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The small flat in London was a far cry from the vast, echoing halls of Black Manor. The cold draft from loose windows cut across the room, the floorboards groaned underfoot, and the scent of pine needles competed with the faint smell of Ted’s burnt toast every morning. But it was home, a real home, one made with love, and a hope for a future far away from cursed family heirlooms, pure blood politics and Aunt Walburga screaming about blood traitors.
Andromeda sat on the edge of the sofa—a mismatched piece they’d found at a Muggle second-hand shop—watching Ted struggle with a string of fairy lights. He wasn't using his wand. He insisted that "doing it the Muggle way" for their first Christmas was a rite of passage. It wasn’t like she didn’t miss them, Narcissa running into her room on Christmas morning, Bellatrix dancing around in her new pink ballet shoes singing carols. They were family after all, as twisted and demented as some of them had become, but they had cast her out. Not the other way around.
"I think the bulb is loose," Ted muttered, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. "Or the whole thing is cursed. Can Muggle lights be cursed, Dromeda?"
Andromeda laughed, shaking herself out of her internal thoughts, a light, melodic sound that still felt like a small rebellion every time Ted nursed it out of her. "I believe they call it 'blown,' Ted. Not a curse, just ‘physics’." She shifted, trying to find a comfortable position the worn springs squeaking in protest. At seven months pregnant, her centre of gravity was a distant memory.
She watched as Ted finally got the lights to flicker to life. A warm, multicoloured glow filled the room, reflecting off the few glass ornaments they’d managed to save up for. Technically she still had access to the Black family fortune, but that would mean crawling back and admitting she was wrong, that she couldn’t do this without them. It was a compliance mechanism, masquerading as an olive branch that still made her blood boil.
Ted stood back, admiring his handiwork, before crossing the room to sink onto the floor at Andromeda’s feet. He rested his head against her knee, his hand instinctively finding the swell of her stomach. "You alright? She’s a bit quiet today."
"Spoke too soon," Andromeda winced as a sharp kick landed. Nymphadora, much to Ted’s delight was currently practising what felt like a Quidditch match against her ribs. "She’s just seen the lights, I think. She has your energy."
Ted beamed up at her. "And your stubbornness. She’s going to be a handful."
"She’ll be perfect," Andromeda corrected softly. She reached down, threading her fingers through Ted’s sandy hair.
"I know it’s not much," Ted looked up from his spot by her knee, his voice dropping to a serious note. "Compared to what you grew up with. No enchanted snow falling from the ceiling or gold-plated crackers..."
Andromeda leaned forward, cupping his face. "Ted. I have a warm room, a husband who loves me, and a daughter who is currently trying to break my ribs. I have never been wealthier."
Ted leaned up to kiss her, a slow, lingering moment that tasted like tea and contentment.
"Happy Christmas, ‘Dromeda," he whispered against her lips.
"Happy Christmas, Ted."