Reduction

February

She kissed him on New Year's Eve. He kissed her in the frozen foods section of a supermarket. They made love awkwardly the first time, old bones and young limbs struggling to find a rhythm that matched. Eventually, they did, and by July, when he left, they had perfected about a half-dozen positions.

In November, he told her this was all rubbish, and that he couldn't go on trying to have a relationship with her that just wasn't working for him. She didn't want to tell him that, technically, they weren't in a relationship since he left for the werewolves. Yes, they had sex a few times and yes, allegedly they cared for each other, but relationship? No, not really, not with death breathing down their necks. They had to be practical.

Or, rather, they tried to be practical. She tried to shut it all up, push it all out, focus on the tasks at hand, but she'd come to the Burrow for dinner and they'd hold hands under the table, and kiss in the garden and sometimes he'd stop by her flat in London to take a shower and she's slip in, hands on his waist tracing the path of the water trickling down his hip, tasting shampoo on hips lips and feeling the individual tiles pressed into her back while he kissed his way down her throat. But it wasn't a relationship, they would say, it was just mutual care and affection.

So it was news to her to hear that he considered this still a relationship, and that he was dumping her, and so she asked if he was gay (no) or interested in someone else (again, no) or mourning Sirius (good heavens no - what was Dung feeding her?) so what was the deal?

"You're too young for me," he said finally. "You're far too young, and too foolish. I can't be bothered with this lunacy anymore, not when there's a war going on."

She wanted to say we already discussed this and I have no idea what you're getting at but she bit her lip like she always did, and nodded. She felt weak and slow, and cried on Molly's shoulder for an hour before Molly sent her upstairs to sleep.

That was the only explanation she got, and it was the first time she was ever told she was too young for anything. She may be clumsy, but she's very serious and bright, and took all the N.E.W.T. level classes she could. She knows it's a lie, but she doesn't know what the truth is, and so she avoids him like the plague, skipping dinners at the Burrow and crumbling letters he sends on occasion. She's not sure if she's too proud to ask for other explanations, or afraid at what they could be.

She's relieved, though, that the rumours about him and Sirius at Hogwarts are false. That was a bit creepy, actually.

...

She hates St. Valentine's Day with a passion, has hated it ever since Charlie Weasley broke up with her in fifth year by snogging that Ravenclaw cow Matilda right in front of her. She spilled pumpkin juice down the back of his jumper, and with her friends (who did not like Charlie anymore) charmed his mattress to be freezing-cold. Flitwick himself had to get rid of it (this was a testament to their inexperience and bungling of charms, not the competency of it).

Molly invited her over to the Burrow so she wouldn't be alone, and she thought about not going, but Kingsley twisted her arm and threatened to make her go in a petrified state. He had stopped by after work the day before and had not like what he had seen, apparently (being a metamorphmagus did not mean that she could keep weight on when she wasn't hungry some days).

"It'll be good for you to get out and have a decent meal," he said.

"Bill and Fleur will be disgusting and with the current state of my life, I'd rather not be around a disgusting couple," she had argued.

"Moody's coming, and if Mad-Eye Moody doesn't kill a mood, I don't know what does," Kingsley said with a smile.

So she's sitting in the Burrow, taking small bites of Molly's excellent stew. She's grateful to have something decent to eat, as she can't cook and neither can the others, and take-away is getting boring. It's also nice to see people other than the Aurors she works with, even if Bill and Fleur are being revolting despite Moody and his creepy eye.

"How's Hogsmeade, Tonks?" Arthur asks, and she swallows her last bite.

"Could be worse," she tells him. "The Dementors usually stick to the perimeter, but with all the Valentine's Day nonsense, they're lurking closer and closer and we've had a couple run-ins with them this week. Thankfully, though, there's been no dark activity of late, so it's getting a bit boring at times."

"Boredom leads to lack of responsibility," Moody points out, launching into a lecture on constant vigilance which she's heard before. Kingsley talks about his work with the Muggle Prime Minister, and Tonks sits back in her chair, full and happy. When Bill makes a joke about goblins and Americans, she smiles, the first real smile she thinks she's had in months. It's nice to be around family, what she considers the Burrow to be.

"Have you heard from Lupin lately, Molly?" Kingsley asks, and she feels the smile fade as a chill runs down her back and her stomach freezes. She feels like she's frozen on the spot, unable to move her limbs as Molly says no, not recently though she invited him for dinner on Saturday, everyone is coming, right?

Tonks shakes her head, because she's got duty that night and while Molly pleads for her to come, and Kingsley looks at her like he knows something's up, she excuses herself. She needs a stiff drink and a smoke and a good cry but she only gets a cry because she's out of liquor and cloves and is too tired to go get anymore.

She thinks all of this is bullshit, dying at the mere mention of a name. She thought she was bigger than this, better than this, but maybe she's not. Maybe she's in love with him, or maybe she misses him, or maybe it's both. Lately she's been wondering if their definitions of relationship were different. Where she saw affection and devotion and maybe love, he saw sexual satisfaction and companionship.

It's easier to be angry over being used than it is to be angry over never being loved. At least, it's easier to focus all of your anger on being nothing more than a toy than not being enough for someone.

...

If the Order didn't know they were romantically involved, they at least knew they were sleeping together. Grimmauld Place was not that large, Molly and Sirius too meddling for things like Nymphadora Tonks sleeping in Remus Lupin's room to go unnoticed. For the most part, they did not speak about it, and Dumbledore did nothing to dissuade them. Snape would smirk a bit more, but that was the most of it.

Of course, when it happened to go on for more than a few days, or weeks, and turned into several months, Molly would slyly insinuate things like marriage and family to Remus, and Tonks would watch his face pale and wonder if it was just sex, just feeling something when you felt nothing most of the time.

Kinglsey asked her one day if she cared about Remus, or if it was just physical. She knew herself that it had taken Remus months to get up the courage to show any signs of intimacy with her, let alone kiss her, and so she told him that it was a relationship, and that she did care about Remus. She did, more than she ever expected, because there was something about him that made her feel comfortable, like your favorite jumper or pair of jeans.

It was a horrible analogy, but the most she could work out of it was that she felt like Tonks when she was around him. She felt comfortable in her skin when she was with him, and that was very important for someone who could be anyone and anything. Sad thing is, though, she thought it worked for him that way, but really, it didn't.

It's more obvious in retrospect, hindsight is twenty-twenty, clichés are for the rich and unimaginative, and Nymphadora Tonks can't help but think that love to something that everyone wants but not everyone will have. That's cliché too, but sometimes, she thinks, that's the state of her life. She'll die alone with four score and twenty cats and fourteen hand-knitted afghans, reeking of gin and chamomile tea. If she survives this war, at least.

...

"Can I bum one?"

Rowena Proudfoot is standing next to Tonks, stomping her feet and rubbing her arms to warm up. Tonks takes a clove out of the pack and passes it to her, leaning forward to light the cig with hers.

"Ta," Rowena says, and she looks out over Hogsmeade. The sun is going down, and spreading rays of red and pink and orange over the village. They can see Hogwarts from here, and as Tonks exhales her breath comes out in a smoky trail drifting over the castle, or so it seems.

"Fucking freezing," she says. "I could use a drink."

They gravitate to the Three Broomsticks, talking as much as they usually do. Tonks doesn't know Rowena well, as she was a couple years ahead of her at Hogwarts and in Hufflepuff, if she remembers correctly. They live in the same house, but its polite conversation most of the time, the kind that comes with sharing utensils and household chores.

They slide into a booth in the back and order some firewhisky and Rosmerta brings it to them. They won't be charged for it, she tells them, because she knows it's hard these days. Soldiers in the line of duty and all, Tonks thinks. Free alcohol, and maybe free food. Free housing. Moderate income. During the World Wars, she remembers hearing, women threw themselves at soldiers. Too bad men aren't doing the same for female Aurors. She's tells this to Rowena, who laughs and says "Fucking right."

Rowena launches into a story about a fellow Ministry worker who she's been seeing - "shagging, more like it" - who hasn't flooed her in a while. She has a rough time with men because being an Auror automatically seems to make you less feminine or something, and she comments on Tonks' mopey behavior and the absence of her multi-hued hair.

"'re moonin' over someone," she points out, and Tonks says, "I hate that word, it's fucking trite."

They're at three drinks each by now, all of them big glasses and straight shots, and she's feeling talkative, so Tonks says, "My cousin - on my dad's side, right? - he 'ad this friend of his, a schoolmate, an' he's older than me, m'cousin, an' so I met him at this family gathering, and we just clicked - me an' the friend, not me and the cousin 'cos that would be gross."

She's amazed at how easily her tongue slides around this story, this exaggeration of the truth. It even tastes right. "An' I really liked 'm. But he was...not so convinced that datin' someone younger than 'm was a good idea. Real introvert, really bookwormish. But I lov-liked him, a lot. And we ended up dating, then he broke up w'me a month or two back, fucking prat."

"Here here!" Rowena agrees, lifting her glass in salute. She's a bit sloshed to, and teeters slightly. Some of her drink spills out and lands on the table. "Men are such shits, but so damn hot too."

"Yeah," Tonks says wistfully. "He was pretty hot. An' good in bed. Goddamn." She slides down in the booth. "Man made me go weak in the knees by just lookin' at me like he wanted me, right then an' there." She closes her eyes. "Fucking prat."

"I dated this guy who was all about shaggin' in public," Rowena confides with a whisper, and starts to talk about how she got caught with her pants down in a park by a Muggle police-officer and how there were dogs and a botched Oblivate charm involved. Tonks listens, eyes still closed, head nodding slightly.

She misses the sex as much as she misses him, and she misses him more than the sex. The bitter taste in her mouth from the alcohol mixes with the bitter taste from her story, and she remembers tonight he'll be at the Burrow, eating with the Weasleys. She wonders if she approached him, asked him for a favor, if he would oblige. Not much, just a good shag when she's drunk so she can wake up the next morning smelling like him. She'll be hung-over too, and so she'll be hating whisky more than him which makes all of it sound like a good idea.

It would work, she thinks, 'cept for when he refuses because sex is just sex and he probably...well, she's not even going to get into what he wants. She doesn't know.

"Rowena," she says, "if I say somethin' stupid, like 'm going to Molly's after this, smack me aroun' a bit. Cos the ex is there, an' a drunk-fuck would suck."

Rowena giggles, but nods solemnly. "O'course. But I think ya might be exaggeratin'."

"Yeah," Tonks thinks. "But still wouldn't be a good idea, ya know?"

Rowena nods. "We need t'go out an' drink more often, love."

It's her turn to nod, and she does. It's nice to not be alone, to know someone else is having a shit time with men. "Right," she says, "Should do this again sometime."