An Ironic Title

Chapter 9: Someone Else's Shoes

The biggest part of my childhood that I can remember is complaining about my name - Nymphadora. I mean, what type of fool mother would name their first-born daughter Nymphadora? Did Dad have any say in this? I would constantly ask my mother growing up. Why couldn't I have a normal name? I begged; since all the kids at the Muggle elementary school I attended teased me, especially when attendance was called at the beginning of the year.

Of course, Mum, her name's Andromeda (now that I think about it, I guess she wanted one of her children to continue the weird name legacy with), would ignore my complaints and give me one of her proverbial speeches. She told me that I should walk a mile in someone else's shoes before I complained about something as trivial as a name. I would always return with that, even if I didn't learn a lesson from it, at least I'm a mile away from the person and I have their shoes. That always cracked my Dad up and he would crow about how his 'little Dora,' was so funny; that would really get Mum started, she would always rant about how 'his daughter,' (you know, it's funny, I was always his daughter when I did something bad) got 'everything from his side of the family.'

I suppose she meant my cheekiness, that's how I get along with Ginny so well - she reminds me a lot of me when I was her age - except for what happened to her, she didn't deserve it: none of them did, none of us did. And only now am I beginning to understand that lifelong lesson that Mum taught me - only now when I'm risking my life for what I believe in as this nightmare of sorts goes on around me. Even the thought that there will be a rich reward at the end of all this - that the Darkness will be driven back - does not help to console me. It doesn't help to console anyone now that I think about it, now that I walk in their shoes.

Especially Remus. And I won't pretend to be an expert on such things, but it seems to me that Remus was affected the most drastically of all those assembled on that summer's night a few days ago; though it has seemed like an eternity in all that has happened since then.

And, when I walk in his shoes, I can understand how he feels, for he has lost every bit of family he has ever known, he has no one now. He has lost his brothers, his sister, and, most important of all, a son, Harry. I watched him over the summer before Harry's fifth year, saw him on the sidelines of sorts as he watched Harry, his affection for the boy plain on his careworn features. Of course Harry didn't notice; I suppose that it's a skill that comes with Auror training, reading someone's mind simply by how they hold themselves, what they look like. Proof of it was quite simple if what I heard from Kingsley and Mad-Eye was true, for he held Harry back from the veil, trying to save him and refusing to let him go. He tried to save the son of the Marauders and, even when he succeeded at first, failed in the end, lost everything. I can understand why he feels that way and I watch him pityingly, watching as he walks around the grounds, looking but not seeing, but at the same time mentally scolding myself.

For I remember when a similar thing happened to me, years and years ago now, but it happened nonetheless. When I was thirteen years old, my parents got divorced. I screamed and ranted and sobbed and wanted everyone to pity me at every possible moment. I thought that that was loss, but that was before I realized what loss really meant. I mean, I still see my parents, they're both here as a matter of fact, though Harry was nothing more to them than a famous name. They both came over to me and said hi, asked how I was doing in the Auror business, asked if I had met any guys yet (that was Mum), made normal conversation and then left, each to sit with their own friends. That isn't loss, let me tell you, what Remus has suffered is truly loss.

And Harry. . . . How could I have forgotten Harry, the guest of honor of sorts in all of this fanfare? For Harry lost his mother and father - the two most integral people in his life - at the age of one. He was sent to live with Muggles for ten years, was taken away from everything that made him who he was, was told who he was and had a gigantic role - that of the savior of the wizarding world - thrust upon him when he was only eleven! And, as if that weren't enough, at the age of fifteen, right after his godfather had died - the one person that meant everything to him the past few years - he was told that he had to kill Voldemort or Voldemort had to kill him in the end.

Dumbledore told us that when he tried to have a discussion with Harry in his office after that fateful battle in the Department of Mysteries, that Harry destroyed his office (although he didn't sound bitter when he explained it to us - rather, he sounded very, very old). I can tell you one thing, though, that if I had been in Harry's position all those years and Dumbledore told me that, I would have done much more than that. . . . Why, Dumbledore's office would probably be in ruins when I was done with it and the prestigious headmaster himself would be out cold (thought from what Dumbledore told us it looked like Harry had been close to attacking him). Many people - Harry included - think of me as the cheerful yet clumsy Tonks, but when someone says something I don't like . . . well, I guess there's one thing I get from Mum's side of the family - my temper.

But the funny thing is that Harry never asked people to pity him, he just kept on going despite the odds. And I know that if I were him, if I was in his shoes, I would be wishing that if only I could just be named Nymphadora or Andromeda or Lucius or Remus, or any other strange name instead of being in this horror that had become my life.

Or Remus. . . . Now there's one person I know that can't keep going forever with a life like his, one person that is going to break sooner or later, and one person that needs a motive to continue on. Because not all people can be the savior of the wizarding world.

Or Remus. . . . I believe that I can be that motive, even if I only provide a shoulder to cry on (real men cry, that's what my Dad has always said) and a friend to talk to. Yes, I decide, and, determinedly I stand up, searching for him. He is going to talk to me whether he likes it or not. I suppose that that's a mixture of Mum, Auror training, and conversations with Dumbledore (aka - the school psychologist), over my seven years at Hogwarts.

Or Remus. . . . There is a scream and I scan the grounds for who it was, it was a female, I know that much, so it can't be Remus. However, I don't find out who it is for now I see Remus walking purposefully across the Pitch. There's something wrong, I can tell and I follow him (though not without knocking over a few folding chairs in the process). Remus needs help, even if he won't admit it - even to himself.

Or Remus. . . . He is skirting the Forbidden Forest now, glancing around; I watch from a safe distance (trying to make as little noise as is possible) as he now almost runs into the Forest. I start going once again, limping in my black, high-heeled boots and stumbling on a root once. Fortunately, a gust of wind goes through the trees at the same time, hopefully muffling my fall and my curse. Damn things! Why'd I have to wear them, anyway? I know exactly why: because I didn't expect to be stalking a depressed werewolf over the grounds of Hogwarts.

Or Remus. . . . With another flick of my wand, my boots are Transfigured into more comfortable black tennis shoes; they don't exactly match my dress robes, but neither did the boots. . . . Whatever, I was never much for fashion.

Or Remus. . . . I continue walking and peek through the trees to see Remus standing a bit into the Forest, his wand pressed to his forehead. No, he's not, he can't be, is my first thought and I let out a dry, soft sob.

Or Remus. . . . I hear him say, "Avada. . . ." as if in a trance and I notice that his voice is strangely choked. Dad's right, real men do cry, and I'm not letting this real man walk away from me.

"And what in Merlin's name are you doing, old wolf?" I ask. Not the most eloquent way to stop someone from suicide, but I didn't have much time to plan it out. However, it has the desired effect, he jumps, startled, dropping his wand and turning to face me. Good, I have the element of surprise, which isn't often because of my clumsiness.

However, what I don't have is Remus's usual patience. Instead, he snaps, "Go away, Tonks," while picking up his wand, brushing the dirt off of it and glaring at me as if I've interrupted him in something very important, instead of the ending of his own life.

"No," I say stubbornly, placing my hands on my hips and trying to look like Molly does when addressing the twins after they've pulled some prank. He raises his eyebrow at me and I can only guess that my imitation has much to be desired. "What's wrong?" I ask as I drop the guise.

"Nothing. You wouldn't understand."

"I understand more than you think I do, Moony." It's true, I know, I've walked in his shoes.

"Don't c-call me th-that," he sputters, his face white with rage, yet his eyes suspiciously transparent despite their feral glow, looking as if he's about to turn right into the werewolf, otherwise known as Moony.

"Why not?" I demand. "Talk to me, Remus! Stop wallowing in your self-pity and talk for once! Harry would want you to live, Remus!"

I know that I've hit his soft spot - Harry - as the flush slowly creeps back into his cheeks and he opens his mouth to speak. "I'm no one," he says simply and turns away.

"No, you aren't!" I say fiercely. "Didn't you listen to a word Harry's will said?"

"Don't bring Harry into this," Remus mutters, his back still to me. "He has nothing. . . ."

"He has everything to do with this and don't you say otherwise!" I reprimand, moving toward him, but tripping on another root. Blasted things! "Harry wanted you to start teaching again, Harry wanted you to forget you're a werewolf and everyone else wants you to, too! You were something to Harry, Remus."

"Harry's gone now."

I continue as if I haven't heard him. "All those kids out there, you were the best DADA teacher they ever had, Remus! To those of us in the Order, you're a friend, Remus, a good, strong, loyal friend! They don't care that you're a werewolf, I don't care that you're a werewolf! You're something to me, Remus, you're everything to me! Don't let me lose that, don't let me lose you, you old, organized, werewolf! Please, Remus, don't let me lose that!" I'm speaking without thinking now, my composure lost entirely. I never planned on telling him this when I came to talk - I planned on making him feel better, but this is turning out to be another of my own self-pity sessions, it seems.

Then there are arms around me, strong arms that I've only ever dreamt of holding me before. "You're something to me too," he whispers, his voice choked and I imagine that he's talking over a lump in his throat.

"Real men cry," I say through my own tears and I see him smile before, to my utter surprise, he kisses me; and it's not one of those tiny pecks either, this is a full-fledged kiss. I return it, my lips easily succumbing to his, and, in that windy forest glade it sounds like there is a slight laugh and a slight ray of sun shines down on us.

I don't even think about it, but what I am thinking about is being in Remus's shoes - something I've become quite adept at by now. And I know that we're both thinking the same thing - we've found someone and neither of us has lost.