The Child's Memory

She remembers the warmth of the bathwater, and his warm, tough, tanned, calloused hands under the water, running the soft purple cloth over her tiny five-year-old body. She remembers her head underwater and being perfectly still, docile, letting him do whatever he wanted. He washed her and lifted her out, wrapping a towel around her like a pretty hula dancer's grass dress. She shakes her head and water droplets fall all over the floor. He laughs, unraveling the towel and drying her, roughly around her legs, now, she squirms and says "Ow." He dries her hair, her bum, then pulls on her pajamas, the baby blue ones with little pink-robed Quidditch players on them, fleece. She smiles, she likes these ones, and reaches for her ruggie, the pink one that Sirius gave her.

"All clean," he says cheerfully, giving her bum a pat. She races downstairs and back to her baby dolls.

She never mentions the touching to anyone, because she doesn't think it's bad. And once she learns that it's bad, she never mentions it because it's something Remus does and she likes Remus. She does not want him to go away.

She will wait all week until Saturday, when her mum and dad go out and Remus comes. Then she will wrestle, play, and giggle her way through until seven, bath time, when she suddenly becomes very quiet, mute and docile, her tummy begins to turn and jump, and her face feels hot. He will touch her again, no doubt, just a brief fleeting touch down between her legs, in a place she never knew existed. Then it will be over and he will lift her out and dry her, another brief touch, and then it will be over, her tummy ache goes away and her head feels cool again. Then she can go play. Remus is fun again.

The touches continue for many more Saturdays, until Remus is helping her wipe after she uses the toilet and he notices a large, wet, brownish spot in her pajamas. Blood. Then the touches stop, and the tummy aches and fevers disappear and Remus is always fun.

Nymphadora Tonks, twenty-three years old, sit in her office in silence. That couldn't possibly have happened, she thinks. Remus used to come on Saturdays, yes, he gave her a bath, but no, he never touched her. Not there. Or at least he didn't in her recognition.

She still loves Remus, then, eighteen years later. And Remus loves her and he touches her, but she knows it is not bad, she knows that it is very, very good. Remus does not give her baths anymore. He, on occasion, takes a bath with her, but he no longer sits on the edge of the tub while she lies amongst bubbles, no longer sings to her a silly wash-up song about a pink-haired girl. No longer dries her off, puts her in her pajamas and pats her bum. She is an adult now.

She spends the rest of the afternoon trying to recall him ever touching her. She is forcing the idea out of her mind. Remus is a good man. He would never abuse a child sexually. Especially her. He loved her. He even said so.

Remus Lupin, thirty-eight years old, has spent his entire life regretting what he has done. What he had done. He recalls the blood in the crotch of her pajamas and recalls it as the moment he stopped. He does not know why he did it to her in the first place, because she was young and vulnerable and would never tell, because she liked him.

He makes a promise to himself to tell her, tell her what he has done to her. He realises she will be angry but knows that he must do it, to save their relationship, to save him from the endless guilt.

He will tell her as soon as she returns home from work. He has three hours.