andromeda?" he called. She stepped out into the living room, and he turned to her for the second time that day with a look of appeal. "You agree, don't you? Nymphadora should most certainly not be on her feet tonight just to make porridge for my breakfast. I can fix myself some toast and jam when I come back in the morning. Or fry an egg."
Nymphadora's face was stormy, and she opened her mouth to argue, but Andromeda spoke first. "Remus is absolutely right, love. Especially if you've been having contractions?"
She raised an eyebrow, pointedly, and her daughter had the grace to look sheepish through her scowl.
"Sorry, Mum," Nymphadora muttered. "I didn't think it was worth getting everyone all fussed about that yet."
"Dora." Remus settled himself on the sofa once more and caught her hands in his, looking straight into her eyes. "I'll be worrying all night if I think you're overdoing things. Please-no porridge."
Nymphadora stared back, unconvinced.
"I'll be fine." He gave her a wry smile. "I managed for years on my own. You know that."
The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, and he glanced at it distractedly. "I'd better go." He leaned in for a gentle kiss. "Promise me?"
Nymphadora sighed. "All right," she said, rather crossly. "No porridge."
Remus stood, and Nymphadora looked up at him, contrite now. "Take care of yourself," she whispered. "I'll see you in the morning."
Taking a firm grip on the battered leather coin purse that was one of the Weasley twins' Confundus Portkeys, Remus wished them good night. Then he touched the Portkey with his wand and vanished.
Nymphadora crumpled, burying her face in her hands. "It's not fair. He shouldn't have made me promise."
Andromeda perched beside her daughter on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders. It wasn't like Nymphadora to be this petulant, but surely she was drowning in hormones.
And neither of them had really been themselves, this last month.
"He really will be all right fending for himself in the morning, you know," she said softly.
"I know." Nymphadora raised a tear-stained face. "But fixing porridge is the only thing I can do to make a difference for him." She closed her eyes. "For anyone."
Andromeda pulled her daughter into the tightest hug she could manage around a bellyful of grandson. It was too late to make a difference for some people.
But maybe not for everyone.
. * . * .
The house was dark and silent, except for a single pool of lamplight where Andromeda sat at her dressing table. She had cleaned her teeth and brushed her hair; now she was ready for bed.
Except for one thing.
She looked down to see her own face, staring mutely up at her from the little green mirror.
Her gaze slid past the mirror and found a framed photo of Ted, waving cheerfully at the camera with that great broad smile that always used to mean, Things will be fine, Dromeda, you'll see.
Remus had asked for this. It was the first time he had ever freely asked her for anything.
Pressing her lips together, she raised her wand and tapped it firmly against the mirror's plastic frame.
Her reflection wavered and disappeared. A bleak stone wall came into view, with what looked like the corner of a bed in the foreground, as though the other mirror were propped up against a pillow. The room in the mirror was dim, lit only by flickering firelight.
"Remus?" Andromeda frowned. "I hope you can hear me."
Silence.
She cleared her throat. "I only wanted to let you know that Nymphadora is fine. She's gone to bed, in fact. I don't think anything is going to happen tonight."
Silence again. Nothing moved in the mirror but the shadows from the firelight.
Andromeda sighed. "If you can hear me, could you let me know, please? I'd like to be certain you've received the news."
Still nothing, for a moment. But then came the faintest of yips.
She smiled, in spite of herself, suddenly reminded of an Alsatian she'd been fond of as a girl. "That's all right, then. I'll let you know if anything changes."
She picked up her wand to tap the mirror again, in order to clear it. But then she hesitated.
"Try to get some rest tonight, Remus. We'll see you in the morning."
. * . * .
Andromeda had spelled her wand to chime at moonset and wake her up-partly so that she could send Nymphadora back to bed, if necessary. But when she peeked in through her daughter's bedroom door, which had been left ajar, she saw that Nymphadora was, mercifully, asleep.
She pulled the door closed and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
She had only just finished fixing herself a cup of tea when Remus appeared, clutching his Portkey. He was off balance when his feet first touched the floor, but he quickly caught the edge of the counter and managed to keep himself upright.
Andromeda swallowed. This was the first time she had seen her son-in-law immediately after his transformation. He looked grey and shaky, and there were dark rings under his eyes.
Those eyes burned, though, when he turned to her. "Is Dora all right?"
"She's fine-she's still asleep." Andromeda frowned. "Sit down, Remus. You look like you're about to fall over."
He limped the few steps to the table and dropped into a chair, breathing rather heavily. "Thank you for letting me know, last night." Even his voice was painfully hoarse.
"That's quite all right." Andromeda turned to the cauldron that sat on the cooker under a Warming Charm and ladled out a bowl of porridge. She set it at Remus's place, along with a pitcher of cream, and sat down at the table across from him.
Remus stared at the bowl, and then up at Andromeda again. "But Nymphadora promised."
Andromeda watched him steadily, noting his dismay and concern, so close to the surface now. Maybe his exhaustion made it harder for him to keep the mask in place.
She sipped at her tea. "Do you know the story behind the porridge?"
Remus blinked once. "Well, Dora did tell me she learned the recipe from her father."
"That's right," said Andromeda, lost for a moment in the memory of a young Ted, laughing as a small girl with pink pigtails added enough cinnamon to turn the porridge brown.
She closed her eyes firmly and opened them again to a silent kitchen, dim in the early-morning light, and a pair of weary eyes that were fixed intently on hers.
"Ted's mother would make it for him when he was ill, or had a football match or an examination. Nymphadora always loved it, too. Ted would fix it whenever she was feeling tired or sad, or on the days when she was leaving to go back to Hogwarts."
"So it's the family comfort food," said Remus softly. A faint flush coloured his cheeks. "That's why Nymphadora is always so insistent about making it for me after moons." But then he frowned. "I still wish she hadn't made it this time, though. She needs her rest."
"It's all right," said Andromeda. "Nymphadora didn't make the porridge this time."
Remus sat very still for the space of a few heartbeats. She smiled a little at the look of puzzlement on his face.
But then a smile of his own appeared-not the swift, furtive one he usually gave her, but a slow, warm smile that lit up his eyes from within.
"Thank you, Andromeda."
She reached across the table and touched his arm briefly. "You're welcome."
Andromeda thought she could trust him to catch all of the meanings she'd put into those words.
. * fin * .
Author's note: The question of timing that drives the plot of this story has a certain similarity with that in godricgal's lovely pre-DH story All That's Required. But-believe it or not-I've had the germ of this idea in the back of my mind since before I read hers, so I hope no one minds that I've played around with a similar premise. (And yes, that does mean that I'm slooooow at getting things written!)
"Kaleidoscope" series index
.