Tired

Tired-

She's tired.

That is Remus's first thought as he watches Tonks stumble into the kitchen at 12 Grimmauld Place. Of course, she doesn't have the dark circles under her eyes that most do, or that awful pasty look to her skin that he's so used to seeing in himself. She looks perfectly normal, except that...

She doesn't. She sits silently at the table and he is reminded of nothing more than a neglected flower, drooping, her eyelids slipping shut when she thinks that no one will notice, her elbows resting on the table and her head cradled in her arms.

It's not like anyone else has noticed, though. He knows that most of them are adept at glamour charms, using them almost excessively- although he wouldn't go as far as to call anyone vain. It's more of a cover, to disguise the toll of double shifts and grief that plagues everyone who is even remotely connected with the order. Tonks has never had to do that, however, slipping easily into a face that is familiar, but far from comforting to him. She doesn't bear the usual signs of weariness because she has simply morphed out of them, using her talents to save herself from the intense scrutiny of others. He knows that she refuses to let anyone worry about her, avoiding the gentle crackle of magic that hangs around those who use glamour charms; she takes advantage of being able to change her appearance at will so that no one would give her a second look to check if she's hiding something, always changing one feature or the other so that no one can pin down the real difference in her.

But that doesn't make her any less tired.

He watches as she shakes her head at the scrambled eggs Molly places in front of her, offering up an apologetic smile. But Remus can't help but frown when he notices that her protests are feebler than usual, that there is a note of exhaustion in her voice that she cannot hide with any amount of morphing. She hasn't been eating either, something that worries him greatly because that is something else no one would notice if she didn't want them to, another thing she can easily hide with a quick morph.

He wonders if he really is the only one who can tell that she's lost weight; is he the only person who notices the odd jutting angles that weren't there before or the feeling there is less of her to hold on to, that she has shrunk, that she does not fit comfortably in his arms anymore?

She glances at him briefly as she pushes the plate of eggs away and reaches for a slice of buttered toast, and he knows that yes, he is the only one who knows, but only because she will let him. She scarcely meets his eyes but immediately he notices how she seems to change, seems to melt a little under his gaze until the skin that seemed to fit her comfortably a few moments ago is now stretched taut over bones that never used to show, her cheeks hollowing out, her pale gray irises dimmed by a shadow of guilt. The skin under her eyes is almost purple and puffy from lack of sleep, as if it is bruised, the deepening color standing out against the stark pale that covers the rest of her face.

He is startled, not by how haggard she looks, but by how much her state resembles his, how she mirrors him. The weariness that he can feel in his bones shows clearly in her face. It gives him a jolt as he imagines how he must look to the few who dare to look at him anymore.

He blinks and she changes again, back to her mask, and he cannot do anything but wonder at the ease with which she slips into her skin, filling it out, flashing a grin at him that is forced, but familiar. She picks up the toast from her plate and nibbles on the edge of it, sliding out of her chair, letting her fingers flutter briefly over his hand as she stops beside him on the way out.

Even now, he can feel the lethargy in her aura, seeping from her skin and over him. He can taste the butter-toast fatigue on her lips as she leans down to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He can hear the desire for normalcy in her voice, overpowering everything, the desperation to let things be almost drowning out the words she puts to him quietly.

'Let's not let them worry, okay?' she says, and Remus finds himself nodding, standing up with his arms outstretched. She meets his eyes fully now and he wonders why he could only see the guilt there, and not the sadness and concern that are carried in his face, reflected in her eyes. He lets her fall into him, lets her lean against him and doesn't mind when she changes again. He only closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling of her shrinking, still clinging to him, and he embraces her, bringing her closer to himself so that his arms form a complete, protective circle around her slight form. Somehow, it doesn't feel like there is less of her, but rather, just enough for him to hold on to. He feels her arms come up around him until they link behind his back and belatedly, he realizes that he, too, has shrunk from worry and exhaustion; he laughs as she shifts so that she fits against him perfectly like she did before, and doesn't say anything but holds her tighter when she takes a soft, shuddering breath against his robes and scolds him, telling him that he should look at himself before he begins to worry about others.

And he suddenly doesn't mind the fact that he is the only one to notice that she is tired, because he understands that he is the only one she trusts enough to worry for everyone, but never to tell; he doesn't mind because he is, simply, the only one who could understand how it is to hide, not for one's own sake, but to shoulder the burden to save others the trouble of thinking about it.

*
fin

*