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The moon cast a white-wash glow over Andromeda's pale skin, defining sunken cheek bones and dark under eye bags. Dark, threatening clouds dotted the sky line, covering the very stars she'd come to talk to. She'd done it all her life - went to the stars for advice. It felt silly, really, the older she got. But there was something comforting about talking about her problems, letting them out into the night air, looking up and realizing that in the grand scheme of things, her problems were a pretty fucking minuscule speck in the universe.
Recently, though, the clouds covered the sky more often than not and she was left feeling suffocated by her problems, refusing to float away into the universe like a helium balloon. Instead, they sank like a concrete block, all the way into her throat from the tip of her tongue, down through her chest, into her stomach where they sat, heavy, worrisome, a constant twist of anxiety that always left her short of breath.
When she thought about it, her life very well could have been worse. She could've been a muggle born during the great war, forced into hiding, scared of making the wrong move in fear she'd be captured, tortured, killed. She could have wanted for everything in life, could have had parents who struggled to feed and clothe her, put a roof over her head. But.
And there was always a but.
Andromeda thought herself rather foolish, sometimes, when things got really bad. She thought it was foolish to wish her problems were more minuscule because she came from a wealthy family. But then she'd go home from school for the summer, to the Malfoy Manor, and Draco would be the perfect cowardly son, and Lucius was cold and calculating and cruel, while Narcissa turned a blind eye on everything that happened. Lucius was not afraid of the Cruciatus Curse and he wore a favoured golden ring on his right middle finger that never failed to break the skin.
The walls would close in and Andromeda would let them, drowning in voices, in memories, in threats and broken promises and god, she felt so stupid for wishing her life was simpler because people were dying and Andromeda felt like her world was ending because her family wanted her to follow some old family traditions, inherited of the time The Dark Lord was alive.
Andromeda closed her eyes, hands braced on the cool metal railing of the Astronomy Tower. November had been uncharacteristically dry, that year, but the nights still brought a cool chill, biting, but a welcomed wash over her too-hot skin. In a moth, just before chirstmas, Andromeda would be forced to go back to the Manor, probably to get the Dark Mark with her cousin Draco.
The Dark Mark meant nothing in this time being, as Lord Voldemort was dead and long gone. But Death Eaters remained active. Having meaningless meeting, talking over which muggle family to kill over a glass of wine, and dreaming of finish was the Dark Lord had once started.
But that's all it was, fancy social status diners.
But Andromeda wanted no part in it.
She'd received word from Lucius in early october, This is excellent news, he had wrote, you will succeed in this new role, you will earn his unwavering trust.
