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When Teddy first cries Mummy! Andromeda is not ready.
She is not ready to paint her memories of Nymphadora in a rose tinted light. She is not ready for the way he screws up his nose and changes his hair bubblegum pink.
Andromeda thinks she will never be ready, not really.
She does not go to their funeral. She is a Slytherin for a reason.
Ted would have gone. But Andromeda is not Ted, will never be as kindly and bright as those of Helga Hufflepuff's House.
When she goes to Diagon Alley people stare, stare at the heavy lidded eyes that are the curse of her house. They do not see her, they see Bella, her mirror even as she killed her daughter.
One day she comes home and finds Harry Potter there, sitting at the battered old table Ted bought when Nymphadora was born. His face is scarred and old and so very young, and as Andromeda greets him with the pleasantries she watches his hands, burnt and fidgeting and tapping out a nonsense rhyme that Nymphadora used to sing.
Ted's hands were rough, creased with kindness. Every rough patch sings of loyalty, of love and hope and everything that is so not-her that the first time he held her hand she screamed.
The first time Nymphadora held Ted's hands she gurgled, bright and cheerful and so babylike a laugh bubbles it's way out despite herself, and as one laugh turns into another Andromeda stares at Harry Potter's burnt hands and laughs.
He's staring at her, and part of her says you're mad, old girl and the other part says she's not alone, is she.
It is true. The ghosts of Andromeda's laughter tumble out of the kitchen table, out of the scratch made by six year old Nymphadora, out of the remnants of blue paint Ted spilled the summer they painted the fences with clouds.