Pretending

Pretending-

When you hear the soft pop! behind you, you turn around to see Remus standing a few paces away. He is dressed in what you recognize as his second best set of robes, the ones that only have a couple of patches at each elbow and aren't too threadbare, and his hair is neatly brushed. The strands of silver that run through the brown seem to stand out even more in the light, but if anything, you think they make him look... dignified.

You hesitate to use the world old, but yes, that too. His demeanor, however, is anything but old; he wears a bemused expression, the corners of his lips twitching slightly in a smile while the lines around his eyes deepen. You can tell that the object of his amusement is yourself, in your casual shorts and faded t-shirt; you can tell that he is slightly nervous but at the same time, relieved.

'You never told me there was a dress code!' he says accusatorily, but his voice is soft and his tone is more playful than harsh.

'There isn't one,' you respond. Now that he's closer, you can see how the gray in his hair is starting to overshadow the brown, how the lines around his eyes snake out, how his face is like that of a boy who has been forced to grow up so fast that age has settled permanently on his features without really being welcome there.

You're so busy staring at his face that you almost miss the bouquet he carries, half-hidden behind his back. When you do see it, though, it's all you can do to stifle your laughter, because now he resembles nothing more than a shy school boy.

'Flowers, Remus?'

He laughs, soft chuckles that are almost lost in the evening air.

'Unfortunately, I'm not the type of dinner guest who likes to come empty-handed,' he says sheepishly. 'I'm also not the kind of dinner guest who can afford much else, so...'

You snort derisively at his comment. 'Remus, it's just Sunday dinner. Besides... you know that my parents wouldn't care.'

'They don't... but I do,' he says stubbornly, toying with the ribbon tying the bouquet together. You bite your lip as you watch him, suddenly aware of how he holds himself rigidly, of the apprehension that is written all over his face.

When he looks up at you and catches you staring, you can't help but wonder if you don't look the same.

'What is it?' he asks, frowning.

'That's exactly what I was going to ask you,' you respond, cocking an eyebrow at him. 'Remus...'

Abruptly, he turns, spinning on his heel so that he now faces the door to the cottage. All the laughter seems to drain from his face as he contemplates the house apprehensively, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as he thinks. He gingerly touches a hand to his cheek out of habit.

'Sickle for your thoughts?'

He glances at you for a second, a small half-smile playing over his lips, but the shadows mangle his expression so you're not sure if you see it at all. Then it's back to staring at the cottage.

'It hasn't changed much. Your house, I mean.' A lame attempt to cover up what he's really thinking, probably, but you'll humor him. Just because.

'Houses tend to be on the... stable... side of things,' you answer, only half-joking. You hope he hasn't noticed the slight tremor in your voice on the word stable... it's a word you rarely use to describe anything, anymore.

'That, they do,' he says, and you know it's more to himself than to you. You sigh silently, comparing the image in your mind to what you see now. Of course, you come and go from here often; obviously your last memory of the place is more recent than his... you last stood here only six weeks ago, when you came to break the news-

No. Don't think about it. Don't think about him tonight, Tonks... there will be another day to reflect

.

You take a deep breath to try and clear your mind of the thoughts that you would rather ignore, instead forcing your trademark grin onto your face, even if no one can see it. You're thankful for the shadow that surrounds you, at least that way you don't feel so conspicuous- standing out here, grinning like an idiot even as you think you'll crumble if you have to hide much longer.

'This isn't about the house, is it?'

You only speak so that you have something else to do but focus on the annoying prickling that starts in your throat and ends up somewhere behind your eyes. He doesn't answer you, and you rack your brain for something else to say, something to carry the conversation along.

'How long has it been? I mean... since you last came here?' you ask Remus, trying to push away your own disgust at the sickeningly cheery voice you adopt or at the well-rehearsed, unfeeling sound of the words.

'Almost fifteen years,' he replies automatically.

'What happened fif- oh,' you stop, clapping a hand over your mouth as you see the slight grimace on his face, the flash of pain that crosses his eyes, unbidden, and you wish that right now, you could kick yourself. You can tell he had been waiting for you to ask that very question; you can tell that you've just gone and trampled over his emotions like the klutz that you are.

'Sorry.'

He waves his hand dismissively, a move you've seen him make a thousand times. 'It's okay,' he says, and even though you can hear the slight shake in his voice that tells you he's battling with something, his breathing uneasy, you take his word for it.

It's okay, Tonks. Just ignore everything, and it'll be okay

.

Remus still doesn't show any signs of moving, though, and his eyes are fixed on the door. 'Fifteen years,' he says hoarsely, 'it's been fifteen years since-'

You lay a finger on his lips to stop him from speaking. He breaks off and looks at you, the surprise in his expression turning into gentle understanding as you sigh.

'Please, Remus... you said we wouldn't... let's not think about it tonight,' you plead. 'Let's just... go in, and have dinner, and-'

'Pretend that nothing happened,' he finishes, giving you a humorless smile as he parrots your words back at you.

You'd like to think that it's just that easy, to pretend, but even you can't ignore the feeling of his breath, shaky against your fingers, or how his skin is cold as he reaches up to grasp your hand in both of his. You'd like to think it's just that easy, but you can't ignore the twisting in your stomach as he sighs.

You'd like to think it's just that easy, but you can't.

A noise from within the house distracts you and you smile faintly as you see a shadow at the kitchen window. Your mother's voice floats out, something about you being perpetually late, and you thankfully seize on the moment to break the silence.

'Well, we'd better get in, or my mother's probably going to send out a search party,' you quip, stepping back from him a bit too quickly. There is a twinge in your stomach as Remus gives your hand a faint squeeze, flashing you the briefest of smiles before you turn to ring the bell, and you know he's noticed your unease, your doubt, your unwillingness.

You know you're being selfish, that you're asking him to do the impossible, but...

If you let that thread of normalcy snap, you're not sure what might happen, and you're scared of finding out.

*

It's only after you've all sat down that you notice the extra place set at the table. It's directly opposite you, a space between your father and your mother, and you can't help but stare at it in surprise.

You hadn't known anyone else was coming.

You glance at you mother questioningly, but she is gazing at the empty chair next to her, wearing a look of rapt fascination. She nods, clucks her tongue and speaks in a low voice that no one can really hear; she waves her hands in the air animatedly as she laughs at some unknown joke.

When you look at your father, you can't help but see the pain in his eyes as he regards his wife. He is looking at her distractedly, wringing his hands in a way you've only seen him do once before- the night Sirius...

No. No.

A hand wraps itself around yours, and you feel Remus's rough fingers squeezing your knuckles tightly. You know that it's more of a comfort to you than to himself, and you appreciate the touch- but all the same, it reminds you of the reality of what you're seeing; you can be sure that this is no dream, as much as you'd like it to be.

'Well, why don't we get started? Ted, could you please pass the casserole?' she says, and you flinch a little, because this doesn't sound like your mother. She has an airy lilt to her voice, a soft look in her eyes and as she takes the dish from your father, she giggles in a way that makes your insides squirm with discomfort. She does not even glance around the table once before she begins doling out casserole onto the dish next to her.

Next to you, Remus tightens his grip on your hand, and you can hear the sharp breath he takes as your mother begins speaking again.

'You know, it's been so long since you came over... you should be here more often, Sirius,' she says, replacing the dish she's holding and reaching out for something else instead. 'Yes, yes, I know... Nymphadora's grown quite a bit since you last saw her. I rather wish that she hadn't been so impressed by you... she's all for the pranks and the mischief. I've never seen someone with such unladylike behavior in my life,' she chats away, a slight smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she plays with her fork.

You swallow and turn away from her. It hurts so much to even watch... it hurts to see her addressing the empty chair as if Sirius had been sitting in it, and hearing her answers to questions no one really asks. You let your attention wander over the room, over the table, heavy with food you have no appetite for; you let your eyes travel over your father's face.

He looks so old now... he looks like he's aged so many years since the last time you saw him. His forehead seems to be just one huge mass of creases as he watches your mother with his eyebrows raised; there is a certain evenness to his breath that makes it sound forced, unnatural. You can hear the faint hissing as the air passes through his clenched teeth, and his fingers drum on the table agitatedly.

When he looks up at you, he flashes you a small, sad smile that makes your heart weep.

'How long?' you mouth, taking a sideways glance at your mother, now pouring a glass of wine for the being in the empty chair that only she can see.

'Her?'

You roll your eyes. 'Yes. How long has she been like this?'

You father holds up six shaky fingers. Six. Six days, six months, six years....

Six weeks.

She's been like this since the day you Apparated here to tell her that Sirius was- that her cousin, your cousin was- six weeks since he...

No.

'Breathe, Tonks,' a gentle voice whispers to you, and you turn to look at Remus. His eyes are clouded, and he bites his lip in a way you've come to recognize. It means that he is steeling himself, that he is trying to control some fierce emotion that is pounding away inside his chest...

It means that he is trying not to let any unguarded feelings escape. He smiles at you wanly, but it is so hard to even look at him now... there is a tight, burning sensation blossoming somewhere in your chest and tugging away at you, forcing your attention back to where you don't want it to go.

Across the table, your mother stops her incessant chatter for a second; it is almost as if she has noticed for the first time that there are other people present at the table. She looks surprised; when she speaks, it is more familiar, more like the mother you have known and loved for all of your years. You're almost glad to hear the short, clipped tones... almost glad to hear your name as she speaks to you.

'Nymphadora! At least have the courtesy to serve our guests!'

You can't help but smile.

'Yes, mother,' you answer demurely, reaching out for the dish of food nearest you.

'Remus, you mustn't mind Nymphadora's complete lack of manners,' she says, her voice not quite stern, but still familiar enough for you to feel a little comforted.

'It's quite okay,' Remus answers mildly, 'I can serve myself.'

'Nonsense!' Again, she glances to her right, and lets out a short laugh. 'Yes, Sirius, I'm sure, I'm sure.'

And the little illusion of normalcy that remains is broken, completely shattered, like the plate you drop to the floor. Your mother doesn't even notice the loud crash; she continues to talk with the chair as you flinch from the sound. You wince at the sensation of tiny pinpricks against your calf as a few slivers of china bury themselves in your leg. It is painful, yes, but it is nothing compared with the constriction you feel in your chest. It's almost as if you can't breathe, and it takes a huge effort for you to turn your eyes away from her as you excuse yourself from the table to go and attend to your injured leg.

In the little bathroom off the dining room, you can hear her voice. You lean yourself against the cooling white tiles and examine your leg; your hand is shaking as you pull out your wand from your back pocket. You think that it's just in your head that you can hear her voice, hear her saying something in the soft tones that she adopts whenever she says something concerning Sirius, but that's not possible.

She's still speaking to him as if he's really there.

From beyond the bathroom door you can hear the clinking of cutlery as people eat; you can hear your father posing a question to Remus and the soft sound of an answer you don't quite catch. You strain your ears to hear every sound that makes its way to you, in the hope that it will drown out your mother's voice.

No such luck.

Cursing, you quickly cast a charm on your leg to remove any residue remaining in the cuts; they bleed even more and you grit your teeth as you try to maintain your balance and heal them at the same time. The burn from the wounds is nothing, though, to you... you cringe because your mother just laughed, not because the cuts sting; you have to throw your head back and clench your fists when she speaks again because it feels as if your throat is on fire. The tiny irritations of the cuts on your leg almost pale when compared with the prickling behind your eyes.

This is going to be a very long evening.

Quickly, you clean up; the skin bears no blemishes, no trace of the wounds as you pocket your wand again and take a deep steadying breath. Healing spells are a great thing, especially for you, but...

You'd rather know a spell that could heal a broken heart and a denying mind, right about now.

Back in the dining room, almost nothing has even remotely changed from the way you left it. Your father toys with the food on his plate, pushing it around with a fork as he glances up ever so often at your mother. You can see the lethargy in his movements, the worry and the unhappiness that is reflected openly in his face. Remus has his back to you but you can see that he merely picks at his food; his whole body is stiff, straight-backed in the chair, his arm moving in a way that is almost robotic. The sight of all the food makes you want to throw up; the scent of everything is overpowering as you taste the bitter bile on your tongue. You force yourself to walk to the table, and you rest your hands on the back of the chair, curling your fingers around the wood, but even when your father motions to your plate silently, you don't sit down.

You can't sit down, not while her voice is ringing over you, filling the dreaded silences; you can't eat while your mother is still talking to a plate of food and a glass of wine.

She pinches an invisible ear as she grins. 'Sirius!' she says in a scandalized tone. 'Not in front of Nymphadora!'

The image is too much for you to manage. You can barely see anything as you turn from the chair, a veil of tears descending upon your eyes and making everything blur in and out of existence around you. You're barely aware of the chair toppling to the floor noisily as you run, of the crash as you knock over a vase with your elbow as you pass it. Your father calls after you, but his voice is nothing more than a distant echo in your ears.

Run, Tonks... run

.

You have to get out of the house; it's too suffocating in there. The air feels so heavy and you can't force it into your lungs, you can't force it past the constriction in your chest. There is something, someone, crushing your heart, holding it and squeezing it so that it throbs dully, each beat bringing a fresh wave of almost physical pain that shoots through you, pain and hurt and unhappiness pulsing through your body, through your blood...

The balmy evening air hits you in the face as you throw open the door and run out. You couldn't care about the loud slam behind you as the door swings shut, or of the feeling of the grass as it skims against your skin. You feel hot, feverish even; you have no idea where you're going but you still run... you can't stop. The earth slides beneath your feet steadily, the grass bends as it is trampled underfoot and for a while, it is the only sound you can hear, the sound of your boots on the ground, a steady thumping.

Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud.

You slow down a little, moving into a jog rather than a run. At some point you began running up the hill outside your house and now you're halfway to the top. Your leg muscles cry out in protest as you will them to move.

Thud... Thud... Thud... Thud.

It's getting harder to move now... you grit your teeth, concentrate on the grass beneath your feet. Your heart beats out an erratic rhythm as you keep on moving, keep on climbing, trying to force everything out of your mind but the sound of your boots, echoing on the old hill.

Thud...

From the top of the hill you can see everything laid out before you. It's the same as always, something that hasn't changed since you were little. When you squint back in the direction you came from, you can see the lights twinkling in the windows of the little cottage; someone is passing from the dining room into the main hallway and you see a rough shape blocking out the light for a second.

A sudden weariness overtakes you. You look around, breathing heavily, and spy the old swing you used to play on as a child.

Still hanging from the same branch. Still there.

You approach it carefully, taking in its dilapidated state. The once-bright paint has flaked off in places; the remaining patches are dull and a far cry from the color it used to be. The rope is more frayed than you remember it being. For a second, you close your eyes and imagine it as it used to be, the bright red paint on the seat, the ropes smooth and thick. It would be so easy to pretend... if you could make the swing change back, could everything else?

When you open them again, it's still there, a worn and battered piece of wood hanging forlornly from the branch of a tree.

You reach out for the rope and curl your fingers around it, tugging. It seems strong enough, despite its appearance... you circle in front of the old swing, reaching back with your other hand and feeling the bits of rope scratching at your skin. Gingerly, you sit down, on edge; the branch creaks above you, dips, and then is still.

Someone calls for you, shouting from down below. You refuse to answer. You scuff your boots against the ground and rock yourself lightly, shivering as the breeze pats your skin. The crickets chirp, playing their twilight sonatas.

It's so much easier to just sit still and listen, isn't it? Just to sit and forget about everything else. Just forget about it all, about them all... forget about Sirius, or you'll go mad like your mother has...

Your heart is beating slower now, each pulse more in rhythm, steadying itself in the quiet. There are footsteps near you, shuffling softly in the grass, and the sound of shallow breathing.

'Tonks?'

You stare down at the ground, clutch the ropes tighter, feel them biting into your hands.

'Tonks, I know you're listening.'

You kick at the soil with your boots, digging the toes into the dirt. The haze is back in your eyes, unbidden, and when Remus sighs and slowly walks over so he's standing in front of you, you can barely see anything but a soggy, misshapen mass in the dim starlight.

'Tonks?' he asks again, but this time his voice is higher, more worried. Something claws its way up inside of you at the sound of his voice, something that makes you shudder as you choke back a sob and try furiously not to let the tears fall from your eyes. You can't help it, though, and even as the first hot tear splashes down your cheek you cover your face with your hands because there is no way you will allow Remus to see you cry, not now, not after all these weeks of just holding on and holding out and pretending...

He locks his fingers around your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face. The rope scratches at the inside of your elbows where you had hooked them. Your mother's voice babbles away in your brain and with each word, you want to scream, your misery grabbing at your heartstrings and giving them a good, rough twist.

'Tonks, it's okay, just-'

'No, it's not okay!' you explode, lashing out suddenly so that you hit Remus in the chest. His eyes go wide for a second as he stumbles backwards, his arms shooting out so that he keeps his balance, but just barely. Somehow, the sight of him standing there, staring at you, makes you furious, and you scream at him before you even know what you're doing.

'It is not okay, Remus, and it never will be! Haven't you seen her? She thinks she's bloody talking to Sirius! She's flipped! Crazy as a loon! She thinks he's still alive, damn it, and she talks to him... and she won't even snap out of it! And you... you say it'll all be okay, but it never is! Sirius is dead, my mother has lost her mind completely, and you have the nerve to say it's okay? It's never going to be okay, it's... never... he's never... coming... back... you don't... understand...' you choke out, and you don't know when you stood up, or when you started hitting out at Remus, but you pound your fists on his chest and there are trails of salty tears running down your face. You screw up your face to try and stop yourself from crying but you can't, and when you feel his arms wrap themselves around you, you lose it completely. A wail of misery escapes you; six weeks of feelings kept firmly locked down escaping as you sob into his robes, your hands falling limply to your sides.

You feel so weak now... you feel so frail, and so, so stupid... you know that it is not Remus's fault. You know that it is not really anyone's fault but...

For the very first time in a very long time, you're afraid. You're afraid that you're going to end up like your mother, unable to accept anything, and it is with a weary nod that you consent to Remus leading you back to sit on the swing. You still cling to him as he sets you down, your fingers clutching firmly at his robe, but you can't bear to look him in the face as he awkwardly kneels in front of you. His knees settle into the dirt and he covers your hands with his own, brushing his fingers across your knuckles in a semblance of comfort.

'Tonks,' he says softly, and reluctantly you let your eyes focus on his face. The heat rises in your cheeks, lapping over your skin. You suddenly feel so ashamed, you feel so vulnerable because your mask has slipped so much there is no use in trying to repair it now; there is no use in trying to pretend. He looks up at you steadily, his eyes bright in the darkness but surprisingly, he doesn't hide anything. He doesn't hide the hurt that reflects in the tired lines around his eyes; he doesn't hide the unhappiness that seems to well up out of nowhere, and just by looking at him, you feel the realization hit you with more force than a broomstick to the head.

He's probably the only person you know who's going to understand... he's the only person you know who's lost so much but still remains sane.

'I...' you begin, but then you stop, shake your head. You have no words left to apologize.

'It is okay, Tonks,' he says quietly, and you can see a flicker of caution in his eyes, a tension in his fingertips as he steadies himself. 'It's not all okay... nothing can ever be completely okay, but...' his voice trails off as a look of frustration creeps into his features. He lets go of your hands, runs his fingers through his hair and you slowly let go of the front of his robes. You hook your elbows around the ropes again, and he leans forwards so his arms rest on your knees and he looks up at you, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

'But we've still got to hope it will be,' you whisper, recalling something he said, a long time ago. He starts, just a little, then smiles sadly.

'Yes.'

You take in a deep breath. You can smell rain coming, rain and the well-worn scent of Remus's clothes; you can feel the tension in the air humming inside your mouth, inside your lungs, inside you.

'You don't really believe it, do you.' It's a statement, not a question, and you shake your head to answer him.

'It's... it's killing me, Remus,' you say softly, the raw quality of your voice apparent in the still night air. 'It's killing me to see her like this...'

Remus shakes his head and sighs. 'Sometimes... sometimes it's just... too hard to take,' he says slowly, looking away, and you wonder what he's seeing. He swallows heavily before speaking again, turning back to you. 'Andromeda doted on Sirius... and he adored her in turn. I don't know what your mother's told you, but... she and Sirius were promised to one another in marriage at one point. Old pureblood customs...'

You laugh, a cold, dry laugh that makes your throat hurt even more. 'She never told me, but Sirius did. Once. He was drunk, and it... kind of slipped.'

'The thing is... even after she ran off with Ted, in our third year, Sirius still... he practically worshipped her. He actually helped them to run away, you know, strangely enough... I guess she always felt closest to him after that. He told me about her getting blasted off the tapestry, about being disowned... he was the only person from her family she had left.'

For a second, he stops, and you can hear his breathing growing ragged; you stiffen, wondering, holding onto the ropes of the swing.

'When he went to Azkaban... it was awful. She kept on saying that she had lost him... I guess I can understand because... that's what I felt. But I was angry with him... I believed he was the spy, that he killed... them,' he sighs, the regret in his voice so obvious, 'and that kept me from losing it, or I'd have gone off the deep end myself, fifteen years ago. But Andromeda... your mother never believed it for a second, Tonks.'

'I remember,' you say, and you do; you remember the hours she spent, holed up in her room with her arms around her knees, repeating, 'he's innocent, he's innocent, he's innocent,' like a protective mantra. It scared you at the time, but you soon got used to it, and then, after a while, it stopped and you forgot. Until now.

'And now... when she got him back, when we all believed that he was back to stay... we lost him again,' he whispers, and you can feel the wet skin of his cheek against your knee. The dark doesn't betray him but his voice does, his voice and the tears that he's finally letting out after so many days of being strong. 'It's so hard to believe he's gone for good now... that I'm alone again,' he says, shifting, and there is something so needy in the way his arms wrap themselves around your legs, something of a child in the way he holds onto you, his body shaking and his head resting in your lap.

And now he's the vulnerable one. You wonder if anyone has ever heard what you've just heard, if anyone has ever been there to comfort him. If he's ever let himself go.

'I'm tired, Tonks,' he says, an admittance you know is so hard for him to make after years and years of surviving. His breath is warm against your skin, his muscles tense, his robes rough from all their days of wear and his cheeks damp. His voice cracks, and you know that he's finally reached his breaking point tonight. 'I'm so tired... sometimes I wish I had lost my mind.'

'Don't say that! Remus, you're... you're scaring me.'

'I scare myself sometimes,' he replies softly. 'I catch myself thinking all sorts of crazy things... but it's so tempting to just forget... to pretend...'

You nod in unhappy agreement, even if he can't see you. It is so tempting to pretend... but you've learnt that pretending is of no use. Look where it has landed your mother...

Look where it's landed you. There are tears in your eyes again, but this time, you're not going to let them fall. You're going to be the strong one and hold them back. You can tell that Remus needs you to be strong, for his sake... for everyone's sake. There are so few of you left now, if everyone just gave up...

'You've got to stop this,' you say, trying to be stern, but your voice cracks as you speak. 'You... we've got to stop pretending.'

He doesn't say anything.

'It's... it's going to be okay, Remus,' you say, your voice faltering as you hear his small, stifled cry and feel his arms tighten around your legs. You reach out and awkwardly ruffle his hair; when one hand comes up to rest on your knee, you clasp it, your fingers brushing against his knuckles as you try to give back the comfort he's always given you.

When you move, he clings to you even tighter. 'Don't leave me,' he murmurs brokenly, the wind carrying away what little of his voice is audible.

'I... I won't.'

You just hope that he's listening, that he knows you're not going anywhere, that you're not going to leave him to bear this alone.

'It will be okay, Remus... you've... you've got to hope that it will,' you say, swallowing heavily, the words sticking in your throat. They are lies, but the comfort in them is obvious.

'Never thought... never thought you'd say that,' he says, looking up at you so that you can see his tears, but also his smile, half-hearted but hopeful. 'Do you believe we're going to pull through this?'

You pause. 'If you do,' you say finally.

'You're not just pretending?'

'No, Remus,' you whisper, drawing strength from the rush of emotions you have denied yourself for six weeks, from the determination not to just give in, to give up. 'I'm not pretending.'

'Then we're going to make it,' he says simply, his voice still raw but stronger than before. 'We're going to pull through this. You and me. All of us. Together.'

His hand is extended to you, open, palm up. You take it, letting out a short, relieved laugh.

'Together,' you echo, and for the first time in weeks, you don't just pretend to smile.

*

fin

*