Betty cried herself to sleep that night. She cried until her eyes burnt and her whole body ached; she cried until her throat hurt, until her breath stuttered, until exhaustion pulled her eventually into sleep. When she woke up the next morning, her eyes were swollen, her forehead and temples were pounding with pain. Her hair was still plaited in the same way that her mother had plaited it the day before; strands of hair had loosened up falling into her face.
She, however, didn't care. Yesterday's anger was still there.
Betty curled herself up under the blanket, facing the window where snow had gathered at the edges. Big flakes drifted in slow motion from the dull, light grey sky. The world outside seemed so distant, and it made the tightness in her chest even worse. She pulled the blanket even higher, closing her eyes. The anger still pulsed under her skin, not as intensely as the night before, but it was still sharp enough to make her stomach twist whenever she thought of the argument with her mother. She didn't listen. She never listened. She lied.
Tears welled up from her closed eyelids, running down her cheeks. Her nose clogged almost instantly, forcing her into a deep, shaky sniffle; but it did nothing to clear it. She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her pyjama, before the snot could mix with the tears running down her face.
The pillow beneath her had become warm and wet now, soaked with her tears. Disgusted and frustrated, she seized it and with an angry motion she hurled it across the room. It struck the top of her drawers, knocking over two of the framed photographs—one with her mother and herself, the other with the Tonks' family—both hitting the wooden floor with a dull shatter. The sound made her flinch, and the sudden movement of her body made her head pulse, sharpening her anger. In the fallen frames, the pictures kept smiling and waving anyway, everyone still looked impossibly happy. As if none of this could ever happen. As if she were the only one breaking apart. She fell back onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her head, letting out a muffled scream. Her fingers dug into the bedspread, her whole body trembling.
Eventually, she fell into a light, dreamless sleep again.
A soft knock on the door woke her up.
"Betty?"
Betty didn't answer.
"Darling, please. Unlock the door, will you?"
But Betty didn't want to see her mother; instead, she pressed her hands tightly over her ears to block out the voice. She curled tighter under the blanket, unwilling to move. After a while, she eased her grip, hearing muffled footsteps walking down the stairs. Moments later a soft pop echoed through the silence of her room, followed by a faint clink. Another pop, and it was quiet again. Betty could guess that Lucinda had sent Mimi to bring her the meal—only the house elf could apparate in the house. Yet Betty didn't even bother to look for the food; she wasn't hungry.
By the next morning, the anger hadn't dulled completely, but it no longer felt as sharp as the day before. She woke up feeling hollow—somewhere the anger was still there, but another feeling had replaced it.
Sadness. She felt a deep, paralysing sadness.
The blanket felt heavier than it should, her legs and arms barely obeyed when she rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her throat felt dry and sore, her eyes still red and swollen from the day before. She couldn't shake of the returning, painful thoughts circling inside of her.
She didn't defend us. She didn't defend me.
Why wouldn't her mother listen? Why did she always have to stay composed, calm and—untouched by anything Betty said—when she desperately needed her to understand. It made the ache in her chest tighten, pressing against her stomach. Her vision blurred again, tears slipping down the sides of her face. She didn't sob this time; her body didn't have the strength for this anymore. So, the tears came silently, wetting her hair and ears.
A soft knock at the door made her flinch. She hadn't heard the footsteps leading to her room's still locked door. On the other side, her mother didn't speak a word this time; neither did Betty. She curled onto her side, tugging her knees close to her chest. Someone, Mimi, must have slipped in quietly while she slept; yesterday's untouched plate was gone, replaced by fresh one. The faint smell of camomile drifted towards her.
She pushed herself up, driven by the sudden thirst gripping her throat to take a sip of the tea, grimacing in pain as the hot liquid burnt her palate. A sharp breath escaped her, and she pressed her lips together as a new wave of tears welled up in her eyes.
Outside, the snowfall had ceased. Instead, the sky had turned into a bright blue, and the sun was shining—a sharp contrast to how Betty felt. The reflective snow lit up her bedroom; the bright light burned her eyes and intensified the throbbing in her temples. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut. When the sun set, turning dark again, and night fell, she didn't even notice.
On the third morning, the sadness had drained away, as well as the rest of the anger—leaving her with nothing but emptiness.
It wasn't a peaceful feeling, nor comforting. Her limbs felt even heavier, as if she was carrying the weight of her sorrow on her shoulders. When she pushed herself upright, a wave of dizziness rolled over her, forcing her to dig her fingers into the fabric to steady herself until the spinning eased.
Her mouth felt dry, lips cracked, and her stomach was twisting in hunger. She hadn't eaten for days.
Her hair tie had come loose during her sleep, and damp, tangled strand of hair clung to her face. She rubbed her forehead with both hands, noticing how cold her fingers felt. Cold and sweaty. Just like the rest of her body.
Disgusted, she dragged her pyjamas over her head, tossing them to floor where the shattered photographs had lain two days ago. But instead of shattered glass on the wood, they were lined up neatly on her drawer on its usual place. Mimi must have repaired them.
Just as Betty's mind lingered on the kind act of the house elf, Mimi appeared at her bedside with a soft pop.
"Miss Betty is awake," she announced, her large eyes wide, balancing another tray, "Miss Betty hasn't touched any food Mistress Lucinda prepared. Miss Betty should eat today! Mistress Lucinda is very worried. Oh yes, she is. Very worried."
With a deep bow Mimi and another pop, she disappeared again.
Guilt started to creep in, caused by Mimi's words. But it wasn't just the thought of her mother that weighed heavily on her. She thought of Katie, from whom she had increasingly withdrawn, afraid to tell her what was troubling her. Afraid of scaring her for having a murderer as a father. Afraid of being judged. Afraid of not being good enough. For her friend, but also for her family. Afraid of not being able to live up to expectations. She thought about the gift her mother had given her. It must have cost her a fortune; she must have worked extra hours in the Ministry to be able to afford such a present. Betty knew this broom wouldn't be officially released until summer. And instead of being grateful, Betty had slammed the door in her face and had been ignoring her for days.
She must be furious with me. Then another thought rose. I screamed at her. I said awful things to her.
Her lips began trembling, and her nails began digging into the soft skin of her forearm, her fingers moving apathetically before she even registered the sudden impulse; a long deep scratch—then another. She barely felt the sting—only a faint burn somewhere far away.
Her thoughts spiralled faster. I hurt her. I always hurt them. I always ruin things.
She wished she could just... disappear, slip out of her own life. Not being here, not existing. She needed the anguish in her chest, the guilt twisting inside of her and the heaviness of all of it to stop pressing down on her. Her fingers on her skin kept going; slowly, then faster, still detached as if the motion belonged to someone else. The lines became wider and redder, the skin under her nails began to burn. But the sting grounded her—just enough that she didn't feel like she was floating out of her own body.
A sudden knock at the door made her startle, and her heart began pounding against her ribs. She dug her fingers into the sheets; she couldn't face her mother. Not now, not like this.
"Betty?"
But it wasn't her mother's voice. It was the voice of someone younger, someone very familiar.
"Kiddo, please—can you open the door for me?"
Betty froze. Tonks' voice sounded softer than usual, there was no playfulness, instead she sounded truly concerned. The doorknob jerked and turned slightly, but the door remained closed. Betty pulled her blanket up over her bare shoulders as if to shield herself.
"Betty? It's just me—Tonks. Can I come in?"
She pressed her lips together, dragging her knees closer. She must have looked awful—her hair was a mess, her face dried out from crying, wearing only her pyjama pants.
She wanted to answer, but after days of not using her voice, nothing came out of her throat.
"Betty... please," Tonks said quietly. "I won't push you. I just want to check on you."
Something cracked inside Betty. Something inside her longed for closeness, for comfort. She pulled her arms out from under the blanket, looking at her forearms covered in red lines. She felt ashamed; she didn't want to be seen like this. She quickly climbed out of bed, grabbed her pyjama top and pulled it back on.
Slowly, she lifted her right arm, pointing her fingers towards the door, her index finger twitching slightly.
Then there was a click.
Carefully, the door was opened. Tonks' head peeked through the gap in the door; her eyes fixed on Betty with worry.
"Hey, kiddo," she murmured as she carefully slipped through the door, closing it behind her. They looked at each other for a long moment, neither moving. Carefully, Tonks took some steps forward, lowering herself on the edge of the bed next to Betty.
"Aunty Luci—your mum. She asked me to come," Tonks began softly.
She paused; her gaze dropped onto her hands in her lap, playing nervously with the fabric of her jumper.
"I'm ... really sorry, Betty."
A frown flickered on Betty's face. Sorry? For what? Why did she feel the need to apologise, when it was Betty who had been hiding herself for days.
"I shouldn't have told you," Tonks whispered. "About... all of that. I didn't realise how much it'd weigh on you."
"No!" Betty's voice broke out, the words almost sticking in her throat—her first word leaving her lips in days.
She pushed herself upright, turning fully towards Tonks, the swell of her cousin's guilt hitting her painfully.
"You're the only one who's been honest with me!" she yelled, her words trembling from desperation.
Betty leaned forward before she had even decided to move, her arms sliding around Tonks' waist in a desperate urgency. Tonks lifted her left arm to wrap it around Betty's shoulder, pulling the younger girl closer to her, giving her the steadiness she needed. The sudden closeness after three days of loneliness, the warmth of the other body pressing onto hers, made something in Betty's chest give away.
She pressed her face against Tonks' shoulder, the blue fabric soft on her cheek, with a faint smell of a perfume she didn't recognise, when a first tremor ran through her, then another. Within seconds her whole body was shaking; her breath hitching as tears swelled up again and running down her cheeks in hot streams.
"You—you're the only one who's not...who's not lying to me," she whispered, the words barely audible.
Tonks didn't answer. Instead, she drew Betty closer, wrapping the other arm protectively around her, letting her cry until the tremors ebbed, and the breathing became quiet and shallow.
For the first time in days, Betty felt lighter, as if the weight that had been pressing down on her after all this time, had finally lifted.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
"You can't sulk in here all holidays," Tonks finally remarked, gently brushing her hand over Betty's hair.
"You see me doing it already!" Betty shot back stubbornly, her face still pressed into the fabric of Tonks' jumper.
Tonks sighed, ruffling Betty's already tousled hair.
"I wish your parents were mine," Betty muttered.
"Oh, believe me you don't," Tonks chuckled. "They're really annoying sometimes."
"Still better than having a liar and a mass murder as parents," Betty replied, loosening her grip around Tonks waist, and crossed her arms in front of her own chest.
Tonks opened her mouth as if to say something, hesitated, and closed it.
After a pause, she said quietly, "Your mum... she only wants to keep you safe. To protect you."
"Protect me?" Betty's voice cracked. "How does this protect me?"
Tonks shrugged. "Perhaps she thinks you can't handle the truth. Not yet. You're still a kid after all."
"But I can! I'm stronger than she thinks!"
"I know, kiddo. Maybe...," she paused for a second before she continued, "maybe, it's her who can't handle it."
That gave Betty pause for thought. She had never thought that way. Of course, it wasn't just Betty who had lost someone... Her fingers tightened around her sleeve, when a sudden question occurred to her, one that had been lingering in her mind for weeks.
"Tonks...why would someone kill their best friend?"
Tonks stilled. Her shoulders dropped a fraction, eventually leaning back against the headboard of the bed. She exhaled, as if she had been expecting the question and had already tried to prepare for an answer.
"I wish I knew."
Betty watched her closely. "But you knew him. When you were little."
"I did." Tonks threw her boots on the floor in one swift movement, pulled her knees up to her chest, staring into the void. "He came over a lot. I liked him. Mum and Dad too." A small smile tugged her lips, then shaking her head. "He was loud. But in a fun way, and very charming. Like an older brother."
Betty's breath hitched. "Did he ever seem like someone who... who'd do what he did?"
Tonks hesitated. She didn't look away this time; she looked straight at Betty. "No. Not when I was a kid." She hesitated again. "But something must've happened. Something none of us saw coming. And then... he was gone. Arrested. I was too young to understand it then. I still don't understand it now."
Betty stared at the floor for a long moment; another question rose inside of her, slipping over her lips before she could stop it.
"What if...do you think I'd ever kill my best friend?"
Tonks turned to her abruptly, blinking, once, then twice, as if she had misheard the question.
"What? No!" Her voice snapped, not angry but startled. "Absolutely not. Don't ever put yourself in the same boat as that!"
"But he's my father—"
"You are nothing like him. You hear me?" Tonks cut in.
Betty's gaze dropped to her knees, her voice barely perceptible. "Everyone says I look just like him."
Tonks' head snapped up. "Oh, absolutely not," she said, shooting upright, her narrowed eyes lingering on Betty, as if she had been insulted personally. "We're not doing that."
Betty risked an uncertain glance at her.
"Looking like someone doesn't make you them," Tonks went on, "You know what my mum looks like? Just like her older sister. Same eyes, same jawline, same ridiculously perfect hair—at least when both were younger. Probably not anymore," Tonks made a mocking gesture. "And you know who's rotting in a cell in Azkaban."
Betty nodded. She knew Andromeda. Her aunt was kind, compassionate and everything but cruel. And she knew the stories of her sister, Bellatrix. A Death Eater, probably one of the most loyal one to Lord Voldemort.
Tonks gaze softened, and her voice dropped. "His parents... they didn't love him. Not really. Not the way parents should. They raised him to hate most of the world and fear the rest. He spent years trying to get his way out of it." Tonks swallowed. "That kind of—childhood—breaks people. And sometimes they do things none of us understand. Maybe... he didn't... he couldn't escape the demons he was raised by."
"And became one of them," Betty concluded.
"Yah."
For a moment, neither of them said a word, then Tonks added, pulling Betty into her arms again, her warm hand stroking the back of her head. "But you're loved kiddo. Very much so."
Betty let herself sink into Tonks' arms, her cheeks pressing onto her cousin's chest; but something didn't let her go.
"But your mum... she grew up in the same family. And she's kind. Gentle. And not cruel. And didn't kill anyone. Maybe it doesn't matter who your parents are."
Tonks rubbed the back of her neck, searching for the right answer. "My mum didn't grow up in the same house your father did. Her parents weren't saints, sure. Very old-fashioned, too obsessed with reputation. And, uh, ... not very amused when Mum married Dad." She lowered her head to find Betty's gaze. "But they weren't... what Sirius had. Mum was pressured and pushed into 'right choices'... but she wasn't broken by the people who raised her."
Betty loosened her grip around Tonks and pulled the blanket up to her chest.
"You're just proving my point", she murmured, "if your Mum and Bellatrix had the same parents, and still turned out diff—"
"You're driving me nuts, kiddo!" Tonks shot up, jumping out of the bed in exasperation, a loud clatter revealing that she had stepped directly on the tray with Betty's food. "Damn Merlin," she cursed, clearing up the mess with a flicker of her wand. She tugged her hair, exhaling loudly.
"You're...stop outsmarting me!" She paced around, struggling to find the right words. "Did you ever put dead mice under someone's pillow? Or stabbing frogs just for fun?"
Betty's eyes widened. "Who would do such things?" she whispered, clearly distraught.
"See? You're not like them," Tonks insisted, "Mrs-rotting-in-Azkaban used to do that to Mum. As some 'funny' prank."
Tonks propped herself up on the bead, leaning forward and gave Betty a quick kiss on the top of her head.
"There are signs. And you don't fulfil them. And if you do, I'll personally make sure you end up in the most secure cell," she added with a mischievous grin, then looked at the clock beside the bed and sighed. "I need to leave now, Julian's probably waiting already."
"Aww, you're having a date?" Betty asked curiously, "that's why you wearing new perfume?"
Tonks grinned widened. "I am," she bent down to grab her boots, walking towards the door, her fingers already touching the doorknob, "By the way—talking about... odour—you're smelly. You should get under the shower soon."
Betty narrowed her eyes, giving her a pretend angry look, until both burst out in laughter. Then, with a final smile, Tonks said goodbye, reminding her to visit them the next day to finally try out the new broom, leaving the room.
After Tonks' visit, Betty felt somehow... lighter. The sadness not as heavy; the fear of not becoming like her father hadn't completely vanished but not as acute.
She stayed in her bed for a while before finally lifting the blanket; she would go downstairs to find her mother and apologise—but first, she did have to get a shower. She looked out of the window; the snow had completely melted. Betty felt a sudden ache in her chest that she had spent all previous days pouting in her bedroom, instead of playing in the snow outside.
The sun had already disappeared behind the other houses roofs, and the sky had turned into a dark grey.
Betty got up, padded across the cold wooden floor with her feet still warm from the duvet, stepped into the hallway, stopping in front of the stairs. She carefully listened, trying to figure out if her mother was in the kitchen—but she heard no sound coming from downstairs. She guessed Lucinda must be in her study, or even down in the basement, preparing some of the potions; then she continued walking down the hallway to the bathroom.
The hot water stung her skin, but its steady warmth felt strangely comforting. She reached for her mother's hair soap—the one Lucinda always used to work through her stubborn, tangled curls.
After the much-needed shower, she wrapped herself in a large towel and padded back to her room to get dressed. As she moved down the stairs, the shame and guilt from earlier crept back in, growing heavier with every step toward the study door. Betty hesitated. Would her mother still be angry? Slowly, she lifted her hand and knocked on the door; yet no answer was given. She put her hand on the knob, turned it and carefully pushed the door open.
The study was equipped with tall shelves reaching up the ceiling, the books neatly sorted by topic, and in alphabetical order; the piles of documents neatly aligned on the dark, wooden desk in front of the window. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air, her mother's favourite herb.
Her mother stood before the huge painting of a white-haired women, that one that covered the entrance of the basement. Her composure was unusually tense, and her usual elegance slightly frayed, eyes narrowed to thin slits, as she stepped slowly towards Betty.
"Well, there you are at last. You finally dared to leave your room, didn't you?" Lucinda hissed. Her pale eyes lingered on Betty without blinking. "I put in so much effort, and that's the thanks I get? You're an ungrateful, little brat."
Betty's heart dropped, and she stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still on the wooden door. She gasped for words, trying to explain, how she didn't mean to hurt her. But her words stuck in her throat; nothing came to her mind that could soothe her mother's fury.
"You're a brat, just like your father. You're turning more and more into him," Lucinda said quietly. Her expression didn't shift, but something in her eyes sharpened.
Betty gasped for air, holding onto the door frame, as the room around her started spinning. Just like your father. Ungrateful. Her ears started ringing, drowning out the words coming from her mother, who came closer.
"You expect me to fix what you ruin," she said, her voice lowering further, "but Severus is right, you're not worth the effort. You don't deserve a praise; you're a stupid child to even believe it for one second."
The words hit Betty with such an immense force, that she felt nausea rising inside of her; she tried to breathe, to fight back the urge to vomit. Her vision blurred, and she barely noticed her legs shaking as she lost the ability to support her own weight. But she hardly felt the pain when her knees hit the hard wooden floor; her breathing came in short, rapid gasps, her hands braced on the floor.