Patchwork Robe

When you met Remus Lupin, the first thing you noticed was his robe.

It was old and falling apart, so shabby that you could see every patch with its strained seams. Almost as if the whole robe was nothing but patches. Different colors, hardly any of them matched the original material of the robe, a dull brown.

Somehow, the robe itself made him look older, more wearied, the creases an extension of the lines around his eyes. The sleeves covered his hands, only his fingertips showed, and you could see that its length was crooked when he stood, obviously having been hemmed awkwardly.

When he extended his hand to you, you could see that the ends of the sleeves were fraying. A bit of it was burned, the singed threads scratching against the skin of your hand as you took his. The material was coarse, like sack cloth, and for a second you were reminded of home, with its sacks of potatoes in the corner of the kitchen, and the soft smell of freshly laundered cloth hanging off him.

They say, clothes make the man.

Didn't say much on his behalf, did it, then?

Only, though, it spoke volumes, for those who cared to look. For you, it said a lot. It said more than the tired expression on his face, it told you more than what his cautious, tight-lipped smile did. Of course, you'd heard about his… abnormality… although you were so careful not to let your curiosity show. But now you were even more aware of it, the tears in the robe so carefully patched, only to be torn apart again. And again. You could almost imagine him, sitting there, watching the candle and then the curtain, the sounds of ripping fabric as his body changed its shape, and later, a bright steel needle flashing between callused fingers as he mended the robe.

How many times had he pricked himself with that needle, how many times did the moon destroy what he had so carefully put back together?

*

There were the times when you would steal up to his room, under some pretense, like Kreacher had hidden your shoes, even though you knew very well you had stashed them away yourself at the bottom of your trunk. You knew that he left the door unlocked, because there wasn't much in there anyway and he honestly couldn't care if anything of his went missing. You would creep slowly across to the cupboard, your steps measured, and slide the door back, watching that it didn't squeak too loudly.

The robe would always be hanging there, the first hanger on the left, its patches even more obvious in the little light that got into the room. It was set apart from the other clothes, hanging alone in its own side of the cupboard, drooping ever so slightly, almost as if it actually knew that come the full moon, and it would again be ripped apart, just like its owner would be.

Each patch told a story, every hole that he had tried to cover. Everything that he tried so hard to do, but couldn't, because he was forced to wear the stigma that came with being a werewolf, just as he couldn't help but wearing this robe. Just trying, again and again, just patching the tattered robe, over and over, because he couldn't buy a new one and would never ask anyone else to.

Most of the time, you only looked at it and wondered about how it must feel to be Remus, one eye on the door and one ear listening because there was no way you'd let anyone know what you were really in here for. As soon as the floorboard outside his room creaked, you'd slam the cupboard shut and drop to the floor, pretending to be hunting for your supposedly lost shoes.

Even if you weren't the best actress, at least it saved you embarrassment.

*

Why were you so fascinated by his robe? You could hardly tell. Maybe it was just the way it looked, all fraying seams and holes, maybe it was the way it just reminded you of home. There wasn't much you had that could remind you, and most of the time, it hurt to think of your home-that-wasn't.

For you knew, as well as anyone else did, your home only existed in your memories, memories that were filled with girlish laughter and odd socks and wizard photographs of relatives you'd never know. The home you had known had been blasted away, along with pretty much everything you'd ever owned, and pretty much everyone you had ever known. Everything that you ever held dear, all gone in a fire that some muggle authority blamed on a faulty gas stove, and some wizard authority blamed on a faulty wand.

Everything, gone… because someone wanted to get you. That's why you had to stick around here…

There wasn't anywhere else for you to go. There wasn't anything that you could hold on to that would make you feel that you had found the place where you belonged, there was nowhere you could call home.

Maybe that's why you would sneak up to his room, and stand in front of his cupboard, just inhaling the scent that came from the old and worn fabric, that freshly-washed smell of clothes just from the dryer, just staring at the patches and remembering your mother, patching your own robe when you'd tripped and torn a large hole in the side. Letting yourself remember and for a minute, wishing that you could have held on and somehow, stopped it from happening.

Wishing that for once, there would be someone to hold you because you're not sure that you can ignore that horrible feeling in your stomach when you think of what happened for much longer.

*

Today's different. You came up here, and this time, you're really looking for your shoes because, guess what? Kreacher really has gone off with them. You've searched all over the house, gone everywhere, even into Sirius's mother's bedroom, even though you always avoided that place if you could. Buckbeak isn't exactly your favorite creature.

You've searched all over, except in Remus's room. You aren't sure that you want to, anyway; just last week he had walked in while you had been in there, and for you to admit that you're looking for the same pair of lost shoes again would be highly mortifying. But you've looked everywhere else, even in Kreacher's little nook near the boiler, and there isn't anywhere else left to search.

Thank goodness that he always leaves the door open, and that he isn't there. Pushing the door open, you look around the place, knowing full well that if they are here, there isn't much place to hide them. Just under the bed or in the cupboard. And since they're obviously not under the bed, not even in that little corner near the wall that you had to actually crawl under the bed to look into, they have to be in the cupboard.

Today, you hesitate before opening the cupboard. Usually, you don't, but for some reason, you're not sure if you should open it or not. On one hand, you have a valid reason this time, so what's your problem? But on the other, you highly doubt that even Kreacher would hide your shoes in this particular cupboard. Still, no harm in looking, right?

The door slides to the side easily. Usually it sticks. Maybe Remus actually got around to oiling it. A plus for you, since you don't have to worry about the squeak betraying you this time.

As soon as you open it, you see the robe hanging there, in all its patchwork glory… and nothing else. Not even his regular clothes are there, let alone the shoes you were looking for. Just the robe, and nowhere else for you to look so that you can avoid it. It's almost as if it was waiting for you to come and visit today, the way it hangs there, the solitary item in the cupboard, even more shabby than when you had last seen it.

Then again, the full moon was just three days ago, and even now you can see a few places where the material is ripped, places that he hasn't mended yet.

Before you know what you're doing, you've reached into the darkness of the cupboard and pulled the robe off the hanger. The material is even more coarse than you had imagined it to be; it's rough under your fingers and over your arms as you pull it on over your own clothes, the jeans and t-shirt you had carelessly thrown on in the morning.

It's even bigger on you than it is on him; your hands disappear completely into the sleeves, and it trails on the floor. You fasten the buttons in the front, taking your time, inhaling that scent you love so much, looking at all the patches, feeling all the emotions in you welling up involuntarily, so much that you have to close your eyes to try and force them back down like you always do. Even when you're alone, your façade doesn't slip. You're fun, cheerful and happy-go-lucky Tonks, and you're determined not to transform into a sniffling, unhappy little girl in a borrowed robe who just can't help being homesick for a home that doesn't exist anymore.

"Looking for something, Tonks?"

You turn around, slowly, knowing that he's standing behind you, knowing full well that you must look a sight, wearing his robe and your face screwed up like you're going to burst into tears. He's holding up your shoes, and his eyes are crinkled up in amusement. For some reason, this only upsets you more; you don't care about your shoes because suddenly, there's this ache inside of you, a powerful pain that you refused to recognize till now. Now, the only thing that matters is the smell of a robe that's just been washed and potato sacks in a little kitchen and a little girl playing hide and seek behind them.

All you want is to find a place where you belong.

"I… Remus…" you know that your own voice sounds stupid as you look at the floor, willing yourself not to slip in front of him, not to let go and just sit on the weathered wood and cry for a lost home, but you can hear your own voice shake and the raw feeling in your throat rises so that you can't trust yourself to speak. All you can do is just look at him, watch the smile slip from his face as he strides towards you, his eyes echoing the concern in his movements.

He doesn't say anything; you're thankful for that, because you're not sure what you would do if he did, but instead he wraps his arms around you, a warm hug, and you bury your face in his shirt. He's wearing muggle clothes today, but even then, there's that unmistakable scent, and it's all you can do to force back your tears. It's painful and comforting at the same time, because you can close your eyes and pretend that you've finally found it, you've found your place. He strokes your hair and you can feel the soothing warmth of him against you, and he murmurs into your hair, a murmur that makes you smile against the stinging in your eyes.

Without really drawing away, you look up at him, only to see him looking right down at you. You can feel your cheeks heating up, because this was definitely not what you had planned, but at the same time, you can't make yourself break away from him. There's so much you can tell about him from the feeling of his robes against your skin, from the way that he looks down at you with sober eyes and a lined face.

Maybe it wasn't just his robe that drew you here; there's an aura about him that you can physically feel now, an aura of comfort that envelopes you as you hide your face again and think of all the times that you wondered where you belonged now.

There's a place where you belong, Tonks, a place that you've been looking for. Maybe you have found it.

There's an old clichéd saying that your mother had insisted on hanging on the wall of her bedroom. Home is where the heart is.

Maybe your heart just belongs to a werewolf. Maybe your heart is tied up in comforting murmurings and the feeling of being held, and in him always knowing but never saying a word because you needed the silence.

Maybe your heart is tied up… in an old patchwork robe.

*fin*