Consequences

Chapter 10: Mostly Harmless

At first I think perhaps it was all a bad dream. Everything. The past few days, the past few weeks but it’s just wishful thinking. Wishful thinking, to believe that none of it happened, that I’m waking here, curled up with Jon, on cool autumn morning. But it isn’t autumn; it just feels as though it is and the man who lies beside me isn’t Jon.

Jon wouldn’t want to be here with me. I’ve hurt him so much. ‘Fuck, Tonks. How could you do this?’ I can still see his face as he said it. How could I? Don’t quite know.

I open my eyes to my dim surroundings; morning sunlight filtered through thick curtains. Gawd, I’m taking up most of the bed. My head rests against his shoulder; his long, warm body stretched out beside me. No wonder when I first woke up, I thought he was Jon. But he’s not, doesn’t feel like Jon, doesn’t smell like Jon. I turn my face into his shoulder and inhale the familiar scent of sandalwood soap before rolling away, onto my side.

I did it.

I made it though another night. Potion free. Knew I could do it. Knew that she had to be wrong.

It is not an addiction.

I didn’t believe it when Madam Pomfrey ... when Poppy, threw that word at me in our conversation yesterday. Said it happens to a lot of people. That you have to be really careful when you take potions that are so readily available. That you have to read the instructions carefully. And take them seriously. I wanted to scream at her, ‘I know, I’m not an idiot!’ But I couldn’t because I was an idiot. That’s how I managed to get myself in this situation, isn’t it?

Still, I hate that word.

I don’t like how it sounds. What it implies.

Weakness.

We Black girls are anything but weak. That’s what my mother always says. She’s right. She’s the strongest person I know.

And I’m not addicted, not really.

I just have trouble sleeping.

That’s all.

I woke up at six o’clock Wednesday morning. I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I got up and made a start. Didn’t have a rest around midday, like I was supposed to. Didn’t take it easy. Instead, I went up to Glasgow with Moody, spent the day tracking Miles Turbot. Got him eventually. Moody turned him over to the Ministry and collected the reward. It’ll go into the Order’s coffers. It was the middle of the evening before we got back.

Then I had to have a chat with Madam Pomfrey.

She asked me how I slept Tuesday night. I said fine. Fine? Didn’t mention that I spent most of the night in fits of anger or tears and ended up passing out from sheer exhaustion after an hour or so of sobbing on Remus’s shoulder. She didn’t need to know that. After all, I did manage to sleep and without sleeping potion. I also told her I was looking forward to going to bed that night.

I lied.

Because last night ...

Last night I couldn’t sleep again.

I did all the things Ma ... Poppy, told me to do to relax. I made chamomile tea, even though I despise it. I took a long hot bath with some of that lavender relaxation oily stuff mixed in. It did make the bathroom smell nice. I lit candles. I read my book. Nothing.

Then it started.

I started getting cold. I pulled a jumper on over my pyjama top. I put socks on and then my slippers. I stoked the fire, put a Warming Charm on the bed and climbed under the covers. It didn’t work. I was still cold. That cold, clammy, sick feeling I’m all too familiar with.

Poppy said to expect the symptoms.

Addiction is an ugly word.

It can’t be real.

The man beside me shifts and mutters something unintelligible in his sleep. Still, it makes me smile. I’m so grateful for him. Without him, I doubt I would’ve been able to get through last night without breaking down and visiting the Apothecary.

At half past one this morning that’s all I wanted to do. I stood staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, wondering where and how I could get sleeping draft. No one would have to know. I thought about how warm it was and how good the blackcurrant flavour tastes. Even if I could just find orange flavour. Orange isn’t so bad. Was there still some behind the bar downstairs, or had Molly hidden it away somewhere? I nearly went to look. Nearly. But instead, I made another decision.

Instead, I walked across the bathroom floor and knocked sharply on the adjoining door.

‘Come in,’ a friendly voice had answered.

He was sitting on the bed, still fully dressed, a large tome open on his lap; reading.

He looked up at me and chuckled. ‘Cold?’

Suppose I must’ve looked a bit silly in flannel pyjamas and a woolly jumper. ‘A bit.’

‘What can I do for you, Tonks?’

I instantly regretted my decision. Really wanted to say, ‘Nothing. Forget it.’ and walk away.

‘I can’t sleep,’ is what I said instead.

He just nodded. ‘Come in, sit down. I’ll get you something hot to drink.’

He did just that. I sat on his bed and he got up, walked into his sitting room and from what I could see through the partially open doorway, fussed over a pot hanging over the fire for a bit.

He has a sitting room. I suppose it helps to be the first resident of the house.

He returned a few minutes later and handed me a mug of hot, sweet, cider. I t was delicious. Better than Madam Rosmerta’s even.

He sat down beside me and picked up the book again. I sipped my drink slowly, let my eyes close and just listened to his voice as he told me a story. The story of a great giant named Bran who was the king of all of England and Wales. And a war with Ireland over a beautiful princess named Bronwen, who was Bran’s sister. And there was something about a cauldron that brought the dead back to life ... and they rescued the princess but Bran was killed. He told his companions to cut off his head and take it to Harlech and, when a lot of other things had happened, they were to take the head to The White Tower and bury it there. No one was to dig it up. Because if Bran’s head was removed from the tower the kingdom would fall. The head talked to them on the way and things, which I thought was quite creepy. And Bronwen, who they had spent so much effort to rescuing, died of grief at Harlech anyway. So what was the point?

Remus laughed when I brought this up. Said he hadn’t actually thought of it that way.

‘So Bran’s head is still buried at the Tower of London?’

‘Supposedly.’

‘And no one’s ever tried to dig it up?’

‘Well rumour has it that King Arthur had it dug up.’

‘And ...’

‘Well his kingdom fell, didn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, I think it was reburied after that.’

‘Good.’ I settled myself down on the pillow and shut my eyes.

‘Does that make you feel better?’

‘What?’

‘Knowing the head of a long-dead giant king is buried in the city.’

‘Yes. After all, it helps the Muggles knowing the ravens are there.’

‘Tonks?’

‘Hmmm ...’

‘Bran in welsh means raven.’

‘That’s a nice story.’

Must’ve fallen asleep then because I can’t remember anymore.

It’s almost eight. That’s quite the lie-in for me. I roll onto my side and watch him sleep. He looks so peaceful in this condition. Don’t know how late I kept him up last night. Terribly guilty about that. Poor man really does put up with a lot from me. I’ll have to do something nice for him.

Suppose getting the hell out of his bed and letting him sleep in peace would be a start. So I slide out of bed, push my feet into my slippers and shuffle off back to my room.

*

Got called into work today. Bloody stupid waste of time, if you ask me. Which, of course, nobody did. For weeks now it has been rumoured that Death Eaters were going to target Ministry officials. Serious subject, yes, and security has been heightened throughout the Ministry. But for some reason, which I cannot comprehend, Cornelius Fudge is sure it’s going to be him. Why? Why target a Minister whose resignation has been demanded by so many of his subbies? More likely target would be anyone who was set to replace him. Anyone competent anyway. Scrimgeour for one.

But no. Today I spent following Fudge everywhere he went. Much to the amusement of my colleagues, who found it hilarious. All of whom had more pressing things to do, so the honour--ha! was left to me. I have been given Friday off in lieu though. Which is nice, because tonight ... tonight I want to do something fun.

*

‘I promised you weeks ago.’

‘Was that a promise?’ Remus grins, peering at me over the rim of his goblet. ‘I thought it was a threat.’

‘Moon’s on Saturday and I promised I’d take you to a club.’ I lift the drinks tray up so that Molly can give the table a quick wipe and set about pouring myself another Firewhisky. It may be of the girly variety but it still warms me right down to my toes. ‘Tell him he should come out with me, Molly.’

‘You should go, Remus,’ Molly says, fixing him with a look I can’t quite comprehend. ‘You’ll enjoy yourself and you never know what could happen.’

Whatever that look was for, Remus ignores it, shaking his head and taking another drink.

‘That’s what I’ve been telling him. You could meet someone.’ I raise my glass in his direction. ‘I told you, dead sexy before the moon.’

Remus chokes on his whisky but Molly just smiles.

‘I have nothing to wear,’ he says, finally.

‘Oh, come on, Remus.’

‘I’m sure Bill will lend you something,’ Molly says helpfully. ‘Won’t you, Bill?’

Bill, who has just appeared in the doorway of the room looks a little confused. ‘What?’

‘To go out tonight,’ I say, raising my drink in Bill’s direction. ‘Told Remus I’d take him to a Muggle club. But now he says he’s got nothing to wear. You could lend him something, couldn’t you? He’s nearly your height.’

Bill looks Remus up and down, cocks his head to one side and smiles. ‘What are you thinking? Something in leather? With a collar and lead?’

‘Bill!’ his mother scolds.

Remus rolls his eyes, shaking his head again and I just laugh. ‘Thanks Bill, and as charming an image as that presents: No, not that kind of club.’

‘Where are you taking him?’ Bill asks, dropping into the chair beside me and pouring himself a drink.

‘Thought perhaps The Side Door, up by my place.’

‘Small.’

‘Yes, but good music and cheap drinks.’

‘That’s true. Great martinis. Don’t worry, Remus, it’s a nice place. Mostly. Aside from bondage Tuesdays.’ I elbow Bill and he jumps sideways, laughing. ‘Oh, don’t pretend you’ve never been.’

‘Very funny.’

*

Bill did well. Although Remus is, of course, kitted out in Bill’s usual black. Black trousers, black top and black leather coat. He looks very nice though, even though the style isn’t quite his own.

As we round the corner into the alley, I see the usual line up to get in. A large Muggle stands at the base of the stairs with his arms crossed over his barrel chest, glaring menacingly at the line of shivering, much smaller, Muggles waiting for his permission to enter. Still, his appearance doesn’t stop me from bounding up to him. ‘Wotcher, Gareth.’

A wide grin breaks across his stone face. ‘Hallo, Xena.’ Behind me I hear Remus start coughing. ‘Where the hell have you been? Haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘Work’s been a bugger. How ‘bout you?’

He shrugs. ‘Can’t complain.’

‘Good. Is Eric working tonight?’

‘Course sweetheart. He’ll be right chuffed see you again.’

Stepping closer to Gareth’s hulking form, I look up and give him my best smile. ‘So how long’s the wait?’

‘For you love?’ He winks at me and steps aside, allowing us access.

‘Thanks, sweetheart.’ I give his hand a squeeze as I move past. ‘Come on, Remus.’

Remus follows me obediently up the stairs, still spluttering.

When we’ve reached the top of the staircase and turned the corner, Remus can’t contain himself anymore and bursts out laughing. ‘Xena?’ he asks incredulously.

‘Yes,’ I reply. Knew that was coming. Forgot about that.

‘That’s a little over the top, isn’t it?’

‘As opposed to what, Nymphadora! ?’

‘All right, Xena,’ he says, emphasising the name. ‘What kind of place have you brought me to?’

‘I used to come here all the time. Well, before Jon and I started dating I did.’ Taking his hand, I pull him into the familiar dim, smoky, little place. There’s a bar, a dance floor and high tables, with or without tall chairs scattered about.

There isn’t a hope in hell of getting table, so we find ourselves in my usual corner at the bar. We’re only there a few moments before Henry, the barman, places a bright pink martini in front of me.

‘Pink Squirrel,’ he says, before I have the chance to ask. He nods back at the list of martinis on the board behind him. ‘From Gareth. What’ll you have?’ he asks Remus. Remus peruses the list of martinis before turning to me with an evil grin.

‘What?’ I ask, taking a sip of my drink. Yummy.

‘I’ll have the Silver Bullet,’ he says, completely deadpan.

Shit, squirrel straight up my nose! Correction, straight out my nose.

Remus hands me a serviette and laughs. ‘You all right, Xena?’

‘Bastard.’

‘Turn about’s fair play,’ he mutters, grinning.

‘Oh, shut up.’

The drink is very yummy and I try and remember what was in it so that I know what to order next time or how to make them at home. My soon empty glass is replaced by a full one moments later. This one is from Henners himself, he says sweetly that he’s ‘missed seeing my pretty little face.’ I’m about to thank him for being so sweet, when he adds, ‘Nice tits, too.’

So, instead of a thank you, he gets a maraschino cherry flicked at his head.

There’s a body behind mine and a stranger’s fingers slide through my hair. ‘Great hair.’ Comes a strange voice.

‘Thanks,’ I reply, spinning my stool around. ‘Touch it again and I may have to break your fingers.’

Oh, but he’s lovely. The blond man whose fingers I’ve just threatened to break. He has short spiky hair, high cheekbones and a nose ring. He looks well ... like Colm Spank, or rather like he’s trying to look like Colm Spank. If he actually knew who Colm Spank was, which he probably doesn’t.

‘Dance with me,’ he says, taking my hand. I look around at Remus, who just raises his drink at me and grins as I slide off the stool and allow myself to be pulled off to the dance floor with pretty Colm Spank type-person.

Colm Spank type-person can dance, very well actually. His name is Mike and he’s an engineer from Croyden. Unfortunately, engineer Mike likes to pole dance and in this case, I’m the pole. I may have to break more than his fingers before the song is finished.

Thankfully, it’s a short song. I politely decline another, and make my way through the crowd in the direction of my seat. Before I get there I find myself dancing with Geoff-from-Canada. Good-looking but two left feet. And Ian, from Edinburgh, who is the tallest person I have ever danced with. Ever. He’s adorable though. Even more reasons why I should come here more often.

When I finally return to the bar, there is another drink waiting for me.

And no Remus.

Why no Remus?

Because Remus isn’t sitting at the bar anymore. Remus is dancing. Dancing with a dark-haired girl in a less-than-conservative top. He seems to be enjoying himself though, which was the point of this evening, wasn’t it? And he can dance, which surprises me probably more than it should.

‘I see Daphne’s found your friend,’ Henners says, sliding up the bar toward me and putting another pink martini beside the one I already have. ‘This one’s from Eric,’ he explains.

‘Who’s Daphne?’

‘She’s nice enough.’

‘Good,’ I reply, watching them for a few minutes and drinking my martini a bit too quickly. Makes my head a bit fizzy. Necessary though, no point in carrying two drinks with me. ‘When my friend gets back, give him another drink and let him know I’ve gone upstairs to say hello to Eric, will you?’

‘No problem.’

Downing the rest of my drink, I pick up the new one and head up the stairs.

Open to the dance floor below, the upper level is much like the lower. Smoky, dim, crowded and more people snogging. There is a slightly raised area on the far side, on which the DJ is set up. There are massive speakers and loads of wires ... and Eric. My favourite Jamaican DJ. There are good-looking men and then, there are good-looking men. Eric is melty good-looking. So good-looking it’s hard to look him in face sometimes. I go all silly and dissolve into giggles, like I’m ten years old. He has dark chocolate skin, green eyes and lashes that would be the envy of most girls I know. His dreads are longer than they were last time I saw him, mid-way down his back now. He wears a long white, linen shirt, his trademark orange shorts and sandals. Unfortunately, he is, I always have to check, still wearing the wedding ring. Damn.

He has his own groupies though. They crowd around him buy him drinks or, by the way some of them are dressed, offer him sexual favours. They glare at me as I push past them and slip uninvited, behind the barrage of equipment that separate him form the masses.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ he shouts in my ear over the roar of the music as he slides his arm around me and pulls me into a huge hug.

‘Work’s been a crazy and I had this boyfriend ...’ I shout back.

‘Had?’

‘Chucked me.’

‘Chucked you?’

‘Yeah, never mind. My fault.’

‘Well, so long as you’re back. We’ve missed you!’ He releases my waist but keeps the one around my shoulders, as he adjusts his headset and does something to the panel of switches and sliders in front of him that I swear makes the walls shake. Or it could just be my eardrums. I sip my drink and it does help calm my ears. How many have I had now? That’s the trouble with drinks like this, you can’t taste the alcohol. I might as well be drinking squash.

‘Are you gonna dance for me tonight?’ he asks, rummaging through his records. ‘Been ages since you danced for me.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know.’ He makes his selection and sets it up on the turntable. ‘Come on, Xen, get your little arse up on my speakers.’

He picks me up sets me on the speaker beside him. The railing is right beside me and only extends about six inches over the height of the speaker. I can see the whole bar from here. The throng of people moving together on the crowded floor below me. I down the rest of my martini and pull off my boots. It’s so much better barefoot. The vibration from the speakers goes right to your head. Besides, barefeet always a better choice for me than three inch heels. Less of a chance of falling on my arse this way.

Eric hands me another drink, don’t know where from and I stand up. The lights up here are so bright and so hot and the music so loud; I can feel it rise up through my feet, fill me, move me. It’s empowering, intoxicating, it makes me laugh, makes my head light. I look round at Eric, he has a huge grin on his face watching me. I’ve missed him, missed this. Missed being out on my own. Missed the attention. I’m good at getting attention. I could dance here all night.

*

You can only have so many drinks before you have to come down off speakers that close to a thirty foot drop. I think I’ve had a fair amount to drink. I’ve got quite t! he collection of little plastic swords. They spear the cherries in my martinis. Not all that fond of maraschino cherries but I do like the little swords. There’s three red ones, a white one, a green, a yellow and two blue. How many is that? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight ... Hmmmm. No wait ... There’s another yellow one in bottom of the drink I’ve just finished. Nine.

Henners ambles over to me. ‘Do you want another one?’

I motion for him to come closer and when he does I whisper, ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘My friend ... the one I came with. I don’t want him to know ... I’m drunk.’

‘Right, love.’

‘So I need a coffee.’

‘Coffee. Sure.’

‘No, but not just coffee; coffee here is shit.’ He laughs. I hold my finger up to show him I’m serious and help centre myself. ‘I want one of those fancy Irish ones with the cream on top.’

‘Sure, love, anything you like.’

A few minutes later, he sets my coffee down in front of me. It comes in a pretty, tall, glass mug with a pathetic, tall handled mini-spoon. It looks loverly though, with the whipping cream and the shaved chocolate.

Really, I just want to put my mouth over the whole thing and hoover up all the cream but that’s not dignified. Dignified is impotent ... important rather, and I’m forced to pick up the ridiculous spoon. ‘Tis good though.

Where’s Remus?

Pulling myself onto my knees on the stool. I look over the heads to see if I can find him. There he is. He’s actually quite close. He’s still dancing with the same soggy, blond slag I saw him with a half hour ago. Blond slag is pawing at him. I watch as they move together, as she untucks his top and slides her hands up his back. I know that was the point of taking him out tonight. To prove my silly little point. And I have, I think. He looks like he’s having fun and so does she.

She laughs against his ear. Slides a hand through his hair. They’re so close.

God, please don’t kiss her. I just don’t want him to kiss her.

I mean no one likes watching their friends snog, do they? Least of all with a blond, vodka-soaked, stick insect. He could do so much better.

He looks my direction and smiles. Unfortunately, my decision to wave back entails me taking my hand off the bar, and consequently, crashing to the floor.

Ow!

‘You all right, love?’ Henners’ face appears over the bar.

‘Slipped.’

‘Yeah.’ He laughs. ‘I saw that. You all right?’

‘Fan-bloody-tastic.’

‘Xena,’ comes a voice to my left, drawing out the name with a tone of mock disproval. ‘I think you’ve had far too much to drink,’ he slurs. I look up to see Remus, with his bloodshot eyes and his tart-tousled hair.

‘Hello, kettle,’ I find myself slurring right back at him, ‘this is the pot, you’re black.’

He laughs and offers me his hand. ‘Come on, before you hurt yourself, or worse me.’

*

It’s not that far to walk, not really. I’ve done it a hundred times and in far worse weather than this. It’s raining. That fine mist, drizzly, rain that doesn’t look like much but soaks you through in no time. Still, clears my head a bit; like to think so anyway.

‘How many drinks did you have?’ I ask him, steadying myself on his arm as I walk.

‘Dunno remember. Twelve or so, I think.’

I stop, my hand on his arm, and turn toward him. It seems to rain harder when you stop.

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Twelve silver bullets!’ I say, laughing. ‘You’ve had twelve silver bullets? You should be dead.’

I watch as a huge grin spreads across his face from one ear to the other. ‘Too right.’

‘You’re bloody invincible.’

‘I am. Must be.’ He throws an arm around my shoulders and we start walking again.

‘So you had fun?’

‘I did. Thank you.’

‘I haven’t done that in ages.’ Truth. ‘Told you you’d get attention.’

‘Little bit of attention, yeah.’ He ducks he head down a little and smiles.

‘I saw you and that blond tart.’

I pull myself up onto a bench and walk along it, so he and I are almost the same height. I like being taller.

‘She wasn’t a tart. Her name is Angela. She’s from Sheffield.’

‘She was behaving like a tart,’ I mutter, jumping down off the end of the bench, nearly landing on my knees. Remus staggers a bit and pulls me up.

‘Was she now?’

‘Well, you didn’t untuck yourself.’ I slip my hand into his coat and tug on his top.

‘And that’s a bad thing?’

‘No.’ The not-so-bad rain is fast becoming a torrential downpour. ‘Did you kiss her?’ I ask, grabbing his arm and tugging on it in order to get myself up onto the next bench.

‘No,’ he answers.

‘What about the other one, what about Daphne?’

‘I didn’t kiss Daphne, or Jessica, or Charlotte.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugs. ‘Just didn’t.’

‘But I gave you ample opportunity.’ I stop just short of the end of the bench and he turns to me.

‘You gave me?’ he smirks.

‘Well, I’m the one who insisted you come out tonight. I’m the one that got you here. I get the credit.’

‘Really?’

‘Mmm hmm. I mean, you look great,’ I brush the shoulder of his smart coat, ‘and you’ve got that whole waxing moon thing going on; which, I still don’t believe you don’t know about. Yet you still failed to get snogged.’

‘Well, then it’s you who failed.’

‘Me?’ I blink the water out of my eyes and he brushes my rain-sodden fringe off my forehead.

‘Well, if my night was entirely in your hands. No one to blame but yourself.’

‘Really?’

‘Entirely.’ He nods and takes a step closer.

‘Well, there’s nothing else to do then, is there?’ Shrugging I lean forward and cover his mouth with my own, pushing my tongue past his lips, making it count.

What do you say to that Mr Lupin?

Apparently, he doesn’t mind. His lips and his tongue follow mine.

The rain splashes down hard on my face. As I lean into him I can feel it run into my collar and down my back. I wonder if he’s as soaking wet as I am. Oh, but he’s so warm, and he tastes like gin. And this is so weird. I run my fingers through his wet hair and I can feel his hands brush my sides, briefly my on back, my shoulders; as if he isn’t sure where he’s allowed to touch. It’s funny and I giggle against his mouth as we part.

That was very naughty; I shouldn’t have done that.

‘So?’ I ask, when I’ve finally composed myself.

He looks me directly in the eye, licks his lips and smiles. ‘That. Doesn’t. Count.’

‘No? Why not?’

He shrugs. ‘Because ... it’s you.’

‘And I don’t count?’

‘No. Not a tick.’ He turns from the bench and I jump down to follow him.

‘Then why are you blushing?’

‘Not.’

‘Yes, you are.’

He stiffens up and strides away, fingers laced behind his back. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Xena.’

Laughing, I have to run to catch up.
*

Mrs Fuller peers out through her curtains as we climb the stairs to my flat. By climb, I mean hold the railing and stumble up them between fits of laughter. I wave to her but she pretends not to see me.

I’m soaking wet. Absolutely drenched. Why does it take walking into a warm room for you to realise how cold you are?

I peel off my jacket and hang it on the hook and watch has Remus does the same with Bill’s coat. Dry clothes would probably be a good idea for both of us. Normally, a Drying Charm would be in order but I know anything I try to dry at the moment would probably end up as ashes, so it’s best not to risk it.

I find some towels and a pair of my pyjamas in the ironing basket. Folded, which impresses me.

‘There’s a pair of men’s pyjamas and various other bits that might fit you, in the drawer at the bottom of the wardrobe.’

‘You have men’s pyjamas?’

‘Yes. Joke gift my dad got ages ago, gave them to me. They’re a little silly but they’re lovely and warm. Back in a bit.’

Stumbling into my bathroom, I collapse on the edge of the bath. It takes me a few minutes to steady myself. The walls are all spinny and the floor keeps moving in waves. I know it’s not real but it looks it. I stand to the realisation that I’m going to be sick and am very glad to be in such close proximity to the toilet. How badly off would I be if I hadn’t had two helpings of Molly’s beef stew?

Amazingly enough, I manage to struggle into my pyjamas and, after thoroughly cleaning my teeth, decide to venture back out. Remus is splayed out on my bed, in bright red snowman pyjama bottoms that are far too short for him and a lurid green tee shirt, which I won at a St Patrick’s Day party two years ago and have had the good sense never to wear.

‘Shove over.’ I push at his foot and he moves it over enough so that I can lie down. Pulling the blanket back and slipping into bed. My wet hair is icy cold; when my head hits the pillow it freezes my scalp and neck, sending shivers down my spine.

‘You okay?’ Remus asks.

‘Cold,’ I reply, pulling the blanket over my shoulder.

‘Come here.’ He puts an arm around me and pulls me toward him. But the fact that he is on top of the covers and I am underneath them makes this entire gesture ... well, not effective.

‘You need to be under here,’ I tell him.

He pauses for a moment as if he’s considering it and then acts, albeit very slowly. But he does manage to get under the blankets without getting out of bed or even sitting up. He shuts his eyes when he’s finally lying beside me.

‘Room still spinning for you too?’ I ask.

‘Very much so.’

He is actually surprisingly warm for someone who was subject to the same walk home as I was. I settle down beside him, resting my head on his arm. He rolls to face me, wrapping both his arms around me and resting his chin against my forehead. ‘Better?’ he asks, his voice sounding rumbly against my ear.

‘Much. You know, if you close your eyes and concentrate, it’s like we’re rocking on the sea.’

‘Are you trying to make me sick?’

‘There’s a bin beside the bed.’

He just chuckles. I open my eyes again and trace the lettering on the front of his tee shirt with my finger. I’d forgotten there was writing on it. “Don’t Fuck With Leprechauns” written in large orange letters. It makes me laugh.

‘Your taste in tee shirts is impeccable,’ Remus comments.

‘Oh shush, I won it. Couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. Thought perhaps if I had to do any painting, or if I had a particularly messy potion to make, that I’d wear it then.’

‘And have you?’

‘No, forgot all about it. Painted last year too.’

’Silly.’

‘I know.’

I slide my arm around his waist and hug him to me, feeling his embrace tighten as well. My eyes close and I allow myself the sensation of floating, with waves all around. It doesn’t make me feel seasick, it makes me feel calm.

His fingers slide through my hair and I look up at him. ‘Sshh,’ he whispers, ‘go back to sleep. Shut your eyes.’

I do. His hand slides down my back, resting on my waist for a few minutes then moving again.
Seeking my hip, drawing intricate patterns on the exposed skin there. It makes me shiver a little but it feels so nice. His hand slides across my back, moving under my top with those same slow, deliberate motions. His finger traces my spine and my body responds before I even realise it. It’s instinct. Instinct that turns my head into his shoulder, that causes my body to arch against his. My hand finds the hem of his tee shirt and I slide my hand under it and up his back, like he’s doing to me, like I watched the tart doing tonight. His skin is rougher than I expected, but he is so warm and he sighs softly as I move my hand around his side, running it over his chest, playing my fingers through the soft, downy hair I find there; vaguely wondering what it would feel like against my cheek. His hand moves through my hair again, sliding across my ear, down the side of my neck and over my collarbone. I watch his long fingers trace down the collar of my pyjama top, down to my top button. He fingers it for a few moments but then his hand moves back up, he smoothes my collar and kisses my forehead.

When I look up, I find him watching me. He draws a deep breath, smiles and says, ‘I think I’d best sleep on the settee.’

That is probably a good idea. I want to thank him for warming up my bed and for being such good company. But I don’t. I just smile and nod.

He sits up, with some difficulty; don’t blame him, I doubt I could do it at this point, picks up his pillow and moves to stand up, he teeters for a moment and then lands on the floor.

‘You all right?’ I ask, rolling to the edge of my bed to see him face down on the carpet.

‘Fine,’ comes the muffled response.

‘Do you need some help?’

‘No. Think I’ll just stay here, actually.’

‘You sure?’

‘Mmm hmm.’

‘Want a blanket?’

‘Yeah, okay.’

I pull the blanket from the end of the bed and chuck it over him. There is another muffled word from Remus which sounds a bit like ‘Cheers.’

Rolling back to the middle of my bed, I hug my pillow and shut my eyes. So glad I don’t work tomorrow.

*