Note: Co-written with the lovely almanera.

Antonin Dolohov's elation was long gone after breakfast. He had expected his mother to shower him with fury, but her reaction had exceeded all limits of reason. Far from preaching him, as was her custom, she now refused to even look at him. There was nothing he could do to placate her, though; as his father had pointed out, he was to fulfil his duty both towards his House and the Dark Lord.

There was work to be done. His bedroom was specious enough to accommodate a married couple, but there were items he ought to purchase, starting from an additional wardrobe and a vanity table and including a set of ladies' clothes and products for personal hygiene. Additionally, a party for his fellow Death Eaters was in order in a few days' time so that his marriage could be officially celebrated; it was customary for their group to have an informal reunion whenever a significant change occurred.

While he and his father sat in the living room discussing their course of action, the fire in the hearth suddenly swell in a green burst, and a single envelope shot out of the flames before flitting to the ground. With a frown, Antonin recognised the Dark Lord's handwriting and his succinct, commanding style. The note informed him he was to bring his wife to Malfoy Manor at once. Grumpy and disconcerted but obedient nonetheless, he went upstairs, calling for the house-elf to ask his mother for a dress, for Andromeda had no clothes of her own just yet. His dark, windowless room was silent, as always. The young witch had not left the bed; she was motionless, and the only parts of her he could see were her mane of coppery curls and her pale back bearing several bite marks. Suppressing a smile of pride, he approached her, brushing her shoulder with his lips.

"Andromeda."

The witch did not react, but there was no doubt she had heard him.

"The Dark Lord wishes to speak to you at once," he whispered. "I think he will tell you news of your daughter. You need to get dressed."

"Bring me a robe."

The house-elf joined them within a minute, laden with a simple long-sleeved lilac dress and a set of unopened undergarments, which Antonin unrolled on the bed.

"There you go. Are you able to stand?"

Without a word, she pulled herself to sitting position and rose, her muscles tensing and her breathing pained. She only put on the dress, too sore no doubt to use the undergarments. He could not help but marvel at how well lilac suited her, complementing her coppery eyes and curls, and made a mental note of getting her several dresses and nightgowns in that shade.

"Ready?"

"Take me to him."

Squeezing her hand, he turned on the spot, and the world dissolved in a whirlwind of Apparition. They reappeared in a spacious, candle-lit corridor, a door looming in front of them. Upon a house-elf's admission, Antonin entered, Andromeda's hand in his, and knelt.

"My Lord."

The tall figure of their master emerged from the shadows in a billow of his robes, his red eyes fixed on the Death Eater and the frail woman.

"Rise, Antonin," he ordered in his high-pitched and hissing voice. "You may go. I believe there are matters that require your attention."

"Yes, my Lord."

Antonin backed out of the room with his head bowed. Surprised though he was, there were indeed matters he ought to sort out. He Disapparated the moment the door closed on his Lord and his wife.

Voldemort took his time observing the witch.

"Approach."

She slowly did so. Her abused body was trembling, and had it not been for the training and the discipline she had been put through during her childhood, she would not have been able to do this. As it was, she forced her limbs to move one step at a time before bringing herself to meet those crimson eyes devoid of any human emotion.

A warm fur cloak suddenly descended onto her shoulders while they measured each other, neither betraying any questions nor providing answers. With the Dark Lord, it always was a game of the unknown.

"Come, Andromeda, there is something I want you to see," he spoke at last.

A cold white hand closed around her wrist, and she only had a second to brace herself for another Apparition, which left her gasping for air with her head spinning. He seemed to have expected this, for he allowed her a short instant to rest. The sight before them nearly stole away her breath once again. This was not what she had expected to see.

They were standing at the entrance gate of a castle—not one as large as Hogwarts but an impressive one all the same. It was ancient, curved into a hill, its roof rotten away at quite a few spots. Just above the ground, Andromeda could distinguish a row of low windows, which indicated the presence of a dungeon. Conversely, several thin towers pointed towards the sky, their windows so minuscule that they were bound to bring more gloom than sunlight to the chambers within.

Before she could even start speculating who inhabited this castle, a blast of wind slammed into her face, and the stench of blood and sweat it brought provided the answer at once. This smell had no equal in the wizarding world; nor did the yellow eyes of the beastly man who hurried towards them, bowing and muttering reverent pleasantries.

"My Lord, it is an honour to receive you in our humble castle. Please, allow me..."

On and on went Fenrir Greyback's awkward compliments, and soon, they were following him inside the heavy gates into a bleak and deserted courtyard. He had not addressed a word to Andromeda, but his sniff and his appreciative glance at her pale throat were more than eloquent.

The grass was frozen and stiff beneath their feet as they walked towards the entrance hall, which looked as dreary and unwelcoming as the castle itself. And little wonder it was, too. This was a werewolf residence, and Greyback was the caretaker.

Presently, he was murmuring disconnected pieces of information on the dungeons, where insubordinate inhabitants were usually locked up. Andromeda found herself more interested in the room he mentioned next: the wand room—a place to store the werewolves' wands for the duration of their transformations.

On their way through a series of halls and chambers, they encountered several members of the community, who all bowed and cowered before the Dark Lord. With every staircase they took, the top of the hill the castle was moulded into was becoming more prominent, and at last, they reached a room filled with light, its door opened onto a frosty patio. A blood-spattered frosty patio.

Andromeda's breath hitched, and while the Dark Lord had not changed his posture or uttered a word, she could feel something had shifted in his countenance. They had arrived to the most important part of this place, and the significance of this journey was about to be revealed to her.

There was no need to look twice to see where the gore had come from. A human carcass, that of a child, mutilated and stripped of half its mass, had been carelessly tossed onto the grass to rot.

Dora. Her very first instinct made her think of her only child, her baby. But this poor child was—had been—even younger than Dora.

"There has never been a creature more feared and despised than the werewolf," the Dark Lord uttered. "Understandably so, many wizards would say, for Lycanthropy is easily spread by blood and saliva. When a werewolf bites a human, the victim will become a werewolf as well; even a scratch from a werewolf will lead to lupine tendencies in the bitten human and will leave a scar that cannot be healed."

"And yet, such a condition also brings power," Andromeda mused. "People fear most what they despise."

"Indeed," the Dark Lord agreed softly. "You would know all about being feared, wouldn't you, Andromeda? You family has been using this talent for centuries."

"Until two bad fathers saw it fit to destroy us from within," Andromeda sighed, her eyes never leaving the poor child. Worst of all, his mother… His poor, poor mother could still be alive, waiting for her child to come home.

"There is no need to be harsh. Managing such substantial power is not an easy task; not where politics is involved and where one's image is of great concern."

"Which is why you abandoned it," Andromeda stated soberly. "You don't need anyone's approval; not with your extraordinary magical abilities and great ambitions. If there ever was a wizard who could afford abandoning the common approach of climbing the ladder of magical hierarchy, it was you. You were simply extraordinary enough to wipe it all out and establish your own order."

"You are gifted with words, my dear, but this is not why I showed you mercy."

"This is mercy?"

"It is," Voldemort assured her. "I spared your life, didn't I? As for my decision—had you glimpsed the minds of some of my other Death Eaters, you would have agreed with me. As dedicated as Antonin is, his warm feelings towards you are not so personal as to tempt him to breach my orders and kill you… which is something I wouldn't be so sure about in the case of my other Death Eaters. Traitors are not well-loved, you see, and the Blacks… the Blacks are simply despised."

"An inevitable consequence of our legacy," Andromeda admitted, unfazed. "I would have thought, however, that the Malfoys and Bellatrix have served so well that you wouldn't wish to disgrace them so."

"The Malfoys and Bellatrix know better than to cross me."

"I'm sure they do," Andromeda echoed. "The Malfoys would have much to lose, should they dare to cross you. And Bellatrix would never do it under any circumstances, I'm sure of it. But I am a different matter. I can cross you and tell you everything my heart desires, no matter how harsh. I have nothing to lose, and no matter how closely I resemble my sister, I am not her. You can point your wand at my chest and utter the words right now, or you can torture me until my mind gives out and I become a prisoner in my own disabled body. You can even burn me alive to mock the medieval customs of Muggles. It does not matter. Nothing matters any more."

"Nothing?" the Dark Lord breathed. "Not even that little half-Muggle of yours?"

Andromeda glanced at him. Could it be?

"The Metamorphmagus lives. It would have been a pity to eliminate such a rare talent. What you have witnessed here serves a purpose: no one else has ever thought of taking charge of the werewolves, you see. Hypocritical as many wizards are, they are too disgusted by our sharp-clawed friends, never seeing the benefits of a potential alliance with them… for if directed correctly, such fear would open an enormous potential, don't you agree?"

Andromeda finally turned away from the child's remains, her attention now resting solely on the Dark Lord. Her relief was immense. Her coppery eyes were slowly filling with tears; she had not realized she had already mourned for her daughter.

"An enormous potential, yes," she whispered. "A potential you have spotted and put to a good use. But do it the wrong way, and the world shall remember you as vicious tyrant—a tyrant to rebel against again and again until, one day, a victory comes that the rebels shall count as theirs. And to achieve this victory, this is what they will show."

Very briefly, the young woman's look returned to the child's remains while Voldemort watched her calmly.

"A vicious tyrant… I don't think I can even recall the last time someone actually dared call me that."

"Not to your face, I'm sure. Your loveliness must have charmed them into silence."

At this, the ruby red eyes narrowed; the wizard's grip on his wand tightened.

"Has happiness made you lose your mind, Andromeda? I can order your half-Muggle executed any time I wish."

"And destroy a Metamorphmagus?" she objected, all traces of humour gone from her demeanour as swiftly as they had appeared.

"You gave birth to a Metamorphmagus once; you can do so again."

She stared back at him, impassive, before saying, "No rooms have been turned into classrooms in this castle. It's not a mistake on your part, naturally. There is a number of werewolf children, but you don't intend to educate them; you are planning on using them as your army—a guarantee that proves your power, should the rebels get so cocky as to defy your Death Eaters. Again, I admit the fact that you've put the werewolves to a good use—unlike Albus Dumbledore, who, in reality, was one of those hypocrites who would preach on the equality of all magical beings yet never really act to prove this so-called equality or take measures to ensure it was achievable. In the end, he may have understood his own erroneous ways or not; it doesn't matter. You, on the other hand, saw the differences between the magical races at once, just like you saw the distinctions between wizards and their backgrounds. Of course, you would act differently from the likes of Dumbledore, whose goal was to achieve cheap popularity. Yet the werewolves are wizards and witches too. Respect that side of them, and you will have the beasts' loyalty; neglect that side, and they may just turn against you. It's not a classroom I have in mind, though, but the availability of certain potions. Transformations are painful, and our long-clawed friends need to feel a little appreciation."

The Dark Lord did not reply. The way Andromeda had just spoken had strongly reminded him of someone he used to know—someone he had killed in the end but whose memory was still stark in his mind.

"Come," he commanded.

"Pardon?"

"There is no point in enduring this stench any longer. You shall be more useful elsewhere."