Things I Have But Could Have Done Without

"Are you seeing anyone?"

I knew it was too good to be true. So far, it's been a cracking Christmas with my parents. We hung out by the fire last night drinking Irish coffees and chatting about everything and nothing at all, wasting time. I half-expected to be grilled about this at that point, but she never steered the conversation into this area of my life. I've been having such a great time just being with them for the first time in so long that I let my guard down.

In any case, she's caught me unawares now and my stunned expression has surely given me away. A sideways glance at my Dad's sympathetic grin confirms that indeed it has. And really that's all she was after, in this preliminary go 'round; I don't need to confess anything more.

"No one serious, Mum." Even though I might be flushing with the memories that immediately spring to mind.

"Well, that's a shame. Here I was hoping maybe you'd bring someone home for the holidays."

She hates hearing it but in some ways she's such a Black. The pedigree and the breeding show through no matter how casual she thinks she is. The way she holds her cup. The way she holds herself. I used to have this joke with my paternal grandfather that she could never pull off a reverse Pygmalion. You could pick her out of a crowd in about five seconds flat. He adored her as much as my father does; as much as I do.

My mother is beautiful. I mean, really beautiful. As in, lads-wanted-to-be-my-friends-just-to-be-around-her, sort of beautiful. But I am not her. My self-image is fine, really. I don't think I'm a hag or anything. I just have my own look. She is grace personified, and I am ... well, something else entirely. Still, we are remarkably alike in so many ways. It's quite funny, actually, how different you can be from someone and still have so much in common. We're both hell-bent on ferreting out a solution to every problem. Both determined, stubborn as hell. My poor Dad will tell anyone who'll listen just how alike she and I are.

Lost as I am in this train of thought, I haven't noticed that my Dad has rummaged out all the gifts from under the tree, and handed one to my Mum, effectively starting the gift-giving portion of our holiday.

This is the part of Christmas that is truly infectious. It's damn hard not to feel like the world is a simple place when you are opening up new cozy slippers, or when your Dad wears his new tie over his dressing gown to illustrate how pleased he is with it. Dad has given me a boxed set of four Robert Louis Stevenson novels - beautifully illustrated editions. They were my favorites growing up. Not very girlish, I know, but I adored them. A perfect gift.

Next thing I know Dad has given Mum a small silver locket, which makes her inexplicably well up with tears and throw herself into his arms.

"Oh, Ted! I'd forgotten all about this."

"I thought it was high time we replaced it," he says. After a few moments of canoodling, they seem to remember that I am in the room with them, and my mother takes note of my crooked eyebrow.

"Oh, honey, you wouldn't remember this. I had one exactly like it with your baby picture in it, but I lost it on holiday when you were still quite little."

"That's it?" Seems like a brief explanation for such an enthusiastic snogfest.

"Well, no. It meant a lot to me, that locket. There's more to the story. See, there was a tradition in my family, where all the girls were given these beautiful, ornate platinum lockets with the family crest on them for their thirteenth birthdays. It was a coming-of-age gift, and meant to be added to our dowries, to be worn only after we had our first child. It was one of the few things that my parents ever gave me that held meaning for me. Even at thirteen, I suppose the idea of a child of my own was hypnotic for me. A fresh start; a chance to do things differently. I used to dream of putting my child's picture in it someday."

I look at my Dad, who is gazing at her as if she is seventeen again and suddenly realize the rest of the story. "You never received your dowry," I finish.

"No. I didn't. And really, by then I didn't want most of it. The family heirlooms, the money. It's better that my sisters have all that. It would have been lost on me, anyway. But there were a few things, ideas mainly, which were hard to surrender."

Finally, my Dad speaks, fingering the small locket around her neck. "We didn't have much when you were born, Mouse. But this was something she needed." She fairly swoons, looking at him.

Sometimes I forget how truly romantic my parents' story is. She chucked her whole family for him. I think by the time she was married, she was ready to be well shod of them regardless of who she married. Still, I can't imagine the physical and emotional upheaval it must have been to completely rid herself of her past and start over as someone new.

Like a metamorphosis. Another way we're alike.

Next thing I know Mum is joining me on the settee, handing me another gift.

"Another? You two have really gotten carried away this year," I say, inclining my head to the pile of gifts next to me.

"Oh, pish," says Mum. "Slippers, pyjamas, tea, books. Those aren't gifts. They're provisions. We needed to get you something indulgent." Crikey, she's glowing. What now?

Slowly, I open the large box to reveal a dress. Or a gown, more like. For a moment I am sort of confused. I feel like a bird who has been mesmerized by something shiny, as I admire the radiance of the glossy satin. The fabric is gorgeous; a dark green, almost black, with beautiful beadwork around the very low neckline. And it's so tiny! Hell, it'll be work just getting into it. Finally, I look up at her, my jaw still low.

"You don't like it." It's not exactly a question, more of a statement. She adds the patented exasperated sigh for emphasis.

"No, no. Mum... I love it. It's beautiful, but... it's not really me, you know?"

"I know you don't think so, Nymphadora. But it might be a nice change. It's hard to pull off that tomboy thing after you get to be a certain age."

Oh bugger, here we go. I don't want to seem ungrateful, but ...

"Darling, I got you this for New Year's Eve. I thought maybe if you had something new you'd feel it was a fresh start, maybe even meet someone..." Oh, blimey. I forgot.

"You forgot, didn't you?"

"No! Of course not." My Mum is on the Board of the St Mungo's Charity Association and she makes us go to this black-tie benefit every New Year's Eve for as long as I can remember. Big see-and-be-seen type of thing. Last year I got out of it because of work, but this year she made me promise to trade two shifts, if necessary, to get the night off.

"I'm really looking forward to having you there again this year. And if there's someone you'd like to invite ..." She's really fishing a bit now. And I can't help that my mind automatically jumps to Remus. I don't think I'd ever have the courage to ask him to a gathering like this. Not so soon, at least. But something tells me he'd be unbelievably dashing at an event like this, saying all the right things, winning over all the wealthy old ladies...

Oh, shite. I'm smiling. Just thinking about him makes me smile, and they can read me as easily as if I were one of the books up against my leg. I'm certain of it.

"I'm not sure there's anyone in particular I'd like to ask this year," I say, shaking my head, and trying to shake off my little fantasy as well.

"Nymphadora, will you ever tell us what happened with you and Curtis? I haven't asked because I didn't want to pry-"

I can't contain my snort, and my dad, and longtime co-conspirator, chuckles with me.

She can't help but laugh, too. "Alright, fine! I was dying to pry but your father held me off. Still, things seemed to be going well there..."

"Oh, Mum. I don't know. It's not easy to explain. We started growing apart, I suppose."

They exchange a look in which they seem to communicate two hours' worth of conversation. Apropos of something, I wonder vaguely whether I will ever share that with another person.

"Look, Mum. I'm okay, really. I love the dress. New Year's will be fun. I promise to make a go of it, yeah?"

She seems satisfied by this, and turns her attention to giving my Dad a small box. Grateful to escape her focus, I finger the small silver beads on the dress in my lap and wonder what I've gotten myself into.

~

It still seems odd to be back in my own flat, even though when I was here the other night I did some tidying up, and stocked the pantry. Okay, maybe stocked is an exaggeration. I picked up some juice and bread. And soup. Enough to get by for a few days.

My folks asked me to stay on another night, but truth be told, I thought I should stop avoiding this place. I used to love it here. I'd like to get used to it again, I think. The Weasleys will be gone from Grimmauld Place soon, and I can choose to go back to my room there some nights, too. Thinking about being alone in the house with just Sirius and Remus again fills me with equal parts apprehension and yearning.

I move to the kitchen to put the kettle on and consider what to do with the rest of my evening. One of my new books already lies opened on my settee; perhaps I might just continue to lose myself to that diversion until bed.

I'm wearing my new slippers, which I love. I know Dad must've chosen them, because when I opened them I swear my mother wrinkled her nose. They are the most wonderfully awful shade of chartreuse, with small purple bows on top of the slide, and they make you wonder what anyone was thinking during their design. But they are cheery, and soft and squishy, and have already made fast friends with my feet.

Just as I take the complaining kettle from the stove, there is a knock at my door. For many reasons, this takes my adrenaline up a notch. Even in the days before joining the Order, I rarely had my mates here. Mine was always the furthest flat, making it a difficult apparition point when you've had a few too many, and on the small side to boot. Not a frequent hangout. Not somewhere you'd stop by unannounced.

And though I've been able to put it out of my mind the last couple of days, the news that Kingsley shared the other night has me jumping to the worst conclusion. I'm on a list, now, after all.

Slowly, I approach the door. "Who is it?" I ask, wand at my side.

"It's me." Remus. Is he kidding me? My heart is racing. I must look a fright.

Still, I take a deep breath and open up. He's all flushed from the cold, and he has snow in his hair. Automatically, I reach up and brush it from his shoulders.

He bends down to give me a kiss. On the cheek. Bugger.

Resisting the urge to ask what the hell he's doing here, I offer instead, "I just made tea. Fancy a cup?"

"Yes, that would be nice. Thanks." He removes his cloak and drapes it over the back of the settee. Should I have taken it? Should I ask him to sit? Why is this so bloody hard?

Turning my back to him, I walk to the kitchen, as if this is perfectly normal. Tea with Remus. In my flat. On Christmas. While I am pouring, I notice with embarrassment that my hands are trembling. Fuck. Hold it together, Nymph. You heard him tell Sirius plain as day, 'can't go down that road.' I will myself not to have expectations one way or the other. Keep it casual.

When I return, he is perusing the book I had just started.

"These are lovely. Were they a Christmas gift?" he inquires.

I nod. "From my Dad. We read them together when I was little."

"I'm a great fan of his work. This particular title is not one of my favorites, though," he says evenly.

With horror, I remember which one it is. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Blimey. Could the fates conspire against me more?

I don't have time to think on it too much, though, because at that very moment I see that there is a beautifully wrapped box on the table in front of him. A Christmas present. I almost drop the tray I'm carrying as I try to riddle out the meaning of that. The idea that he is giving me a gift because he feels obligated, after shagging me, is well beyond what my nerves can bear at the moment. I'm silently begging that it's not a Let's-Be-Friends gift.

He notices me noticing the gift, and tries for levity. "Yes, Tonks, it's for you."

"Oh, really, Remus? I thought after this stop you might be popping in for a little holiday visit with Mrs. Drinkwater." Confused look.

"My downstairs neighbor. She's about eighty."

"Is she agile?"

"Alright, alright. Touché, Mr. Lupin." Mood lightened. I can't help but smile back at him as I hand him his cup.

"So, are you going to open it or did I come all this way for your stale tea?"

Cheeky! I shoot him my best mock-glare. Rather full of himself tonight. I place my cup on the table and pick up the box, which is tall and thin. Could be a bottle of liquor. Doesn't seem like the type of gift Remus would give, but I can't say I wouldn't welcome it at the present moment.

"Okay, then..." I untie the beautiful tartan ribbon and set it on my lap before lifting the cover off as well. And then I let out a little gasp as I see what's inside. It's a Russian nesting doll.

"Oh, Remus, she's beautiful." And she is. I lift her out of the box and notice that she is elaborately hand-painted in about a million vivid colors and patterns. Like a child, I can't resist the urge to immediately open her up, and see each subsequent doll revealed, smaller and smaller. I start lining them up in a neat little row on the table in front of us.

I'm giddy with the simple pleasure of this, when I get to about the fourth one and I realize that each doll has differently coloured hair and eyes. The largest one has blue hair, the next red, the next pink . . . this makes me stop.

She reminded him of me. Stunned, I meet his gaze.

And he is watching me, enjoying it as much as I am. But he also knows why I've stopped. What I've realized.

"Uncanny, isn't she? I've never seen one so brightly coloured before. I walked past her in a Muggle shop in London shortly after that night you had your hair blue. Do you remember that? That night you were so hacked off at Shacklebolt?"

I do. I do remember. I haven't had my hair blue since that night. I nod incoherently.

"Anyway, her blue hair caught my eye and she reminded me of you immediately."

He bought me a Christmas gift in November. Early November. This isn't just because of the other night at all.

Oh, shite, tears are welling. When did I get this way? Why are my emotions so close to the surface lately? Is it about Remus, or just the state of things in general?

No, it's Remus.

Why does he have to be so bloody amazing? Can't he just be my boring mate that I shagged one time for kicks? I can't even meet his eyes because I'm afraid he'll read my thoughts. And I'm not ready for him to see what's written there.

I'm in love with him.

I've known for some time, before we made love even. But it's such an easy thing to dismiss when the thought comes randomly and occasionally creeping into your head. Now, quite tired of creeping, it comes barging in instead, determined to make itself known. To make me admit it to myself. Since I can't admit it to him.

He's waiting for me to say something. "Thank you, Remus. She's lovely," I offer quietly. It's all I can manage.

"I'm glad you like her," he says, reaching over and taking my hand in his.

"Remus, can I ask you something?"

"Of course." He's smiling the warmest smile he's given me all week.

"Why are you here?"

He looks puzzled. "To give you your gift." Or he may just be teasing me.

"And?" I ask.

Looking much like a child caught with his hands in the cookie jar, he gently puts his arms around my waist and pulls me over onto his lap.

"And because I couldn't stay away anymore if I tried." Much to my amazement and delight, Remus Lupin is blushing at this confession. It's all I can do not to devour him, but I'm rather enjoying his taking the lead.

He reaches up to touch my cheek, and says, "I've missed you."

"Missed me? You just saw me last night," I say with mock confusion. I nuzzle into his neck, content just to breathe him in again.

"A day seems a long time without that smile," he says simply. I beam smugly into his jumper. He missed me.

I raise my head to look at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Lupin."

"Really? Perhaps I'll have to try a different approach, then." And then he leans up to kiss me, with a sweetness that contradicts the urgency with which he pulls me closer.

Stopping for a moment, though, he mutters, "Tonks?"

"Mmmm?"

"I like your new slippers."

~

I must thank my wonderful beta, the lovely aihjah, who not only calls me on my Americanisms, keeps the plot on target, and helps me brainstorm the culture of the wizarding world, but also takes the time to have LONG conversations with me about HP, canon, and literary archetypes. You are the best!

Thanks for reading -please tell me how you think it's going!