Flirting for the Socially Inept

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Part II- Good Intentions


“Knit one, pearl two…no, stop! I mean, knit two, pearl one - that should do the…oh, bugger it!”

Tonks threw a book at the knitting needles and winced as her elbow smacked against the wall in the process. Molly had made it seem so simple: charm the needles, give them ample yarn, make sure you voiced the proper stitches. It appeared easy.

She glanced at the yellow woolen mess in the other armchair and shook her head. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t even get her Scourgify spell to work properly, for Merlin’s sake. Remus’s jumper might have recovered from the levitating soup incident if she hadn’t insisted on cleaning it herself.

“Start over,” Tonks muttered, watching as the needles ripped out their handiwork and began again. “Knit one, pearl one - what the hell, just make a jumper. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

She pulled her knees up to her chest and craned her neck to look at the slumbering figure on the couch. Remus was out like a log; when she and Kingsley had arrived at number twelve, Grimmauld Place that morning after a weeklong Auror assignment, she’d thought for one panicked moment that he was dead. People didn’t sleep that soundly. But after checking his pulse and nearly destroying the kitchen while trying to get a glass of water, she realized she was acting nutters again. He was just sleeping. She brought him a blanket, poked him repeatedly, then let him dream in peace.

After all, he was certainly entitled to a little rest. A quick look at the calendar had revealed that the full moon was yesterday, so Remus at least had a reason to be tired.

Tonks reached for the novel she’d been perusing (True Identity - a romantic tragedy complete with Polyjuice Potions and the Impervious Curse) and tried not to worry about her malfunctioning knitting needles. Worrying was Remus’s specialty, after all - cheery optimism being more of her thing. But she couldn’t help returning to the matter of how she was going to replace his ruined article of clothing. She hadn’t meant to damage the jumper; but her mum had taught her long ago that good intentions did not always guarantee successful endeavours. In fact, many times the phrase “I just want to help” created irrevocable chaos.

She merely wanted to apologise for her stupidity and lack of maturity. She’d had to leave for work shortly after the not-to-be-discussed-P.I.C.-related accident, and a seven-day sojourn in Inverness chasing an imaginary Rodolphus Lestrange had kept her away from headquarters for some time.

But the unsuccessful capture attempt had luckily given Tonks a brilliant plan to show Remus that she was sorry. She procured all the necessary items from the Burrow on her way home, and immediately set out to make Remus a new jumper. If Hermione could make hats and socks for house-elves then she, Nymphadora Isis Tonks, could knit a grown man’s sweater.

She looked back over her shoulder. If he hadn’t just turned his head, she would have mistaken Remus for dead again - she could barely tell he was breathing. Raising up her book, she flipped to Chapter 17 (“I only pretended to be the Minister of Magic because I loved you, Charlotte!”) and tried to ignore her knitting.

A loud crack sounded in front of her, and she dropped the novel, squealing. “Fred-or-George, I thought Mad-Eye told you to stop that!”

The Weasley twin smirked, fanning himself with the pile of letters he held in his left hand. “You’re just jealous. What am I supposed to do, Apparate in the hallway and have that hag on the wall insult my family?”

“Knock on the door!” Tonks said, checking to make sure Remus was still alive. “Or use common courtesy when Apparating. Like, don’t appear on top of or directly in front of people, or behind people, or in a way that gives others heart attacks…you could have woken him up!” she cried, pointing at the couch.

“Who? Oh, Lupin. He’s been there since eight o’clock. He’ll sleep through anything, except perhaps a life-threatening situation.”

Tonks glowered. “Well, Fred, I’m threatening yours.”

He smiled again. “George.”

“Whatever. Did you get the owl post?”

George sorted through the mail at a snail’s pace. “Yes, Ms. Obvious. Lunch break, dontcha know. When did you get back?”

“Around eleven. Kingsley’s trying to fix the mirror in the upstairs loo; it refused to show me my reflection.”

“Bellatrix the bitch’s husband still on the loose, then?” he asked, skimming through a magazine interestedly.

Tonks peered at the cover suspiciously. “Unfortunately. Although I don’t think he would have stayed for in Azkaban long again, anyway. Now that the dementors…” Her hair darkened, and her eyes widened as she recognized George’s reading material. “Naughty Bad Witches! George Weasley!”

He winked. “You sound like my mum.”

“Do you know what’s in that? George Weasley! I hope that’s not yours.”

George sighed, and shoved a broomstick catalogue in her face. “There’s a full-page ad for the Special Edition Firebolt on page fourteen.”

Tonks looked at the moving pictures, mesmerized, the inappropriate periodical temporarily forgotten. “Ooo! When’s my next paycheck? I’m still riding a Comet 260, but the latest Cleansweep looks nice - better turning, and a new fail-safe braking system.”

“Ron got one back in August, and it’s pretty swell. Can’t compare with Harry’s, though.”

She studied the foldout insert closely, cooing in delight. “Bill and Charlie wouldn’t let me join the Quidditch team - said a certain standard had to be upheld…and I’ve never fallen off a broom in my life! Columbine Parsons was a Chaser in my sixth year, and she had the worst accuracy, but since she was Charlie’s ‘current romantic interest’ no one ever told her how lousy she played. I would’ve made a grand Beater. Redheaded buggers…sorry, Fred.”

“George,” he corrected again, leaning against the coffee table, his eyes slowly scanning the room - then stopping as he spotted the armchair. “What the hell?”

“I’m knitting,” she stated, a little primly. “A jumper. For Remus. I ruined his old grey one.”

“You’re knitting!?”

Tonks put the catalogue down and exhaled noisily. “Didn’t I just say that? I dropped by the Burrow before coming here and got a few pointers from your mum. I keep forgetting the correct stitches; perhaps I should have written -”

“You’re knitting!?” George repeated, dumbfounded.

Tonks jumped to her feet rather suddenly, nearly slipping on the rug, and shot the twin a deadly glare. “What, I’m not allowed to do that? Am I banned from crafty activities now, too?”

“No, but…”

She attempted to stalk towards him, but collided with the chess set and crashed into the wall. “I see. I’m too clumsy to do something as simple as charm some needles, is that it?”

“No - Tonks, you’re being a bit…”

“UNREASONABLE?” she screamed. “WELL, I BLOODY DON’T CARE! I’M A BLOODY AUROR, AND I’LL DO WHATEVER I SODDING PLEASE!”

“Blood traitors - Mudbloods - defiling the place of my fathers!”

Tonks sprinted into the hallway, skidding to a halt before she collided with the portrait. George arrived right on her heels, and tugged on the left curtain that had five seconds before hid Mrs. Black.

“Good going, Tonks,” he whispered.

She grabbed the other curtain and yanked forcefully. The old woman in the picture continued to drool and wail, then the hangings snapped shut and Tonks head-butted George rather painfully.

“Ow.” He steadied her, rubbed his temples, then winked. “Sorry ‘bout that. See you at dinner.”

George stepped into the parlour and Disapparated, and Tonks staggered back to her chair slowly. She bent down to pick up the scattered pieces of mail, then straightened up and saw Remus staring groggily in her direction.

“Someone Apparate - picture - mail?” he croaked.

“George. I’m so sorry I woke you up - he was provoking me.” She separated the assortment of advertisements and bills and tossed a few envelopes at him. “D’you feel all right? I got you a blanket earlier - you looked a little cold.”

Remus sat up, blinking at his mail. His eyes gradually regained their usual level of alertness, but Tonks could tell that he was worn-out - he was in the middle of the couch, and still had the afghan pulled up to his chest. When he finally spoke, he sounded pretty close to his normal self; a little hoarse, but quite coherent. “You didn’t catch Rodolphus Lestrange.”

“Not even close. If I’d have known that I would be spending seven days hiding out in the woods of Scotland waiting for something that never happened, I would have stopped by Hogsmeade beforehand and bought some Chocolate Frogs.”

He smiled faintly. “Would you rather have been ambushed by a group of Death Eaters?”

“Well, at least then I would’ve had some excitement to alleviate the utter boredom.”

“Nothing more exhilarating than the chance of sudden death.”

Tonks reached for something to toss at him, recognized George’s abandoned copy of Naughty Bad Witches, and promptly shredded it. She shook the remaining letters at him menacingly. “Oi, watch yourself.

He threw away some junk mail and shook his head. “You’re such a sweet girl, Nymphadora. Bullying an exhausted werewolf. What new lows will you hit next?”

“What about you, Remus Lupin? Spouting dark, angstful thoughts and irking a Metamorphmagus.”

Remus tore open another envelope and sent her a look of mock indignation. “Tonks, there’s a difference between contemplation and angst. Have you learned anything from your time in the Order?”

“Hmmm…Molly Weasley on a bad day is a more terrifying enemy than You-Know-Who.” She looked at the knitting needles and snorted happily, clapping her hands. “Wotcher, Remus! It’s done!”

“What?” He frowned, glancing up from a bill to look at her perplexingly.

Tonks stomped forward, grabbed the yellow blob, and dropped next to him on the sofa. “I’m so sorry about, you know, that accident with the cup and soup - I shouldn’t have tried to do a cleaning spell while laughing; had no idea it’d set your jumper on fire - so I made you this.”

She pulled the needles off, muttered a simple severing charm, and handed him the completed jumper proudly. Remus took it cautiously, his mouth hanging open.

“Tonks, you didn’t have to do this - Merlin’s mother - it’s…um…yellow.”

She grinned. “Nice and bright and cheery, eh? You need to wear more colours. Grey isn’t a good shade for you.”

“I like grey,” he murmured absently, examining the jumper. “It’s certainly…good god.”

“What now?”

Remus turned the jumper slowly, and it began to dawn on her that something was missing - something wasn’t quite right -

“Bloody hell.” Tonks groaned. “I thought I was doing something wrong.”

“How can you forget the sleeves? They’re a rather essential part.”

“Oi, you try to knit with confusing directions from Molly and no previous experience, and I’ll see how well you do.”

Remus folded it carefully and placed it on the coffee table. “Thank you, Tonks. I’m sure it will make a lovely pillowcase…or something.”

She grabbed the broom catalogue and reopened it to the Firebolt ad. “Shut it. And you owe me now.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I do?”

“Yes. Sodding embarrassing, having one’s gift turn out to be horribly defective. So you’ll have to repay me somehow.”

“Tonks, that’s one of the worst non sequitors I’ve ever heard. Ex nihilo nihil fit.”

She leaned against his shoulder; he started to move to the other side of the couch, but gave up after she smacked him with her magazine. “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum. And if you say that’s fake Latin, I’ll hit you again.”

Remus smiled as his eyes dropped shut. “S’ok. What do I have to do in exchange for the obscenely bright tea cosy?”

“You’ll see,” Tonks said, kicking his discarded mail broodingly. “You will see.”


tbc