Metamorphosis

    The sky was dark, the night silent and serene. Not a star above could be seen for miles, as if they had chosen not to appear or had somehow been snuffed out by the very ominous tension that hung in the air. The inadequate light provided by a cloud-covered moon did little to illuminate the obscurity, and the last lit street lamp at the end of the filthy and besieged Grimmauld Place added to the gloom by flickering twice before going out like it’s predecessors.

    Inside Number 12 sat a young woman, quill poised over parchment, full lips parted slightly and brows knitted in an expression of anguish. The desk before her was aged, its wood worn and scratched. The room which she occupied was furnished and decorated in an unusual macabre elegance. Each of the sofas was dressed in a rich emerald velvet, the tables stained a tasteful mahogany. On the threadbare carpet rested an ornately woven, imported rug of a similar emerald, accented in black and gold. Opposite it, hanging from the vaulted ceiling, was a golden serpent-shaped, cobwebby candelabra. Upon entering this room, one would find themselves taking it in with wide eyed apprehension or disbelief. This particular young woman, however, was quite used to its morbid ambiance.

    She ran a her tongue over her lips, scratching out a line of looping text from the parchment and dipping her quill into the well of ink to her right. She then continued writing, pausing every now and again to sigh or contemplate her next words. Before long, she had finished, and she folded the parchment, scrawling a name or two on the front. Pushing her long raven black hair from her heart-shaped face, she reached into a drawer to pull out a stamp and impress a seal onto her letter.

    “Tonks,” someone whispered from behind her. Letting out an alarmed yelp, she screwed up her face to return her hair to its normal short, bubble gum pink state, got to her feet in auror-trained time, and spun to face whomever it was that had addressed her. In the process, she had knocked the ink well with her arm, which went sliding into the single candle that had provided light in the otherwise pitch dark room, and both toppled to the floor with a crash. She cringed, and without turning around was sure that the crimson ink was now pooling where it had fallen.

    “Oh,” she said quietly, distressed, looking up to see Remus Lupin standing in the doorway. “It’s only you.”

    “It’s only me,” he confirmed, continuing in his soft tone. He was clad in shabby gray wizard’s robes, which matched the several gray hairs on his head that were far too many for his age. His mouth was set in a small frown, and his arms were crossed over his chest. If nothing else, he looked thoroughly exhausted.

    “I- I was just…” Her disturbance quickly faded away, changing back to her normal chipper persona. “I was just sodding things up, as usual!” She flashed him a smile of small white teeth and pivoted to drop to her knees by the slowly spreading ink. “My wand is upstairs, so I suppose I’ll have to do this the muggle way. Would you mind fetching me a rag?”

    She waited silently, expecting his footfalls to travel in the direction of the kitchen, but they, instead, drew closer to her until they stopped by her side. “Here,” he said, “Let me.” He pulled out his wand and pointed it at the ink. “Scourgify.” It disappeared instantly, and the ink well and candle righted themselves as well.

    “Thank you.” Rising to her feet, she followed his gaze to where her letter still sat on the desk.

    “You’re writing to his parents,” he said simply. His tone was laced with grief and fatigue, but his suppressive experience only allowed it to emerge in the slightest amount.

    “I am.” If he was going to be vague with her, she’d do the same for him, and, if he was going to insist upon acting as though they hadn’t known each other for almost a year, she would concede. It pained her, of course, but Nymphadora Tonks was not one to show emotion regularly.

    “I wonder if it wouldn’t be a fruitless attempt at propriety.” She forced herself to meet his eyes, their sallow, sunken appearance constricting her chest with pity. The way he looked at her with the determined formality he often possessed, she began to question herself concerning their association. After all, it had been so long since the first time they had met, yet she couldn’t once remember either of them ever sharing anything but occupational exchanges. And now, even with circumstances being what they were, the most he had come up with was to question her intentions.

    “Doesn’t it bother you?” she asked, voicing her mental concerns.

    He continued on, clearly pretending she had not spoken. “You can’t expect a response, and remorse would be beyond people of their mindset.”

    It was funny, really, and she almost laughed out loud. Remus was right, she certainly shouldn’t have expected a response. However, she was far too engaged in the moment not to persist. “Don’t be a stranger, Remus.”

    “I think it quite unwise to…come again?” He cocked his head ever so slightly in confusion.

    “You heard me,” she countered, bluntly, not quite sure if he really had through his would-be sermon, but it was the best she could come up with. “We’ve known each other for over a year now, yet you clearly don’t think of me at all the way I think of you.” Her voice rose with exasperation. “We’re partners, Remus, not strangers. I’m not an amateur, and I’m not a child who needs your coddling and preaching. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me like I’m fighting the exact same war as everyone else!” She slammed her hand down forcedly on the desk, and the candle leaned to fall once again, but she caught it- thanks largely in part to skilled reflexes- and slammed it down in much the same manner.

    “Tonks, you’re tired…you need to rest.”

    “I’m tired? I need to rest? Ha!”

    “You haven’t slept in almost three days.” His face began to color with anger, and she had a feeling hers was even more so. Her pale face had always had a habit of reddening when upset. By now, she probably resembled something like a tomato, but fortunately for her, he could not see, for after its drop, the candle had not been relit.

    “He was a good man. He was so brave, so righteous…but stupid. So stupid. And look where it landed him. If only he’d been more careful, if only he would’ve listened…then maybe he would have lived…”

    Tonks choked back another rising sob, wiped a falling tear with the back of her trembling hand, and turned to face the window. Through the half-drawn curtains, she could make out the moon as the clouds drifted away, and she produced a noise of understanding. “The moon,” she stated, turning only her head to find that he had crossed back over to the doorway and was standing in it, somewhat besieged. As if feeling her gaze on him, he ran a hand through his hair.

    It wouldn’t be long, three days at the most, perhaps, before he spent his monthly night as something far from human. She had thought it had simply been the strain caused by the last few days and all that had happened, such keeping her from paying real attention, but in reality he was being haunted by what was truly the curse of his very existence. The thought of it made her problems seem so trivial, even through it all.

    She took in a deep breath, mentally reprimanded herself for letting go like she had, and briskly strode past Remus and out into the hall. He put out an arm to stop her, but she lifted it over her head and ducked around him.

    “You’re right, Remus, I’m going to bed.” All emotion had left her, and now her tone held no feeling at all, just bitter bluntness. Remus winced, as if it had collided with him like a well-aimed blow. The look on his face said everything. She had behaved childishly, pointed her finger at him in confrontation, and now the only thing she could do was walk away and avoid the very thing she had brought upon herself.

    This, she thought as she climbed the stairs, was the very reason why her emotions fared better for everyone inside of her, to be let out solitarily when they could be inflicted on the punching bag that hung from the ceiling of her temporarily-abandoned flat, or her pillow, when nothing more suitable could be found. Anything that was alive and had a mind of its own was not fitting, for it could retaliate to her disorderly actions in the most wicked of ways. And with Remus, this was simply to be indifferent at no end.

    When she reached her second-floor bedroom, the one which Harry Potter and Ron Weasley would soon be re-occupying when they came to finish the rest of their fifth-year summer at Number 12, she collapsed into bed, still clad in her typical grunge-wear, army boots and all. Letting out a low groan, she buried her face in her pillow and slowly, fitfully, drifted to sleep.