***


“Once upon a time, there were three sisters.”

“And were the sisters pretty, Mama?”

“Oh yes, my dearest. Two were beautiful as the night, and one as beautiful as the day.”

***

“What is she doing here?”

Many people arrived at the station with questions, but few asked them with as much anger as Andromeda did. It was a shock to arrive in the afterlife only to discover her older sister had got there first. She had been as strong as the world demanded, she had grieved for her husband and daughter while going on to raise her grandson. She had wept, and coped, and lived because the alternative was dying, and there were people who needed her too much for her to just give in to that.

But surely, surely in a world with any justice at all, that kind of behaviour deserved a better reward than this? Surely any afterlife worth going to couldn’t possibly contain her sister – the woman who joined the Deatheaters, the woman who killed her cousin Sirius, who killed her daughter Nymphadora… The list was a long one.

But the Guard hardly spared her a glance, WAITING.

“Waiting for what?”

He looked at her pityingly, as though she might be slightly slow, and gestured to one of the huge timetables that stood at the side of the platform. FOR A TRAIN.

“For a train?” Andromeda stared a little. “You mean, a train like everybody else gets? She – do you know what that woman’s done? She’s a Death Eater! A murderer! You can’t just mean to put her on a train with people who’ve been good their whole lives.”

Somehow that struck her as wrong and unfair and so obvious it should’ve remained unspoken.

PUT HER ON A TRAIN? WHY SHOULD I PUT HER ANYWHERE? the Guard asked, sounding slightly confused about the whole thing, ALTHOUGH, IT WOULD BE NICE IF SHE WOULD LEAVE THE PLATFORM SOON. IT DOES MAKE IT UNTIDY WHEN PEOPLE WAIT AROUND LIKE THAT.

“But surely there has to be some kind of judgement?” Andromeda protested, “Something to stop the bad people getting on the train with the good ones. Something to make sure people deserve it.”

SURELY YOU’RE BETTER PREPARED TO SAY WHAT YOU DESERVE AFTER YOUR LIFE THAN ME? YOU WERE THERE, AFTER ALL. The Guard shrugged her away calmly, already moving away down the platform, EXCUSE ME, I HAVE TO GO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT. THE TRAIN WILL BE HERE SOON.

***

Andromeda couldn’t leave of course, not knowing Bellatrix was here. There was too much risk that her sister just might manage to board a train, too much risk that innocent people might get hurt if she did. Andromeda doubted somehow that death would have changed her sister too much. She wasn’t sure whether Crucio still worked after you died, but she really didn’t want someone to have to find out.

So she waited, and she watched. She watched as, again and again, the train arrived and the train departed. Somehow, Bellatrix always seemed to be left behind when it pulled out of the station, lingering forlornly on the platform as the Guard blew his whistle.

She was watching closely enough to notice the day that something else was left in the crowd, something hooded and grey, hovering on the platform. She started forward with a yell, meaning to warn her sister. Despite everything – despite what had been done, and what Bellatrix would no doubt do again given the chance – nobody deserved that.

“It’s all right, dear,” somebody caught her arm, pulling her back gently. “They can’t hurt you here.”

“But it’s a Dementor,” Andromeda protested, staring at the creature as it started to drift away.

“Yes, the poor love,” the old woman agreed, her tone serious, “I do hate it when those happen.  It’s so sad.”

“The poor love?” Andromeda turned to look at her, bewildered. “I’m sorry, are you referring to the Dementor?”

The woman nodded, eyes still following the Dementor as it floated back from the platform edge and away, “I always think they’re such a shame. Such a waste. For people to do that to themselves, the poor things…”

“It’s a Dementor? They… they eat souls.” Andromeda had heard them referred to with many tones before  - with anger, with fear, even with the awful triumph of those who had nothing left to their lives but justice dealt to those who had hurt them. Never before though had she heard them spoken of in quite that tone of pity.

“Yes, dear. And you might want to consider what it is that makes them so hungry,” the woman said patiently, before turning to look at her directly. “Oh, I am sorry – I am being rude. I’m Rowena, dear – and what would your name be?”

“Andromeda,” she offered her hand politely, still confused by the woman’s comments. When thinking of Dementors it wasn’t really usual to ask how they felt about things. “They’re hungry?”

“Oh, my dear,” Rowena’s tone was gentle, and instead of shaking Andromeda’s hand she took it, holding it in her own warm hand, “Of course they are. The poor things are starving, starving of the hunger as they say.”

“But what are they?” Andromeda blurted. No-one else seemed to have noticed the Dementor as it drifted through the station, and as she watched it vanished out of sight entirely.

“And that was the right question,” Rowena said, her voice approving, and Andromeda felt that somehow she had passed a test without ever knowing what that test was. “They’re lost souls. People who left the world without any happy memories – with nothing to draw them to the final destination and no-one to help them board the train. All they feel is the emptiness that is left where their soul has withered away leaving them hollowed out from the inside out. And they’re hungry, hungry for the happiness and love they don’t have.”

It made an odd kind of sense. “So that’s why they take happy memories.”

“But other people’s memories can’t ever fill them up,” Rowena nodded, “Imagine them as hungry children, stood at the window of a restaurant or bakers, trying to get full on the smell. They crave it with all their existence because the hunger is their existence. Nobody ever got full off the smell of food, but that wouldn’t stop you trying if you were hungry enough.”

“And sometimes they’re lucky enough that the chef decides to hand them a bowl of good hearty stew.”  Unexpectedly, a male voice spoke behind them – familiar, and yet unheard in so long that Andromeda jumped a little.

“Dumbledore!”

Rowena seemed a little less pleased to see him. “What are you doing here, you old fool? Haven’t you boarded that train yet?” she demanded, hands on her hips as she turned to face him.

“Oh, you know how it is. Can’t ever resist the opportunity to turn up in time to provide a good metaphor.” Dumbledore said cheerfully, “I believe you were telling her about Dementors?”

“You need to hurry up and find a train to get on,” Rowena huffed. “The Guard keeps on telling you, it does you no good hanging about here hoping to interfere some more. It’s too late to do that once you get this far.”

“And yet, here I am still waiting. I sometimes find that the journey itself is more interesting than the final destination,” Dumbledore agreed, his voice pleasant. “You were going to tell her about the Dementor’s Kiss. Or I can, if you prefer, and build quite a delicious stew metaphor out of it.”

“I am sorry, dear,” Rowena apologised, turning back to Andromeda, “From time to time, Albus decides that no-one on the station is capable of explaining things on their own unless they have his assistance. I’m told he was quite as bad about such things in life as he is now.”

Behind her back, Dumbledore winked at Andromeda and sat down on a station bench, his blue eyes filled with a mischief more suited to a schoolboy. Andromeda fought the urge to laugh.

“As I was saying,” Rowena continued, a little flustered. “They can’t get full from memories, though they can try. They can only truly feed that hunger with the Dementor’s Kiss which – yes, all right, Albus! – is a little like being offered a big bowl of hearty stew when you’ve been hungry your entire life.”

“With carrots,” Dumbledore contributed. “And sometimes a little sprig of parsley to garnish.”

“There is such a thing as taking a metaphor too far Albus,” Rowena said smoothing down her top.

”So you don’t want to hear about the herby dumplings?” Dumbledore asked with a half smile.

“Really Albus. No.” Rowena said firmly, her tone seeming to indicate that this was a relatively common occurrence.

“What happens to them?” Andromeda asked interjecting before things became derailed. “Once they’re full?”

“They can’t take it, poor things,” Rowena’s voice softened. “You’d think they would come back to the station – after all, they have a ticket now, even if it’s not their own. Perhaps they try, and they just never make it. But near as I can figure it, its too much for them – a whole lifetime worth of happiness when they’ve had none of their own. They don’t have the tolerance for it. They just…” she waved a hand in the air vaguely, “They go away.”

“To where?” Andromeda shook her head, “They can’t just vanish.”

Rowena smiled at her sadly, “Oh, but dear, that’s exactly what they do do. Vanish away. And where do vanished objects go?”

“Into nonbeing,” Dumbledore contributed the answer before Andromeda could. “Which is to say, everything.” He stretched out his arms as though to encompass the world, “Everywhere and nowhere, all at once.”

“I see.” Andromeda glanced over again to where her sister was standing, reading the timetables, and felt her throat ache suddenly. “She has happy memories, you know,” she said quietly. “We gave her those.”

“I see.” The way Rowena glanced at Dumbledore wasn’t quite so subtle that Andromeda could have missed it. “That should be all right then.”

“So, she can’t become one of those, can she?” Andromeda continued stiffly, speaking past the lump that seemed to have grown inside her throat. “Not as long as she has some happy memories.” Nineteen whole years of happy memories, even if she hadn’t had any at all since… well, since everything went wrong.

“Well, that should certainly help a little,” Rowena agreed carefully.

“And besides… besides, it would probably be better for the world if she… if something happened that made her not exist anymore.” The words were dragged out now, each one scraping through a throat that felt raw with the effort that not-crying took. “She was a… she did bad things. Really bad things. Killed people.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth as though to say something, and Rowena shot him a sharp look. “No, you be quiet,” she ordered firmly. “There’s a time and a place for your interfering, and this isn’t it. This is one she has to decide herself.” She slipped a hand under Andromeda’s elbow, guiding her to the station bench. “Sit down, dear.”

Andromeda sat down, still speaking, staring down at the floor. “And sometimes I wanted to blame it on her being sent to Azkaban, but she was doing things like that before Azkaban. Hurting people. Torturing people. She was just…I never understood how she was the same person who used to snuggle down with me for bedtime stories. I never understood how that worked. How can someone be so normal, and then so evil?”

Rowena didn’t speak this time, didn’t try to answer that question, but sat down beside Andromeda, one hand rubbing gently over her back.

“And then I read she broke out and I – Sirius was innocent when he broke out, and I thought maybe, just maybe we’d been wrong. Maybe someone had used Imperius to make her confess or something. Maybe she was innocent and… and…” Andromeda’s voice cracked now, and she started to cry properly. “She wasn’t innocent. She was worse. She killed Sirius. She killed my daughter.” Even though  here the parting that death had brought stopped mattering, the betrayal of it happening at all, the pain of the news, the years without them – that still hurt as freshly as though it had only been yesterday.

A handkerchief was pushed into her hand, and Andromeda wiped her eyes on it, noting the bright orange and green checks and the strong smell of lemon drops that emanated from it. One of Dumbledore’s then.

“So, you see,” she made herself go on, “it’s probably for the best if she can’t board the train. If she stops existing, or just goes away. She was… she did bad things. Someone like that shouldn’t go anywhere good. She would break it.”

Again, Dumbledore tried to speak. Rowena silenced him with a glare. “If that’s what you believe, dear,” she agreed gently.

Andromeda sniffed. “You don’t think I should help her?”

The old woman reached out and took her hands, holding them between her own. “That would be up to you,” she answered, her voice serious as she met Andromeda’s eyes. “No matter how much I’m sure Albus there would love to throw his opinion in about what you should do, we can’t answer this one for you. You’re right – your sister has done some bad things. Things which have hurt you especially. They weren’t small things, and I’m not going to dismiss them and tell you that she had an excuse, or that they don’t matter. They do. But only you can decide whether you still love her after them, whether you want to go to her and help her, or leave her be. No-one else can tell you that.”

Andromeda wiped her eyes on the handkerchief. “She wouldn’t accept my help anyway,” she said quietly. “She hasn’t forgiven me for Ted – she wouldn’t speak to me even if I went over there.”

“That would be her choice to make, yes,” Rowena agreed. “But whether to go over – that one is yours.”

“She wouldn’t. She can’t – if she could kill Sirius and Nymphodora then family can’t mean anything to her, if it ever did. She can’t remember…”

She stopped as though hearing her own words, running them through her head one more time.

“Something bothering you, dear?” Rowena asked placidly.

“No,” Andromeda shook her head. “There’s just… I think there’s somewhere I need to go.”

Side by side on the bench, Rowena and Dumbledore watched as she got up and hurried away towards the Guard’s office.

“You knew she would go, didn’t you?” Dumbledore asked after a moment, once she was out of earshot. “If she didn’t believe her sister was worth saving, she wouldn’t have still been here. She would’ve left with all the other parts of herself.”

“Hush,” Rowena chided him, “Stay here a few more centuries and you’ll learn. It isn’t what we know they’ll choose that matters. It’s that they choose it themselves.”

***

The Guard was just coming out of his office when Andromeda reached it. She stopped in front of him, hoping he wouldn’t just hurry away again.

“Please, there’s something I need. I think it might be in Lost Property.”

He eyed her, and she fought the impulse to step back under his gaze. She had to be right about this. Had to be.

 SOMETHING OF YOURS?

“No,” she shook her head. “Something of my sister’s.”

AH. And now the Guard nodded, turning back to unlock the door he had just closed behind him. I’VE BEEN WONDERING WHEN SOMEONE WOULD COME FOR THOSE.

Andromeda followed him in, gazing curiously around an office which seemed cluttered with belongings. On the floor, a cat bowl so carelessly placed that she almost trod in it; draped across a chair, a cloak which seemed oddly familiar though she couldn’t think why; propped on a shelf a small black and white television which hissed and spattered with interference. She dragged her attention away from trying to hear what the newsreader was saying as the Guard pulled a large box out and stood it on the desk.

NOW, FOR YOUR SISTER… he said, and Andromeda watched in amazement and mild horror at the variety of objects that were pulled out and stacked upon the desk. A bag of marbles, an odd sock and an eyeball all came out of the box – the last item attracting instant attention from a large black raven she had previously not noticed perched over by the window.

The Guard waved it away as it flew over, quickly tucking the eyeball back into the box and out of sight. NO, I’VE TOLD YOU, he told the bird sternly, HE’S COMING BACK FOR IT.

Seeming disappointed, the bird flew back to his window, and a moment later the Guard pulled a large jar out of the box, AH, HERE WE ARE.

Eagerly, Andromeda reached to take it. “I thought they might be here! I mean, they were taken not really lost but she’d lost them, and I thought…”

SOONER OR LATER, ALL LOST THINGS END UP HERE, the Guard agreed calmly, SIGN HERE PLEASE.

Obediently she signed where he pointed, trying to ignore the feeling that the fingers which brushed against hers were cold bone rather than warm flesh. Paperwork completed, he shooed her outside, and she stepped back into the station, precious jar clutched tightly against her chest.

 There was Bellatrix, hunched up on one of the benches, and Andromeda didn’t allow herself to hesitate as she headed straight towards her.

Her sister attempted to look straight through her as she approached, and when that failed to discourage her she reached for her wand, scowling as she rose to her feet. “What do you want?” she demanded, threat clear in both her tone and the way she held her wand, “I have a train to catch. I haven’t time to be bothered by your type.”

Just a short time ago that would have been enough to send Andromeda away, but now she found she was smiling as she unscrewed the jar. “Just to give you back something you lost,” she answered cheerily. “Here!”

It took a moment for her to manage it, a moment for the child-proof lock on the jar to be worked loose, and for one horrible moment Andromeda thought that she might have to ask Bellatrix to wait as she went to find someone with better grip.

Then the lid popped loose, and like butterflies they came soaring out – a hundred, maybe a thousand, happy memories. They flapped their gossamer thought-wings for a moment and gleaming iridescent in the sunshine before settling over Bellatrix.

Memories of Christmases, of birthdays, of pretty dresses and parties. Memories of shared naughtiness – of chocolate stolen from the kitchen and eaten in their rooms before the house-elves could tell Mother. Memories of tears and tantrums – of arguments quickly made up, of condolence over bad marks or stupid boys, of sorrows shared and recovered from together.

Nineteen years they’d had before things went wrong. And you couldn’t live through nineteen years without some good memories, whoever you were, whoever you turned into.

Andromeda watched them settle, watched as her sister’s expression quickly changed from furious an cold to dazed.

“I couldn’t understand,” she explained filling the silence with awkward painful hope and words, “I could almost understand how you could do things to other people, but I couldn’t understand how you could to me. I couldn’t understand how you’d forgotten that I loved you… Then… then I remembered that the Dementors fed on happy memories. I thought maybe they were lost, so I got them back for you.”

Bellatrix sank back down onto the station bench, her expression one of complete shock. After a moment, Andromeda dared to come and sit next to her, slipping an arm around her, feeling her tense and yet not pull away.

She was her sister. Not perfect, not even good, someone who had undoubtedly done very bad things. But she was her sister, and right now, she had no-one else.

They sat for a few moments in silence. Andromeda was unsure what to say – did she try to forgive her for what had been done? Tell her she loved her? Things had gotten so very broken – even with memories, could they be fixed with mere words?

 When she opened her mouth though, she suddenly found she knew exactly what to say, mouth shaping the words of the story they had known since they were infants.

“Once upon a time, there were three sisters.”

For a moment, it didn’t look as though Bellatrix would respond. Andromeda glanced at her face, trying to read her expression, hoping fervently that her words had not been a mistake. If she only got one chance, and she had messed it up…

But, no. Bellatrix almost whispered the words, her lips barely moving as she asked the traditional question. One of them had always asked it after all, every story time. “Were they pretty sisters?”

Andromeda’s shoulders sagged a little in relief and continued, words as familiar as any spell. “Oh yes. Two as beautiful as the stars at night, and one as beautiful as flowers in the sun…”

After all, it had always been a story with a happy ending.

***