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Old Friend	By : Prosperosdaughter Category: HP Canon Characters paired with Original Characters > Slash - Male/Male Views: 3803 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: JK Rowling and her associates own Harry Potter. I make no money from my stories.

Chapter List
- 7
- 8
- 9
Disclaimer: The Potterverse is owned by JKR.

Wandsong and Idris Lydiard and his pack are all mine.

Chapter 8: Cursed

Before Dumbledore left them, he asked Idris for his opinion of Thestral hair as a core for wands.

"Wouldn't use 'em," said Idris, shaking his head. "They were fashionable in olden times for duelling wands – like that one." He nodded his head to Dumbledore's wand. "It is the intrinsic nature of the hair to be visible by death. Powerful and retains darkness, I say. Difficult to control." He regarded Dumbledore for a while. "You seem to have mastered that one though."

"It is an extraordinary wand, without a doubt. When I first won it, I felt its strength. It is, I believe you are right, first and foremost, a duelling wand. But it is capable of channelling extraordinarily creative magic. It is ... a remarkable tool." Dumbledore held the wand between his fingers to examine it.

"Aye," Idris concurred, eyeing the Elder Wand disdainfully. "It is a thing that could make a man mad without your skill, sir."

Dumbledore glanced carelessly at the wand and murmured something. To Idris's acute hearing, it sounded like, "The very least of them," but he could not be sure.

"I remember I made a list for Mr. Ollivander of the best cores for wands," he said, recalling the memory suddenly. "Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring and phoenix feather." He counted them off on his calloused fingers. "I wonder if they ever used it ..."

"Oh yes, dear boy. That list is all his son will work by," smiled Dumbledore.

Idris found himself oddly flattered.

"Don't you mind that he profits by your work?" asked Alphard, feeling the heat of anger suddenly.

"No," replied Idris lightly. "All the better for decent wands. After all, who would buy wands from an ageing werewolf?" He nudged Alphard with his elbow and smiled at his mate's simmering outrage.

"I must leave you now." Dumbledore stood, and Alphard and Idris did likewise. "I thank for this most excellent ale, and for the information you have given me. It has been most illuminating and instructive." His countenance became grave.

"There is another thing that I must tell you. I fear it may concern you. Tom Riddle kidnapped Garrick Ollivander some weeks ago. Although I have not as yet discovered why particularly, I believe it is a matter of time before he turns his sights to you as the only one who hears Wandsong. It is my belief that the information you have given me so freely, Riddle will kill for. You must be ever vigilant."

AB~IL~ AB~IL~ AB~IL~ AB~IL

The knowledge that Riddle had taken Ollivander prisoner and might come for him again after all these years had disturbed Idris terribly. His nights gradually became plagued with nightmares of Riddle the prefect and Vargulf, and the death of his second mate at the hands of Greyback. The nightmares lost their otherworldly quality fairly rapidly, instead becoming detailed remembrances.

Both Alphard and Angharad tried to soothe him, but the memories he had not dwelt upon for decades seemed to assail him at night. He refused any calming or sleeping draughts Angharad or Alphard offered him, and let the memories unfold.

/

Idris had come awake, his shoulder ravaged with pain. There was no light in the dank place where he lay. The smell of mould and sweat assailed his nostrils and he tasted the copper tang of blood. He knew it was his own. He tried to move, but even a small movement jarred the jagged wound. He whimpered, trembling all over in pain and fear as he dragged himself into a crouching position leaning against the slimy brickwork, and clutched his hand to his torn shoulder. He only managed to stifle his scream on hearing voices outside the filthy room he had been left in.

"Right," said a deep, rough, uncultured voice. "Just how do I force the little bleeder ter do like he's tol'?"

"I would have thought that a ... man such as you knows how to keep youngsters in order."

It was Riddle. Restraining his sobs, Idris could hear the sneer in Riddle's voice. Idris's heart pumped so hard in fear, it hurt his ribcage. Then his blood chilled to hear the growling laugh of the werewolf.

"I should say I do." Idris swore the man who uttered those words smacked his lips.

"But he must be well enough to work," snapped Riddle. "You mustn't injure him. He is to be our wandmaker. If you want your pack to have wands, you'll not harm him."

"Wands. Yes. Them I bites young have no wands."

Idris had pushed himself back into the wall. They meant to keep him. Not let him go!

He started to shiver violently and he felt his bottom lip tremble. Oh, he was so frightened and he hurt so much. Hot tears ran freely down his grimy face as he desperately tried not to cry out loud. He wanted Alphard. No, he wanted his father. He just wanted his da to come and fetch him. Wrap him up in his strong arms and tell him everything would be all right. Hug him and heal him and put him into his nice clean bed at home, just like when he was small. He wanted his daddy. He curled up in on himself, sobbing as quietly as he could as the voices outside continued.

"Take this to heal him quickly," Riddle ordered imperiously.

"You know there'll always be a scar," the deep voice challenged. "Why d'you want ter waste this. He'll heal quick enough. He's wolfkind now."

"No!" Idris gasped. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no!" he moaned even though his knew it was the truth. It was a werewolf that bit him. If he was alive, he must now be a werewolf too. The smells, the tastes – all so pungent. His hearing, so acute. He let his head fall back onto the brick wall and he let out a mighty sob of anguish that wracked his young body.

"Well, well. Your guest is awake, Vargulf. Now, get in there and heal him."

A large, rusty iron door swung inwards, and, now trembling violently and crying uncontrollably, unable to harness this new terror, Idris curled up in the corner, whispering prayers he had heard the Muggle labourers use on his father's farm.

Several spots of light outlined the huge form of the one Riddle called Vargulf. He cast an illumination spell, and Idris shielded his eyes against the sudden flare of brightness, crying out as he hurt his wound once more.

"Boy!" the werewolf barked. "C'mere!"

Idris pushed his face against the wall, covering his head, his terror overwhelming even the agony of the bite as he smelt the same foetid stench that had assaulted him when he had been taken down by the wolf.

"I said, c'mere!" the werewolf growled deeper and Idris was yanked from the wall by a large, unforgiving hand and he howled as the congealing wound ripped open once more.

"Ach, whadcha expect, if you don' do as yer tol'?"

Idris's mind could barely comprehend the creature he saw before him that had his injured arm in such a painful cinch. If ever someone had asked him to describe a cursed creature, it would be this man.

Idris had only seen one man taller than Vargulf, and that was Rubeus who was rumoured to be a half-giant. This man was every child's nightmare. His body was broad, and every inch of visible flesh was covered with coarse hair, matted on his chest. His hands were large and cruel. His face was bony and his gritted teeth were pointed and sharp. His eyes were the hard yellow eyes of a wolf.

Idris whimpered in his terror before this man-wolf, whose stench polluted his nose and made his stomach roil.

"Please, sir, please don't hurt me anymore. Please don't!" he whimpered, tears streaming down his face.

"Sir, is it?" the werewolf leered nastily. "Do as yer tol' and stop snivellin' an' you'll live," sneered Vargulf at the boy half-hanging from his vice-like grip. He dragged Idris into the crampt hallway and up rickety wooden stairs and into a run-down hall.

Idris looked around himself as he struggled to keep from falling as the werewolf strode across the hall, a place as filthy as the cellar, but not as damp. Plaster peeled from the lathes of the wall and ceilings, old curtains were torn and faded. He saw and smelt other werewolves, children and adults, congregating around them.

His feet partly skipped and were dragged as the werewolf marched Idris to a large marble fireplace. Riddle stood by it, his elbow perched on the mantel. Vargulf flung the injured boy to the floor in front of Riddle.

Whimpering and holding the ragged bite on his shoulder, Idris looked up at the prefect smiling so triumphantly down on him. Riddle, so clean and handsome and ... human. Idris realised he could smell Riddle's humanity. He could smell the sandalwood soap the prefect had used that morning. He could smell the pomade on his hair. He could hear the blood pumping around Riddle's body – hear his heart beating.

Idris could rip out that heart with his teeth.

And he found he wanted to. No. Not him. Someone else. Something else. Sharing his body.

"Lydiard!" Riddle's voice brought Idris's mind back into focus. "You know you only have yourself to blame for this, don't you."

Idris narrowed his eyes to try to see through the tears and the pain, and to quell this creature that seemed to have taken up residence in his chest: a violent, passionate creature; a creature that wanted to kill!

"For God's sake!" snapped Riddle. "Treat that bite. He needs to be fit to do his work."

Idris glared hatefully at Riddle, as Vargulf tore the bloody shirt from Idris's back, not caring that part of the cotton was stuck in the wound. Idris howled in renewed pain.

"Wha'sis then?" the werewolf growled, snatching the pouch from Idris's neck and breaking the cord.

"Give it back!" Idris hissed as he grappled uselessly with the werewolf's strong arm. He was swatted away.

The werewolf tried to open the pouch, but it refused to yield to him.

"It won't open to you," Riddle said lazily, as if any fool should know it. "He'll have to get the contents out for you."

"I won't!" Idris shouted, thinking of those few things he had in there: his mother's wand and his grandfather's jet ring.

"Crucio!" Riddle spat and whatever pain Idris thought he had before paled into insignificance as all his nerve endings flamed in pain and he screamed in agony. The pain ceased and Idris gasped for breath crawling on the floor, feeling his flesh crawl and undulate.

"I'm sick of your disobedience, Lydiard," Riddle said, and flipped Idris over with his foot. "You'd better start thinking about your attitude if you want to live." Riddle stood straight, still sneering at the stricken boy. "Now, show us what is in that pouch." Riddle aimed his wand squarely at Idris's heart and Idris knew Riddle would cast the torture curse again if he didn't comply. Still sobbing, he pulled his two treasures from the pouch.

Riddle snatched the wand immediately and placed it in his pocket, to Idris's dismayed cry of "No!" and Vargulf grabbed the ring and turned it around in his fingers.

"This worth much?" he barked.

"It ... was ... my grandpa's," Idris whispered. "Please don't take it."

Riddle Summoned the ring from Vargulf who growled menacingly at the prefect.

"It's not worth much, although the gold is unusual." Riddle tossed the ring in the air nonchalantly and caught it and put it on the mantelpiece. "You want it back?" Idris nodded. "Then you work for it," sneered Riddle.

Idris hung his head, too hurt and too hungry to protest as his eyes filled with desperate tears once more.

"You may as well give him the pouch back. No-one else can use it now," said Riddle carelessly. "Now, get him healed so I can talk to him."

"Yer so keen ter 'ave him healed, why don' you do it?" the werewolf growled.

"Watch your mouth," hissed Riddle, now aiming his wand at the werewolf. "I don't touch filthy beasts!"

Idris could see the werewolf was angered by the prefect, but, although he snarled, he turned back to Idris and murmured a cleaning spell at the bite and then applied liberal amounts of Dittany to the wound. Idris hissed in pain as he huddled against the floor but he started to feel the relief of the Dittany within seconds.

"Never fully heal, mind," the werewolf said to Riddle. "Them bites don'"

"I realise that," Riddle spat. "I don't need him to be pretty. I need him to work."

At that moment, Idris saw a handsome owl just outside the window. Idris was sure it was Deacon, Alf's owl. Of course it was. He'd known the owl since they started school together.

'Don't come in. Don't come in,' he mentally implored the bird, who sat in the bough of a tree, its head turning around as it waited.

"C-c-can I go ... go to the toilet please?" asked Idris, although his body still shook and he didn't know if he could walk but he hoped there might be a window.

"Take him." Riddle sneered at him again.

The werewolf grabbed his upper arm again and yanked him upright and dragged him along the corridor to a small cloakroom. Vargulf looked at the window, sizing up the small fanlight and his captive and deciding it was safe.

Idris wasn't sure he'd be allowed to close the door, but Vargulf said nothing when he did. He did go to the toilet, using the sound of the stream to cover his wrenching open the two louvres.

Idris managed to push his arm through the open louvres and hiss Deacon's name as loudly as he dared. Within seconds the bird had flown to him and perched precariously on one of the open panes as Idris fumbled with the note, eventually controlling his trembling fingers enough to undo the tie.

Suddenly, he heard the werewolf thumping on the door. "Hurry up, yer little bleeder!"

"Coming!" he called out shakily, and quickly placed the parchment in the pouch. "Wait for me, Deacon. I'll try to find a quill." The bird flew up, and Idris tried to close the window to the sound of the flush just as Vargulf crashed through the door and saw the bird.

"Whassat doin' 'ere?" he growled and ran out of the cloakroom and out of the hall and jumped and caught hold of the bird. Idris stumbled after him.

"No! Don't!" screamed Idris and jumped on Vargulf's back, trying to dig his fingers into the werewolf's face. Vargulf let go of the bird and grabbed the boy by his recently-healed shoulder and yanked him around, hitting him with the back of his fist hard. The bird was away, Idris thought wildly until he felt the boot of Vargulf in his ribs and the foetid breath of the werewolf over him once more as he leaned over him and raised one huge fist.

"NO!" Riddle commanded and strode quickly to where Idris lay, blood trickling from his mouth, curled in on himself. "Get away from him. He's too useful."

"There was an owl. Mightta been tryin' ter get a message out," the werewolf thundered.

"Well he didn't, did he?" Riddle quickly mended Idris's ribs with a flick of his wand, but didn't bother with his split lip.

"Take him away and I'll talk to him tomorrow. Do NOT hurt him anymore."

The werewolf grunted and dragged Idris away. As Idris was thrown back into the cellar, he heard the crack of Apparition signalling the departure of Tom Riddle and he wept on the damp floor where he had landed.

Eventually, he calmed and Conjured bluebell flames. It was the only wandless spell he had mastered, but he was grateful for it: it gave him a muted light so he couldn't see fully the bleak horror of his prison, and it was just enough to read the note. As he read Alf's desperate pleas for news of his well-being, he knew his love would be tormented by his sudden disappearance, knew he would be bullied by that hateful family of his. Idris sniffed as he read the note, and drew a filthy finger over Alphard's love and signature. He pressed the parchment to his heart and a sob ripped from his chest.

/

Each morning, a stale bread roll and a beaker of water would appear for him and he would pick at the roll and sip the water to make it last. He learnt quickly that it would be all he would get until he had seen Riddle.

Every day, Riddle came and Idris would be dragged up from the cellar. Every time, he refused to make wands for Vargulf and Riddle. Riddle would always curse him, but never long enough to do any permanent damage. As if that wasn't bad enough, Riddle would use Idris's mother's wand to curse him. He defiled it - that wand Idris had carried with him since his father bestowed it on him. In some ways, that was worse torture for Idris.

Vargulf wanted to torture him in a more physical manner, but Riddle refused his permission. Idris could feel the werewolf's hatred for Riddle. He could almost taste it. But he also could smell Vargulf's fear. Riddle may have been young, but Idris knew that he was already an accomplished Dark wizard.

By Idris's reckoning, it had been two weeks since he had woken up in this prison. He did not know how long he had been unconscious after he had been Turned. He was cold, weak, tired and frightened. He had been given very little to eat or drink, but for the past five days, he had felt something like vigour returning to his bones. They hadn't learnt about werewolves in detail at school, but he did know that they became stronger with the waxing of the moon. He guessed that this was what was happening.

With the strength in his bones, his thoughts became clearer. He had to get away. To get away, he had to get out of this cellar. He needed his wand. He wanted his mementoes back. He had to play along.

Idris fingered the pouch around his neck; empty but for the note from Alphard. His own beautiful Alf. Idris found his eyes stung again as he thought of Alf in his bed, naked and beautiful in his bed. Hot, acidic tears began to flow once more as the realisation dawned that Alf could never be his again; not now Idris was a beast – a Dark creature.

He wrapped his arms around his knees and sobbed as he remembered how Alf looked; how he laughed; how he sat when he was reading; oh! his smile; his body; how he kissed; how he smelled; the sound of his voice; how his touch made Idris feel. Never to have these things again. His heart swelled with pain in his chest and he let his tears fall freely again.

/

"Well?" clipped Riddle. "Are you going to be reasonable? Do you ever want to eat properly again?"

Idris stood, head bowed. He was partially clothed, cold, dirty and he knew he smelt very bad indeed. He nodded meekly.

"Good," Riddle said smugly. "I knew you'd see things my way, eventually."

"I'll," Idris coughed as his voice rasped, "I'll need my wand and materials."

"Yes, yes. Of course," the prefect nodded with perfect munificence.

"And a room with natural light to work by."

"Don' ask fer much, do 'ee, little bleeder," scowled Vargulf.

"I can't work in the dark ... sir," whispered Idris, hoping he seemed pitiful enough.

Vargulf growled.

"Anything else?" asked Riddle.

"I'd like a bath, sir, and to have a robe. I'm very cold." He whispered all this with practised meekness.

"Good boy." Riddle patted him on the head then wiped his hand on his robe. Idris bit his lip. He had to get out. To get out they had to trust that he wouldn't run away. Only then would he get his wand.

/

For six days, Idris worked in a small study in the old dilapidated manor house. It had a large picture window that let in plenty of light. Riddle had procured lengths of wood – oak and elm – and a supply of unicorn hair. Riddle whittled away with his wand. He was achieving very little, but he took his time and looked busy.

Although Vargulf and a young werewolf called Fenrir guarded him closely, each day he was given a little further leeway. He did not speak unless he was spoken to and went willingly back to the cellar at night, giving up his wand as he went. He heard all manner of noises at night and could smell that the werewolves in the rooms above were rutting. It made him ill and turned him on at the same time. He didn't want to be with them. He would read his note from Alf and try to sleep as best he could, but he would always end up crying.

/

On the seventh day, as he whittled, he noticed Vargulf was distracted by some of the younger werewolves, fighting savagely between themselves outside. Idris pretended not to notice, seeing from the corner his eyes, Vargulf inching towards the door to check.

"Sort 'em out, Fenrir!" he barked, and the younger werewolf charged out, bellowing at the miscreants.

Idris looked at the wood he was whittling even closer than before, although now his stomach was flipping over, hearing the shouting raging from nearby. His hearing suddenly became incredibly acute, and the hair on his arms rose. It would be soon. He could feel it. Then he heard Fenrir calling for Vargulf above a cacophony of screams and yells, and the Alpha uttered a string of obscenities and took off without giving Idris a second look.

Idris listened to the receding footsteps and then shot up and ran to the hall. He Summoned his mother's wand and grandfather's ring from the mantel and put them in his pouch. Quickly checking that the pack were now surrounding the main culprits in the fight, egging them on, Idris found his way to the back door. He panicked for a split second, wondering how he would get a time advantage on any chase.

He resolved: he cast a huge Incendio on the hall and all its furnishings so the fire roared up. And with that, he ran and ran for miles until his lungs roared with pain. He stopped, his hands braced on his knees, trying to breathe and in the distance he heard shouting and yelling. Shouting and yelling and the howl of a wolf.

His blood froze. There were no wolves in Britain, except werewolves. But it wasn't full moon. As fast and as painfully as his heart was beating before, it thundered now and his blood crashed in his ears. In the distance, he could make out several werewolves tracking him led by a huge grey wolf. He knew – with a sinking sick feeling – that wolf was Vargulf. His stomach roiled with terror.

/

He concentrated on the deep breathing and snores all he heard around himself. He had forgotten how complete that terror had been, realising that Vargulf could change at will into a wolf. He'd not seen it in another werewolf since. It took at certain kind of animalism to accomplish it. He closed his eyes again and fell back into the recollection.

/

He had no idea where he had run to, but he knew exactly where he wanted to be, and he was determined to get there. He wanted his da. He wanted to be safe at home. He'd be no trouble; he'd lock himself up in the root cellar at full moon, he didn't care. He just wanted to be home.

Idris had never done it before, but he knew the principles: determination, destination and deliberation. If he didn't do it now, they would catch him again. Holding his wand close to his rasping chest, he thought of home and turned and Disapparated to his father's farm at Cadr Idris.

/

Idris stared at the ceiling of the roundhouse as his breath hitched at the sudden recollection of the treatment he received from his father. He'd been engulfed in his arms, as he hoped he would be. Fed by Rosie, their Muggle housekeeper. His father had then taken him up for a bath. It was then Vereticus Lydiard saw the terrible bite, and Idris confessed all. Idris felt his eyes sting once more. He didn't want to remember that. He hated remembering that.

He looked at Alphard instead, who slept next to him, his head pressing against his arm. After all those years, that his Alf would be with him still struck him as miraculous. He glanced at Angharad, curled up small, as she always did. He wouldn't lose any of it again.

Riddle may come for him; Greyback may try. Idris would revenge himself on Riddle this time: no matter what it took, Idris promised himself.

AB~IL~ AB~IL~ AB~IL~ AB~IL

Alphard stood at the door of the unassuming house in Muggle Barnes. No Muggle would see him in his fine robes as he had Disillusioned himself. Even so, it seemed so incongruous that his niece, Andromeda Tonks, née Black, should live in such an ordinary house as this. Of course, his brother and sister were long dead, but he couldn't help chuckling at their imagined horrified reactions. How very colourful his sister's invective would have been. He suppressed a smirk and knocked at the door.

At first, Alphard didn't recognise the man who answered the door, although the wide, bright smile was familiar.

"Uncle Alphard," the rotund blonde man said jovially, "it's good to see you."

Alphard shook the proffered hand. "Ted?" he asked, realising with alarm that the last he'd seen of Ted Tonks was over twenty years ago. He was no longer the athletic beater but a middle-aged wizard. "Good to see you," Alphard said with a smile.

Ted laughed heartily and clapped Alphard on the back, in a very un-Black-like manner. "Still slim, Uncle Alphard, unlike some!" Ted patted his round tummy and guided Alphard into the first reception room.

There, by the fireplace, was Andromeda. She moved towards him, not a young woman anymore, but still beautiful and regal. Unbidden, Alphard felt his eyes sting and a lump in his throat.

"Uncle Alphard. It is you," she said softly. Then she fell into his arms, like the little girl she used to be and held him tightly. He fancied he heard a small sniff, but he didn't let on he'd heard it, but brushed her hair gently and kissed the crown of her head. Eventually, she pulled herself away and invited him to dine.

Andromeda, ever the perfect hostess, trained by the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, had set out a perfect dinner table, with a faultless menu. It was hardly surprising that Ted had plumped up with such good living.

She questioned him closely about the renunciation ritual and they talked of Sirius and his tragic death at the hands of Andy's sister. Then she and Ted told him of the Fidelius they had asked Dumbledore for to protect their location from the crazed elements of her family before the fall of Riddle – even Narcissa's husband had made threats towards them.

"And Nymphadora – well, she's an Auror now," Andromeda said, as she poured coffee from an elegant silver pot.

"You must be very proud," Alphard said, smiling, as he accepted the small, dainty coffee cup and saucer.

A haunted look crossed her beautiful features. Alphard frowned at the look, especially as Ted patted her hand in a reassuring gesture.

"It's hard, Uncle, knowing we were the only Blacks truly afflicted by the Lydiard Curse."

Alphard's mouth dropped open as he stared at his niece.

"What are you talking about? Lydiard? As in my friend at school?" he whispered in shock.

Andromeda snorted in disgust. "Aunt Walburga told us all about your half-blood friend who got himself bitten by a werewolf! She told us how your friend's father tried to inveigle you into seeing him. Becoming like him, and all to besmirch the Black family name."

"And you believed her twisted rubbish?" gasped Alphard, shocked at the turn in the conversation.

I don't know what I believe! All I know is that Vereticus Lydiard cursed the Blacks that all they feared would come to pass and the Blacks would be blood traitors and shape-shifters all! That was the curse: blood traitors and shape-shifters all. Well, both Sirius and I are ... were... blood traitors and ... well you know about Nymphadora."

"But, Andy, being a metamorphagus is a much sought-after gift. You can't believe that it's a curse," implored Ted. "I thought we'd agreed ..."

"That's right," Alphard agreed.

"Of course, it's a curse, Uncle. Our own daughter is a shape-shifter," she spat vehemently.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but the stricken look on Ted's face told Alphard this was something Ted had never wanted to hear again.

"Andy, you shouldn't believe your daughter is cursed. It's a gift. Exceptional. Rare," said Alphard softly.

"No!" she said through gritted teeth. "Not only is she a shape-shifter, she seeks them out. Seeks out filthy werewolves for company!"

Alphard's breath stopped at his niece's vehemence. He said nothing, as she carried on.

"She had a boyfriend – a serious boyfriend for three years – a werewolf. She thought we didn't know, but the Wizarding community is small, and Ted heard at work. He's dead now, thank Salazar, but that doesn't change the fact that shape-shifters attract."

"Andromeda, stop!" Ted cried. "She's our own daughter."

Alphard didn't know what to say, as his niece covered her face with her beautiful, manicured hands.

"I've never heard of the Lydiard Curse," he said softly. "But I will tell you this, Andy. If it's true, I can probably understand why Vereticus Lydiard cursed our family. They cursed his. I'm not saying it was right, but Idris was his only son."

"Uncle!" Andromeda cried. "How could anything justify it?" Alphard held up his hand for silence.

"My sister, your Aunt Walburga, connived with Tom Riddle to trap my friend, Idris Lydiard, with a werewolf at the full moon. He was bitten, and became a werewolf too. Walburga did that because Idris was a half-blood and - he was my lover. She ruined his life, Andy, and she ruined mine."

"I don't believe you!" she hissed and turned her face from him again. Alphard's stomach sank.

"However, it's true. I searched for Idris for years. That's why I left the country, looking for him."

"Why would you look for a filthy beast?" she spat, suddenly reminding Alphard quite forcefully of his sister. Perhaps, some prejudices were just too ingrained. It was one thing to fall for a Muggle-born, but anything more was too much to ask. He certainly wasn't going to tell her about finding Idris now.

"I think, Andy, we shouldn't discuss this anymore," Alphard said sadly. "We are not going to agree."

Their reunion didn't recover. No matter how hard Ted tried to open new topics, Andromeda remained frigid towards Alphard. Even when Alphard asked directly how to contact Nymphadora, Andromeda avoided answering him and, with a sharp wave of her hand, stopped her husband from doing so. Eventually they fell into an uncomfortable silence.

Alphard took his leave, and Ted saw him to the door with promises to talk her around. Alphard gave him the address of the inn at Cadr Idris in case Andromeda changed her mind.

He was met at the Apparition point by Angharad, eager for news of his family. He pulled her into a gentle hug, his soul feeling bruised that his wonderful new family could be so despised.

"She was and will always be a Black," said Alphard heavily. Angharad pressed a hand to his arm in comfort and led him back to camp as he told her all.
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