Consequences

Chapter 20: Needful things

At about five o’clock this morning I managed to convince her to go home. Convinced her that I wasn’t going to die ... or top myself. But, now the day has broken, and it’s gloomy and raining and miserable outside, I’m not so sure.

I need to get up and get dressed.

I have to meet Merch.

Sliding off the bed, I make my way into the bathroom. My robes are gone. The ones I left on the floor last night. The ones soaked in Emmeline’s blood. Don’t know if I should attribute their disappearance to Molly or Remus. Probably Molly ... I find I don’t even want to look at that patch of the floor where they lay. It’s too heavy a reminder.

I clean my teeth, change into work clothes and run my fingers through my hair, stepping in front of the mirror as I do so. The girl in the mirror doesn’t even look like me. Not really. Her complexion ... She has an ashen, grey look about her. Her hair is a drab brown. Her eyes are puffy and rimmed with dark circles. Damn it. She does, however, match my mood. But I can’t really go to work looking like this, can I? People will ask questions.

Taking a deep breath, I squint my eyes at the girl in the mirror and make the change. Dizzy. Overwhelmingly dizzy, nauseous, sick ... I hit the hard tile of the bathroom floor with a heavy, dull thump. Adding to the bruises on my elbows and knees, headache pounding behind my eyes. For a few moments I just lie there on the cold floor as the room comes back into focus. What happened? Perhaps I’ve caught some sort of flu. Perhaps I’m just too tired.

I manage to get onto my knees, but keep my head down, taking a few good, deep, breaths before reaching up, grasping the edge of the pedestal sink and pulling myself to my feet. The image of the same dull girl looks back at me from the mirror.

The hair. I’ll just do the hair. Concentrating, once more on the girl in the mirror I change. Overwhelming dizziness, nausea. This time I don’t let it take me down, this time I grab the edge of the sink and hold on for dear life. The swirling sensation eventually subsides and I turn on the tap in front of my face. Inhaling the cool air created by the running water, I slip my hand in the cold torrent and splash my face. It takes longer this time, for my feet to feel solid on the floor, for me to raise my head from the cold porcelain of the sink and look into the mirror.

It hasn’t worked. Same mousy-brown ... Why hasn’t it worked? I can feel my chest tighten as panic begins to take hold. Why hasn’t it worked?

*

‘What’s up, Tonks?’ George’s face shows concern as I come thundering down the stairs and into reception.

‘Is Madam Pom ... Is Poppy here?’

‘No.’ He shakes his head. ‘No. Erm ... Haven’t seen her since yesterday morning. But there’s some sort of conference going on at St Mungo’s. She’s probably there.’

‘Okay, thanks.’

‘You all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just off to work.’

He gives me an odd look as I hurry past him and out the front door.

**

Merch is my immediate superior. He is one step down from Robards. Well, technically, he is above Robards. When Scrimgeour became Minister, Merch should have moved up, but he chose not to. Said he’d rather be an Auror than an administrator. That I do respect. Probably why I like him so much. I was, however, not looking forward to explaining the reason I’m so late; the reason I spent most of the morning in St Mungo’s ...

‘What did the Healers have to say?’ Merch asks me, concern definite in his voice.

‘Physically, there’s nothing the matter with me.’ I hate saying that, really I do. Because, if there’s nothing physically the matter, that means I’m a bit mental, doesn’t it? More than just a bit ...

‘Well that’s a bit of good news. But you can’t--’

‘I can’t change, can’t shift ... It’s like I’m not really--’

‘You can’t cease to be a metamorphmagus, Tonks. It’s what you are.’

‘I know. Just, at the moment, I’m a rather useless one.’ That is how I feel, completely useless ... and shit scared ... All my muscles are tense and my left heel is practically vibrating against the hard floor.

But Merch just smiles at me. ‘Well, they didn’t make you an Auror just because you could morph. Welcome to our world, Tonks. I suggest that you brush up on your potions, charms and spellwork. Everything the rest of us use on a regular basis that you’ve never had to.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He raises an eyebrow at my use of Sir. I know he doesn’t like it, but it does seem rather appropriate in these circumstances. Rolling the parchment in front of him, he looks up at me and smiles. ‘I want you to take some time off.’

‘That’s not necessary.’

‘It’s also not optional. Just a few days, Tonks. Relax, regroup. Things are only going to get worse before they get any better. The last thing I want is to have one of my Aurors burn out. Just a few days ...’

But I’m shaking my head. ‘Please. No. I need something to do. Anything. I can’t do nothing, I’ll go mad.’

He considers me for a few minutes while my stomach twists itself into knots, and I pray he changes his mind; I already feel useless, I don’t need to be rendered useless as well.

‘Do you know the Weasley family?’ he asks finally.

‘Yes. Know them quite well. Went to school with some of them.’

‘Good, good. I want you in here first thing Monday morning. You’ll be working security at the Burrow. Setting wards, making sure the place is completely secure. Proudfoot will be assigned with you. You’ll check each other's work.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Go home, Tonks, and I don’t want to see you until Monday. Understand?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ I know his decision’s final. Know he thinks it for the best, so I nod dutifully and rise from my chair. I’m almost out of his office when his voice stops me.

‘Do you like Hogsmeade, Tonks?’

‘Yes. It’s a nice village.’

‘Good.’

‘Why?’

‘Just curious.’ He shrugs and smiles at me. ‘Feel better, all right?’

*

I didn’t go home straight away. Couldn’t. I went for a walk. Long walk. Walked home from the Ministry kind of long walk. But even as I pass through Rowena’s Gate and down the cobbled street to my flat. I can’t help but wish the lights were on in my windows, wish that supper was waiting, wish that he’d answer my door with a sweet smile and a tea towel slung over his shoulder. But the lights are off and my flat is empty. I’m alone, and don’t I know it. I’ve been dreading this all day, coming back here. Thought about not doing it. Thought about going to Mum and Dad’s. But they would want to know why. Thought about going to Headquarters, but I know there will be more questions there, more hushed whispers; about how I look, about Emmeline, about Remus ... I do not want to be pitied.

Mrs Fuller waves from her window as I climb the stairs. I smile at her and feign a yawn, hoping it’s enough to keep her from my door tonight. I don’t want company. Shutting the door behind me, I turn on the lights. Everything is just as I left it. Like time has stood still here. Like last night never happened. I wish it hadn’t ... Slowly, I unlace my boots, kicking them off into the corner, letting my cloak slump to the floor on top of them. Just do what you always do. So I light the fire in the hearth and put the kettle on. What I always do. Right, find something for supper. I open the pantry door and find myself staring at the food on my shelves. There’s food on my shelves ... That isn’t like always ... That’s new. Because it’s not supposed to be just me anymore. It makes me catch my breath and clench my teeth. There are no Pot Noodles, no stale crisps ... Not how it’s supposed to be at all. I rummage a bit and finally find a tin of treacle pudding. An old staple. That will do. The kettle begins to whistle and I make myself a cup of tea. I also make custard, something I would not normally have done. But, it’s easy enough.

I make myself comfortable in my usual little corner of the sofa, with my usual blanket and my usual book, and my rather sweet supper. A nagging little voice in my head keeps telling me I should at least have a piece of fruit, but I manage to ignore it.

I do warm up the pudding a bit, but can’t be bothered to take it out of the tin. Just eat a bit at a time and keep pouring hot custard in on top. Opening my book to page one hundred and forty-nine I slip myself into the world of Alison Devaney and Callum MacKay, the tormented Laird of Glencairn. When she confronts him on the tower he pushes her away, tells her to go back to her room, to leave him, but she’s insistent ... He takes her with wild abandon up against the castle turret in the driving rain. Makes love to her. That is what Ms Malone calls it. But that isn’t love. It’s lust and pain. And as I read it all seems to become rather mechanical.

Love is so much different.

There’s a packet of Snap cards on my coffee table. There not mine. There’s an empty bottle of Cathcart’s Best on the mantelpiece. It’s a roundish, squat bottle with a candle shoved in it’s mouth; white wax has dripped and hardened down the sides. The other blanket is folded on the back of the chair. Folded. I didn’t do that.

I finish my pudding just staring into the fire, not allowing myself to look around the room. Trying not to think of how those things got there.

I’m lucky, I suppose, that he didn’t leave much here.

Leaving the empty tin on the coffee table, along with my nearly untouched mug of tea, I make my way into the bathroom, wash my face, clean my teeth and try not to look in the mirror. I need pyjamas and bed and ... I need ... Dropping to my knees I search through the cupboard under my sink. It’s here, I know it is -- tucked back behind the pipe. I withdraw the small, blue box, set it on the edge of the sink and just stare at it. Sweet little drawing of a sleepy sheep in a nightcap.

He would be so upset if he knew I had this.

He’d be furious.

Picking up the box, I make my way back into my kitchen and put the kettle back on the hob.

Orange mug with the red handle. That was always my favourite mug for sleeping draft. Breaking the seal on the little blue box, I slide one packet out ... turn it over and read the warning label. DO NOT EXCEED RECOMMENDED DOSE. May be habit-forming.

I tear the top off the packet and tip the purple powder into my mug. The kettle begins to boil and a moment later, I watch the bubbles form and fizz as I add the water. It smells so good. Picking up the mug I head off to bed.

Just like I used to do.

I don’t bother with lights in here. Just light the fire. The liquid is hot and sweet and lovely. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I do it anyway. And I hope he knows.

It’s raining again; still, I open the window. Partly because it’s a bit stuffy in here, and partly because I’m hoping Simon might be on the prowl; that he might come in and keep me company.

Setting the half-empty mug down on my dressing table, I root through my drawers for pyjamas. It’s only then, as I slide my robes off and let them fall on the floor, that I make the mistake of looking in the mirror. The girl in the mirror looks awful, drawn and plain and ... But something else catches my eye, something hanging over the back of the chair before the fire. Something that immediately sends my heart plunging to my stomach.

The fabric is white. White, soft, worn, cotton. I touch it, gently brush the back of my hand across its surface. Then I do the thing I know I shouldn’t do the most; I pick it up and bring it to my face. Let the scent of him fill me, make me weak, give me goose flesh. Remus ... Tears are burning behind my eyes as I reach back and unhook my bra, slide it off, drop it onto the chair before slipping my arms into the thin, cool fabric of his sleeves. Pulling his shirt onto my shoulders, and tugging it closed, over the red mark that covers my shoulder, my breast. He told me I was beautiful. Last night I didn’t feel beautiful. Last night he took that away ... I can feel the tears on my face, but still, I do up his buttons.

Is it possible that it feels like him? It does. Feels like him as he kisses me goodbye when I go to work, feels like him as he slides into bed behind me as his lips brush the back of my neck. I climb into my bed, crawling under the covers, resting my head on his pillow. I feel all cloudy, and I’m not sure whether it’s the sleeping draft, or just how I am today. Wrapping my arms across my chest, I shut my eyes, and choke on my tears.

Please ... I can’t do this ...

*

Soft paws on my chest and a little head butting sharply against my chin wakes me up. His fur is damp, and he’s purring loudly. I scratch the top of his head, and blink my eyes open. ‘Good morning, Simon.’

His response is somewhere between a meow and a chirp and he bashes my chin again. According to the clock on the wall it’s after twelve. I wonder if it was the sleeping draft? Odd that I still don’t feel that rested. I should get up. I want to go to the mirror, want to see if it works today, want to see if I work ...

But I don’t want what happened yesterday. I don’t want that feeling again. So I just lie here and decide to change my nails. It’s the easiest thing to do really, something I did almost daily when I was younger. I concentrate on the fingers of my left hand, close my eyes and am immediately overcome with nausea. I open them again to no change. Nothing.

Fuck ... I’ve only just woken up and already I’m crying.

Just get up, get the kettle on, start the day.

It’s a bright day, and I slip out of bed, stepping into my slippers and pulling on my dressing gown.

The Prophet is on my doorstep as usual, and I sit at my little table by the window with my cup of tea and my bowl of cereal to read it. The first page is dedicated to all the changes that Scrimgeour is making at the Ministry. On page three I find the news of Emmeline’s death. I don’t want to read the article. Don’t want to; I turn the page quickly and immediately feel guilty for doing so.

FEARING FENRIR. - That headline grabs my attention.

Several sightings of Fenrir Greyback in and around the village of Duddingdon, just outside Edinburgh, have residents panicking as the full moon rapidly approaches. This on rumour that Fenrir Greyback and his newly reestablished Pack have taken up residence in the countryside surrounding the village. “We’re leaving,” says Caradog Burns, 43. “I’ve been here all my life. I love my home, but I’ve got my children to consider.”

I can’t help but wonder if that’s where Remus is now.

*

It arrived shortly after I finished breakfast; a flaming Phoenix feather and a note. Dumbledore at the St George and all available Order members asked to attend a meeting.

Truthfully, there aren’t many of us here. Only about ten. Notably missing are the Weasleys, Kingsley, Remus, Agnetha and ... Emmeline. There is a new face amongst the familiar though, a blonde witch. I’ve seen her before. I think she’s a Healer.

We aren’t in the pub room for this meeting, but in a room on the first floor. A sort of small drawing room. A large desk sits in the centre and in a semicircle around it there are arranged a variety of squashy armchairs and a small settee. There is a pot of tea, a water jug, and a tray of sandwiches on the sideboard. It looks like a comfortable classroom really. Dumbledore enters through the side door and we all seat ourselves. He is wearing cheerful robes of the deepest purple, but his hand is heavily bandaged.

‘My dear Albus ...’ Hestia begins. But Dumbledore waves her question off with his good hand.

‘Tis nothing, Hestia. I had a bit of an accident.’

He probably knows we don’t believe him, but we know not to ask any more questions. There is a moment of silence as Dumbledore organises his papers and the meeting begins.

The first thing brought up, of course, is Emmeline’s murder. Dumbledore’s tone is low and sorrowful and I try not to listen, just stare down at my boots. At the lack of polish on the toes. Scrapes and scuffs on black leather ... and ... blood stains. And my heart falls again. Damn it. I really didn’t think about my boots. Should have cleaned them, should have polished them before I went to work yesterday. I switch my attention to my cup of tea, and my little, triangular, sandwich ... cucumber and liver sausage ... I can feel their eyes on me. They all know I was there. But I won’t look up. I don’t trust my reaction. I only let my breath out when we move on to the next subject.

It has been rumoured for weeks now that the Ministry would be posting Aurors to Hogsmeade to help guard the school. Rumour no more apparently, the Ministry has committed. Suppose that’s why Merch asked me about Hogsmeade yesterday. Think I can safely assume that I’m being sent up there. Still, change of scenery might be nice. Perhaps I can get one of those new flats in that old mill conversion ...

‘What of the werewolf situation?’

Those words bring me sharply back to the room. Dedalus has asked the question and we all look at Dumbledore for the answer.

‘Werewolves are still a grave concern,’ he replies slowly. ‘Everyone here knows that Greyback has rejoined Voldemort’s ranks. Voldemort has promised him vengeance in return for his loyalty. Promised freedom to kill both Muggle and wizard to satisfy his blood lust. And Greyback in turn is rallying his brothers. Encouraging those afflicted with his curse to embrace it. That they deserve blood. That together they have the power, power to terrorise and control.’

‘What can we do?’ the blonde witch asks.

‘We do what we can. We have a man in the field.’

At this there is a quiet snicker from behind me. I turn to find Snape seated there. He says nothing just sneers at me down that ridiculously large nose of his. I really want to hit him. But Dumbledore is still speaking and I need to hear this.

‘A man. A werewolf, you mean?’ the blonde asks.

‘Yes, Honoria. A werewolf.’

‘Can he really be trusted?’

The rest of us exchange glances. Annoyed that the question was asked.

Dumbledore smiles softly at her. ‘Implicitly.’

She nods, seemingly satisfied. Dumbledore continues. ‘He reports back to me that the werewolves are constantly on the move these days, evading the Ministry. Their numbers are growing. Greyback is gathering the poor, the desperate, promising them a future, albeit a bloody one. Our spy, for his part is making some progress too. He tries to convince some that Greyback’s way isn’t the only way. That they can live full and productive lives. That they can be happy ...’

I’ve heard these words before, but not from Dumbledore. From Remus. Are they Remus’s words or Dumbledore’s? Was he just quoting the old man when he explained his assignment to me last week? This assignment that was forced upon him. This assignment that has made him question his life, his values, his self-worth. For the Order? Or for Dumbledore?

Convince some that they can be happy ... At what expense? Remus’s happiness? His life? I suddenly find myself gripping the handle of my mug a little too tightly as the anger in me builds. And anger toward the old man before me. He’s known Remus far longer than I have. He had to know what he asking of him. He had to know what this assignment would do ...

Then we’re not talking about Remus anymore. He has happily switched to Harry and the Burrow. And the fact that the Ministry is turning it into a fortress. That Aurors will be setting up security. That I have been assigned. And although I nod, I can’t speak to him; I look at this hat rather than his eyes.

The meeting is adjourned after that and they all stand and prepare to leave. Some Disapparate immediately. Others mill about and talk for a few minutes first, but soon they’re gone too, and it’s just me sitting here and Dumbledore behind his desk going through his papers, signing various parchment rolls.

I just stare at his hands as he works and wonder how he broached the subject with Remus. Did he just tell him what he had to do?

There’s a small flash on the desktop and another bit of parchment appears. There are dark stains on the outside of the tight roll. Blood stains? And I suddenly hope it’s not from Remus.

After reading it quickly, the old man rolls the parchment carefully back up and a moment later he’s reduced it to a small pile of ash on the desk top. He brushes it to the floor and it disappears before it hits the carpet.

I consider leaving. Perhaps I should go and practise my spellwork as Merch suggested. But what I really want to practise blasting things to oblivion. I can’t though, can’t bring myself to leave the room.

‘What can I do for you, Nymphadora?’

His words surprise me, make me jump. But his tone is light, friendly, which only annoys me more.

He’s looking at me as I raise my head and meet his eyes. And though I clench my teeth I can feel myself positively boiling.

‘How dare you do that to him?’ It comes out of my mouth before I have a chance to make it sound ... less seething?

He sips his tea and regards me through his spectacles. ‘I am sorry, Miss Tonks. Do what to whom?’

‘You sent him to Greyback.’

‘Ah.’ He takes a bite of biscuit and another sip of tea. ‘I asked nothing of Remus. It was his choice. He volunteered for this task.’

‘Volunteered? It’s hardly much of a volunteer pool when he’s the only one that qualifies.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ Dumbledore answers simply.

‘He went because you needed a spy.’

‘Because the Order needed one.’

‘Because he’s a werewolf.’

‘Of course.’ The old man’s tone isn’t the least apologetic. ‘We were very lucky to have one of them in our ranks.’

‘Have one of them? He’s not them. He’s a good man.’

He looks directly at me now and sets his tea cup down. ‘I do know that, Nymphadora. You must know I hold Remus Lupin in the highest regard. But, no matter how much you or I wish it differently, he is a werewolf. And if he can affect even just a few to change ...’

‘And what about their effect on him? What about that? Did you think about that in your perfect little plan?’

‘I trust Remus. I trust him to make the right decisions for himself. Perhaps you should do the same.’

‘If they find he’s a spy, they will kill him.’

‘Yes,’ Dumbledore nods sagely. ‘But death is something we are all willing to risk. As an Auror you, of all people, should understand that.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How? Because it’s your life you’re risking? I wonder what Remus would say about that.’

He rises from his chair and slips the remaining rolls of parchment into a green leather satchel. I just look up at him, at that lined face. He says nothing more, just stares down at me through his spectacles, his eyes twinkling in the light of the fire. He knows, doesn’t he? He knows... and I can’t help but feel a deeper anger rising within me at his patronising tone. So I clench my teeth, and breathe through my nose, and stare fixedly at the far wall.

‘If you are quite finished, Nymphadora, I do have a rather pressing appointment.’

But I can’t think of anything else to say. I just want to scream. He says nothing else to me and a moment later he, and the desk before me, disappear in a puff of blue smoke.

*

I’ve managed to stick to my routine.

My routine of bad food, trashy novels, and ... three hour bubble baths. Did that last night; haven’t done that in ages. It was brilliant. Followed it up with a nice mug of sleeping draft. Just a single dose-- I can handle a single dose. Single dose is only slightly scary. I don’t know if it actually helped me sleep, but it did make me feel better, vindicated somehow. Topped the evening by deciding to torture myself further and spend another night wrapped in his shirt. Probably shouldn’t have done that. But despite everything, I miss him terribly.

I am, however, extremely grateful for a small black and white cat who kept me company almost all night.

But today is better than yesterday. At least today I’ve had something to do. And in one of my favourite places --the Burrow. Molly and Arthur set simple wards before any of their children came home for the holidays. Basically, Proudfoot and I have spent the day breaking in, mapping the weaknesses, setting new, stronger spells and then testing each other's work. It’s actually been a lot of fun. We’ve reset the Apparation point to the lane just beyond the front gate. Disapparation point we have left a few feet from the front door. After all, it is far better to know who’s coming than who’s leaving.

But now it’s evening and we’re finished for today. Proudfoot has just left, and I knock on the front door. Molly’s invited me to spend the night as I have to be back here in the morning anyway.

I was hoping that perhaps Ginny and Hermione would still be up, but no such luck. I’ve only missed them by about fifteen minutes. Hermione arrived last night but I haven’t had much of a chance to talk to her or anyone. Probably for the best though, don’t really know what I’d say.

Molly fusses over me far too much. I find myself sitting at her table as she sets cheese and bread and fruit in front of me. I pick up an apple in hopes of quieting that nagging little voice in my head that keeps telling me I’m going die of scurvy. I can see into the sitting room from here. Bill sits in the oversize leather chair in front of the fire, Fleur curled up in his lap. She looks as though she’s falling asleep and he strokes his fingers slowly through her hair. As I watch them I can’t help but feel jealous. Not because it’s Bill or that I want to be Fleur but ... Last time I was here I spent a good part of the evening curled up in that chair. So comfortable in my little niche beside Remus; nearly fell asleep myself. That was our first night together ...

‘You wouldn’t want to marry my eldest, would you?’ Molly’s cheerful voice in my ear makes me start a bit as she sits down beside me and slides a steaming mug of cider in front of me.

I laugh. ‘What, me and Bill? ‘Fraid not, Molly. Besides, he looks perfectly happy to me.’

‘I know,’ she says with a rather disappointed sigh. ‘I just wish she were more ... Well, I wish there were more to her. Does that make sense?’

‘Yes. But perhaps there is. Perhaps she’ll surprise you.’

Molly seems to consider this for a moment. ‘Hope so,’ she says finally.

As I finish my dinner and drink, Bill stirs Fleur and she bids us ‘Bon nuit’ as he leads her up the stairs. I was thinking that perhaps I’d be sharing a room with her tonight. But Molly informs me I’ll have Charlie’s room to myself.

When Molly’s satisfied that I’ve eaten enough, she escorts me upstairs. And I let her. After all, I don’t think I’m supposed to know where Charlie’s room is.

It looks barer and smaller than the last time I was here. Is that possible? Half of it seems to be used for storage now. There are boxes and old blankets and two camping beds folded and pushed against the wall. More than half of his Quidditch posters and pennants are missing, most likely “adopted” by his younger brothers. There are trophies and text books stacked on every available surface - Biology, or rather Creaturology - is that a word? “The Effect of Climate Change on the Breeding Patterns of Quintapeds.” Quite honestly, I don’t give a damn if Quintapeds ever get to breed.

The English flag is pinned to the ceiling: St George’s cross with a golden snitch emblazoned at its centre. It’s signed by the 1989 team and I think his brothers know it’s more than their life’s worth to touch that one. The bed is still under the window and has been dressed in soft blankets and a cheerful quilt. My rucksack, which I left in the kitchen this morning, now sits at the foot.

I change quickly into my pyjamas, climb under the covers, snuff the light and draw the curtains. Draw them open, so that I can fall asleep watching the stars. Although it’s damn cold outside it is a clear night. And bright. The moon is bright. It’ll be full again before week’s end. Remus will spend his first full moon with Greyback’s pack.

I hope he has the Wolfsbane potion. I hope Dumbledore wouldn’t send him without it. It must be so frightening to lose yourself once a month; to have no control, no memory. To know it’s coming, that it’s going to happen and there’s nothing you can do about it.

I can feel the tears running down the sides of my face and into my ears. Doesn’t he understand that I can help? That I want to help. I know that potions were never his strong suit, but I’m not half bad at them. Wolfsbane is particularly difficult, but I could try. I would try. I’d do anything ...

I suddenly wish I’d brought his shirt with me. That I’d brought my orange mug and my sleeping draft. I swore I wouldn’t do that tonight but ... I need something ...

No, I just need him.

The stars twinkle down on me and I stare fixedly at Orion, tracing his outline with my finger in the sky, trying to remember the names of the stars. Betelgeuse, Meisa, Bellatrix, Alnitak, Mintaka, Saiph, Rigel ... Canis Major --Sirius, at his feet.

What do you think of all this, Sirius? What do you think I should do?

*

The sudden crush and then quick relief of a heavy weight on my left side wakes me quickly.

‘What the ... Bloody hell!’ a male voice cries out. The lights come on. ‘What the fuck?’

I blink my eyes furiously in the light to see ginger hair, and pale skin, and freckles, and --I immediately shut them again. ‘Charlie do you want to put pyjamas, or trackies, or something on please.’

‘Oh. Shit. Sorry.’ There’s a bit of crashing about and then his voice again. ‘That better?’

I open my eyes again to see him. He’s now wearing pyjama bottoms, which is a relief. Chudley Cannons, which is rather funny.

‘What are you doing in my ... here?’ he asks.

Sitting up in his bed, I scrub my hands over my face. ‘Security for the Ministry. Harry is coming here in a couple of days and the place has to be well ... secure. Your mum invited me to stay. I’ve still got work to do in the morning. What about you?’

He sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. ‘I’ve been camping on a mountainside in Wales for the past few days. Just thought I’d come by, sleep in my own bed, perhaps have breakfast with my family before heading back to Romania.’

‘Sorry, I can go --’ I move to get up.

‘Don’t be stupid. Stay where you are. I’ll grab one of the camp beds.’

‘Who let you in anyway?’ I have to ask.

‘Dad. Guess he doesn’t know that you’re here.’ He unfolds the bed level with mine, drops a pile of old sheets and blankets on top of it and waves his wand over the lot. A moment later it has sorted itself into something that looks terribly comfortable, actually. He slides down into bed and rests his head on his elbow just looking at me.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks after a time.

‘Nothing. I’m fine.’

‘No, you’re not. You look ... Well, you know I love you ... but you look like shit.’

He makes me laugh. ‘Thanks, Charlie. I was actually going for shit warmed over, but just like shit is fine.’

But he isn’t laughing. He doesn’t even smile. ‘You’ve been crying.’ His thumb brushes my cheek. Although I know there are no tears there now, the skin feels tight where they dried. How does he know?

‘So ...’ he continues slowly. ‘I’ll ask my question again. What’s the matter?’

I just look at him. Pale lashes, dark eyes, tonnes of freckles. His thumb brushes my face again.

I can feel the tightness of emotion balling in my stomach spreading rapidly in my chest, heat in my face, tears stinging behind my eyes and then sluicing down my cheeks.

‘Aw, shit ...’ I hear him mutter. And then I feel his arms around me pulling me to him. I turn my head into his chest and just cry. Big yucky snotty crying. He does nothing but tighten his embrace, kiss my temple, and mutter ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.’ in my ear.

But it’s not okay. Definitely not okay.

His hand moves up and down my back. I can't help but let go, let everything go. I don’t know how long it takes me to compose myself. For a long time I don’t even try. But eventually, I can breathe again. The tears slow and stop.

‘Oh gawd, I’m sorry.’ His chest is soaking wet.

He summons two handkerchiefs from the chest of drawers, hands me, and uses the other to mop up the wet on his chest. ‘That’s the good thing about me - I’m completely washable.’

He’s so funny.

‘So talk to me, Nymph. What’s the matter? Bill told me about Emmeline, that you were the one who found her.’ He seems to stop a minute and catch his breath. ‘Fuck, I can’t ... don’t want to imagine what that was like.’

I can’t reply so I just nod, staring down at my fingers. I watch as he slides his hand into mine.

‘She was really nice,’ he continues. ‘I really liked her. Pretty too.’

I nod again and squeeze his fingers, drawing a deep breath that will hopefully keep the waterworks in check.

‘That’s not all of it though is it? You’ve got Sirius as well ...’ I turn my head and stare out the windows at the brightness of the stars. ‘ ... is there something else?’

I nod at the window.

‘What?’ his voice is soft against my ear.

‘Remus.’

‘Remus? What about Remus? Did you have a falling out? I heard he was on special assignment. Has something happened?’

‘More than that, Charlie.’ Drawing a deep breath, I let it out slowly and turn to face him. ‘Last time I saw you I told you I was seeing someone ...’

It takes him a moment but then his eyebrows shoot up and a grin crosses his face. ‘Remus?’

‘Yes.’

But his amused expression quickly turns to one of concern. ‘But ... he’s a werewolf.’

My reaction is immediate and angry and my back is against the cold glass of the window so fast. The furthest I can get away from Charlie. ‘Don’t!’

‘Wait.’ But then he’s in front of me. ‘I didn’t mean ... I’m not ... I’m not saying anything against him. He seems like a decent enough bloke. Just that ... well, he is a werewolf. There are big issues to consider there.’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’

He looks down at me, shakes his head. ‘Course, course you do, sorry. But believe me, Nymph, you don’t have to go off at me about werewolves. You’re preaching to the converted. I know my magical creatures, even the Dark ones.’

But I still want to be angry, still want to scream at him for calling Remus a Dark creature. Yet I know he’s right. The curse that afflicts Remus is born of the most ancient Dark Magic.

‘What did he do?’ he asks simply.

‘He ... basically, he chucked me.’

‘What? Why?’

‘He says that I deserve more. That he doesn’t want to subject me to the prejudice. He says that I’ll lose friends, perhaps even family.’

‘He’s got a point. You might.’

‘Don’t you start too.’

‘Not starting anything, but ... Did you know that in some countries he’s not even considered human? Killing him would not even warrant an investigation, let alone a charge. Regardless of whether or not he was transformed at the time.’

‘I know.’ I do know and it makes me feel sick.

‘Just ... the prejudice is there. And it’ll be even stronger now with all this news of Voldemort and Fenrir.’

I just nod and drop my head into my hands. Deep breaths.

Charlie’s hand brushes across my shoulder. ‘I also thinks he’s being a moron. If that helps.’

‘What?’ I look up at him now.

‘Come on get back into bed, your making me tired just looking at you.’

I do what he says and slip back into bed, resting my head gratefully on the pillow. Charlie slides down on his bed on his stomach, his chin resting on his arm. His other arm stays on my bed. His hand on my shoulder, then the side of my face.

‘Funny, I always thought Remus to be rather intelligent.’

‘Charlie ...’

‘I mean ... Have you seen you?’

I can’t help but laugh. ‘Charlie, you just told me I look like shit.’

‘Granted, you have looked better, but you’re still beautiful.’

‘Please.’

‘Truth. What’s with the brown hair anyway? You never have it brown.’

‘I know. But I can’t do much about it at the moment.’

‘What?’ Charlie pulls himself up onto his elbow. ‘You’re joking?’

‘No. Doesn’t work.’

‘Fuck --that sucks.’ He allows himself to fall to the bed, on his back this time.

‘Yes. It does.’

‘Is it because ...’ But he doesn’t finish the question and I don’t feel much like offering up and answer. For a long time we don’t say anything more, just stare at the flag on the ceiling. He’s got Killian David’s signature. That’s worth a lot.

‘You really love him, don’t you?’ Charlie’s question catches me a bit off guard.

‘Yes.’

There is another long silence and a suddenly find myself hoping that Charlie is all right with my admission.

He rolls toward me and kisses my temple. His hand slides into mine and his fingers close tightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I hope he sees reason soon.’

‘Reason?’

‘Mmmm. As much as werewolves are treated with contempt in our society, Aurors are treated with reverence.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you remember in the old war, the way people would talk about Mad-Eye; like he was some sort of god.’

‘Suppose.’

‘I guess what I’m saying is a good counter to “chap down the end of the lane is a werewolf” is “yes, but his wife’s an Auror.” More than balances out.’

‘Thanks, Charlie.’

‘No problem.’

Charlie waves his wand and snuffs the lights. The room falls into peaceful darkness.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ Charlie says after a bit.

‘K.’

‘Personal question.’

‘Ask away.’

‘Well,’ he says slowly, ‘I assume that you two have been together, that you’ve done the deed?’

‘Yes ...’

‘What’s it like?’

‘What? Being with a man?’ I tease.

‘Shut up! You know what I mean.’

‘Charlie, I am not a research project.’

‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ He’s just goading me now.

I elbow him hard in the ribs. ‘No. It’s not!’

‘Ah-ha. Then it’s good. A little more animalistic than normal?’

‘No!’ I’d think he was being a pervert if he didn’t sound so damn clinical.

‘Really? Flies in the face of the rumours I’ve heard.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘Have you been with him right before the moon?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Werewolves have heightened senses as the full moon approaches; some even say that their hearing gets so intense that they can’t be around groups of people, or even have the wireless on. And male werewolves in particular have heightened sex drive as well. Establishing breeding order, I think it was for. A throwback from the dark ages when there were more werewolves caught in generational curses. Now most werewolves are like Remus, cursed by a bite. So the right to propagate the species is a moot point. But the drive is still there ...’

Dead sexy before the moon. I told him that, didn’t I? But it just occurs to me: Is that why Remus stayed in Hogsmeade? The night before the last moon he stayed in Hogsmeade. Is that why? Because I was sharing his bed?

‘... some Packs celebrate it.’ Charlie’s voice is once again clear. ‘I’m not sure if it’s done here yet, but on the continent they throw huge feasts. Poach deer, slaughter cattle. Great hedonistic parties. Music, food, alcohol, and sex. Mostly Muggles are lured to these events, but it’s becoming quite popular with young witches and a few young wizards too. They all get caught up in this fervor, this obsession with the so-called gothic, with werewolves and vampires.’

‘That’s so dangerous. Aren’t they afraid of being killed?’

‘I think that’s part of the thrill. And anyway, it’s rare for anyone to die at these events. If people died they couldn’t keep doing it from month to month.’

‘That’s mad.’

‘Tis.’

I snuggle down further into the warmth of the blankets. Rather glad now to have Charlie’s company.

‘Nymph?’

‘Hmmmm ...’ Sleepy now.

‘Hippogriff rumour?’

‘Charlie, shut up and go to sleep.’

*

Didn’t have breakfast with the Weasleys this morning. Proudfoot and I had work to finish. I did manage a quick goodbye to Charlie. And Molly pushed toast at me and apologised profusely for the sleeping arrangement. Was rather funny. But now it’s nearly one o’clock and I’ve had a bit of time to myself here in Molly’s snug. Just a bit of time to read the paper.

‘Could you please marry him instead?’ It’s not Molly this time, it’s Ginny. She sets a mug of coffee down on the table in front of me and jerks her head back to the door way. Bill and Fleur are leaning up against the wall by the stairs, kissing.

‘You sound like your mum.’ I set down the paper and pick up the mug. ‘Thanks. It’s after noon shouldn’t he be back at work by now?’

‘He’s just leaving. I assume that’s what the snog-fest is for.’ She shudders. ‘It’s not as if he won’t be back tonight.’ She sits down heavily beside me. ‘So how are you, Tonks?’

‘I’ve been better. But I’m all right.’

She gives me a sceptical look. I think she wants more of an explanation.

‘Just really tired. It’s psychotically busy at work. In fact I’m due back in about,’ I check my watch, ‘fifteen minutes.’

She nods. ‘Mum says you’re coming to dinner tonight though, right?

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Perhaps we can have a game of Snap, or Cauldron, or something?’

‘Sure. That’d be great.’

She gets up to leave, but stops in the doorway and turns to me again. ‘I’ve been meaning, well, to say thank you, for everything you did at the Department of Mysteries.’

‘Please don’t thank me for that. Just got myself knocked out.’

She shakes her head. ‘Harry said you saved him from Lucius.’

‘I don’t remember.’

She gives me another look and I know she doesn’t believe that either. ‘If you all hadn’t come for us ...’

‘We just did what we had to do. As you did.’

She nods.

‘How are you from all that anyway, Gin?’

‘I’m fine. Ron is fine, Hermione’s fine.’

‘Good.’ I take a deep breath and smile at her. ‘Where are they anyway?’

‘They are polishing Ron’s broomstick.’

I choke on my coffee, and she bursts out laughing.

‘Sorry,’ she splutters. ‘But he and Hermione are actually polishing his actual broomstick. Sad, isn’t it?’

‘A little, yeah.’

*

I’m a bit late, I know. But the meeting ran overtime. Law Enforcement has made three arrests over the past few days. Suspected Death Eaters they say. It’s bollocks and they know it. Three arrests by the same group of overly exuberant young officers. One of them is that boy who works on the Knight Bus. Big mouth and thicker than a plank, but about as much a Death Eater as I am. But Clarke seems to think his boys have done well. Had to bring up the fact that Robards’ Auror office hasn’t arrested anyone recently. Needless to say Robards had something to say about that.

Molly opens the door to me. And I’m hit with the lovely aroma of her fabulous cooking. They’re already seated at the large kitchen table.

I just stand there a bit stunned, at the Weasleys, at Mad-Eye, and Agnetha ... and Remus. There is only one vacant seat, the seat between Remus and Bill. I’d just like to disappear now, to run away. But they’re all watching me. I can’t, can I? So instead, I just smile and say hello and move round to what appears to be my assigned seat. Quite honestly, Remus look as surprised as I am. But he smiles and gets to his feet and pulling my chair out for me. Something he’s always done. I smile and nod myself, but can’t bring myself to look him in the face. He tucks the chair in behind me, and takes his seat to my right. And I proceed to knock my water glass over on the table. Bill laughs, Fleur rolls her eyes at me. And it’s gone in a flick of Remus’s wand.

He asks me how I am and how work is and I reply with the correct, mechanical answers. I’m fine. Work is busy. He passes me the peas, the carrots, he serves me pie.

What is he doing? Just pretending? Just pretending everything is all right. That it’s normal. How can he do that? I couldn’t do normal at the moment even if I wanted to.

I really rather wish that I was down the other end of the table with Ginny, Ron and Hermione. Their heads together, no doubt talking about summer plans, and school, and Quidditch scores. Down here the conversation is much darker, revolving around the Ollivander and Florean. Over the course of the meal and then Molly’s lovely apple crumble the conversation moves to the changes Scrimgeour has made at the Ministry, and whether or not it’s expected that he’ll follow the old directives from the last war and give more power to Law Enforcement. If Aurors will, once again, be authorised to kill, not just capture.

I don’t know how comfortable I am with that.

But then, I’ve already done it, haven’t I? Though I didn’t use the curse.

‘It is the opinion of the Ministry that a witch or wizard is less likely to use the killing curse if they know they’re not going to have it levelled at them,’ Mad-Eye explains. ‘Normally, that makes sense. But this is a war. And these are Death Eaters. Their main goal is to kill more of ours than we can of theirs. I don’t see as to how the Ministry has much choice.’

It finally ends and as soon as I can I retreat to the sitting room with Ginny I do. She pulls the Cauldron game from the top shelf of the cupboard and we pick teams. Me and Ginny against Hermione and Ron. The only fair way to play it, Ginny quips. Bill and Fleur wander in next and then Arthur takes a seat by the fire, with his book. We’ve dealt the cards and set up the game, when Remus enters the room.

‘Tonks.’ The weight of his hand on my shoulder makes me feel as though I might just shatter. ‘May I have a word?’ he asks.

‘We’re just about to start.’ I really don’t want to talk to him.

‘S’all right, Tonks.’ Ginny smiles. ‘Go.’

‘But you won’t have an even number.’

‘Bill can play. Can’t you Bill?’

‘Sure.’ Bill ruffles her hair as he sits down beside her.

I suppose the decision has been made for me. I know they think they’re being helpful, but they’re not.

*

It’s a clear night, but rather chilly, and I’m thankful I thought to borrow a jumper before I left the house. It large, and grey, with a bright orange B on the front, but it is nice and warm.

Remus walks a few steps behind me in the darkness, or rather I walk a few steps in front of him. Deliberately. Walking very fast. Past the pond; I’m almost to the wall at the end of the garden when I hear him quicken his pace. I’m tempted to break into a run, but then his hand slides into mine and he’s pulling me to a stop.

‘Tonks, wait.’

Pulling my hand from his, I turn to face him.

‘I just want to talk to you,’ he says softly.

‘I was under the impression that you’d said everything there was to say.’ Crossing my arms in front of me I look up at him, well almost at him, at his shoulder, the side of his head, the moonlight playing on the highlights in this hair, but not at his face.

‘I just want to know that you’re all right.’

‘I’m brilliant. Never better.’

‘Molly says you haven’t been well. That you’re having trouble with your ...’ his fingers brush the side of my hair and it makes me shiver. Weakens my resolve. My defenses. I wish he wouldn’t touch me.

‘It just doesn’t work anymore,’ I say to the air over his right shoulder.

He steps sideways into my line of vision, so that I have to look at him. ‘Doesn’t work?’

‘Makes me nauseous, dizzy, to even try.’

‘What do the Healers say? You’ve been to a Healer, haven’t you?’ He’s concerned, that’s apparent in his expression, but at the moment I don’t think he has any right to be.

‘Of course.’ I shrug. ‘They tell me that there’s nothing the the matter. That perhaps I’m under too much stress. Which is a nice way of saying I’m mental ...’

He shakes his head. ‘No. No, you’re not.’

He’s touching me again. His fingers brush the side of my face, my shoulder and down my arm. And it hurts, it physically hurts, and I wish he wouldn’t do it, but I can’t bring myself to pull away.

‘I’m sorry,’ he continues. ‘You ... you’re the last person I ever wanted to hurt.’

‘Well, bang up job. Cheers.’ I mean to walk away at this point but he catches my hand again.

‘You deserve more, Tonks. You want someone your own age. You want someone who is at least employable, you want someone-- ’

‘Don’t tell me what I want, Remus! I know what I want.’

‘What you think ...’

But I glare at him. You dare say that to me! His words seem to die in his throat. And we just stand there, staring at each other. The skies above us open up and it begins to rain. Odd, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky a few minutes ago.

He still holds my hand, and he’s going to say something, and I don’t want him to. I don’t want him to say another word. I should probably pull my hand back and go into the house. But I don’t. Probably not a good decision, but instead I pull myself to him, stand on my toes, slide my hand around the back of his neck and kiss him. Kiss him as the rain pours on my face, runs down my neck, soaks through Bill’s jumper. He kisses me, his hands moving up and down my back, nearly lifting me off my feet. And for a few moments I lose myself. Forget that this is over. Forget the reason I’m kissing him in the rain. This is how we started so this is how we should end.

I pull away from him before he’s ready to let me go. ‘You’re right,’ I say determinedly, this time looking directly into his face. ‘Your way is so much better.’

With that I turn and walk away. Walk as fast as I can. Searing pain once more in my chest, tears stinging my face. And I don’t look back. Tell myself I don’t care anymore.

I hope he hurts.

~