A Remus Lupin one-shot, heavy on Remus/Tonks.
Heart-Shaped Confetti
He was eleven years old, and his knees were shaking.
His mother was on her knees, fastening his cloak for him. Her eyes looked troubled; held the sheen of tears unshed. He watched them both with curious eyes; his father stood a little distance away, his brow creased in that way that told Remus he was worried. It was a look he knew well; even full moon his father would take him down into the basement and leave him and the wolf alone. They would battle. The wolf would win. He had asked them time and time again why other children didn't have to fight the wolf. They said he was different; but not good different nor bad different – just a little boy who wasn't like the others.
It was with that sentiment that they were sending him off to school to be with other children. But other children weren't like him.
"Now, sweetheart," his mother sniffed, with a warm smile and a hand smoothing his hair across his head in that way that made him look like an idiot. "Have you got everything?"
Remus didn't quite know what to say; his parents had always been there for him – how could he tell them that he wanted them on the train with him. All around, children were saying quick goodbyes to their parents, but he wasn't like the other children, was he?
He needed them.
"I..." he started, his voice stuck in his throat with all the things he wanted to say.
He couldn't do this; he wanted to go home.
His mother closed her eyes for a moment, and Remus could pick out every vein on her eyelid; she seemed to be trying to find the resolve to walk away, and leave him to climb onboard the train that would take him away forever, to a place where no one knew who he was, or what he was, or how he was different to the other children. They had told him stories of Hogwarts, of course, but he had been told that he wouldn't be going there; he would be staying with his parents forever.
He didn't know what he wanted; on one hand the train was full of laughter that rang out the doors and windows, and magic was alive in the air. Each owl that flapped in its cage of trunk carried to the luggage cart seemed to hold the promise of adventure, and friendship. Other boys looked at him as they passed; some gave little smiles and nods. Maybe these boys didn't have friends yet, either?
Maybe he could be like all the other boys?
"It's time to say goodbye." His mother kissed him on the cheek, and his father stepped forwards to hug him, lifting Remus off his little feet – on which were a pair of shiny new shoes that didn't hold the tells of the muddy fields around which his home was built – and patted him once on the head.
If he didn't go now, he never would.
They grew smaller and smaller as the train took him away, and he leant out the window letting the wind take his tears away as they blurred his face, until all he could see was green and blue, and all he could taste was salt. He was found by another boy, with untidy black hair. The boy seemed a little wary of him, but once he noticed that Remus' eyes held the red rings of tears, he became more friendly, leading him to a cabin and enthusing about things Remus had never heard of. The boys in the cabin were nice; the joked and laughed and didn't ask Remus why his eyes were pink. Eventually, Remus felt brave enough to pipe up in response to something one of the other boys had said; this one had black hair too, but was taller and a little thinner in the face.
They laughed in response to what he had said, as though Remus were witty, and Remus felt a happy glow warm through him, almost strong enough to bleed through into the image burned into his eyes of his parents growing smaller and smaller, waving to him on the platform.
He would keep hold of these boys; these friends he had made. The three boys that had laughed at his joke.
He would be just like them.
He was sixteen, and a girl would never fancy him for as long as he lived.
Sat in the Gryffindor common room, he tried to ignore the sound of slurping kissing; tired to focus on the crackle of the fireplace or the scratching of quill, or the words that he was scribbling down mindlessly for the Potions essay that needed to be in tomorrow. Evidently Sirius and James had forgotten this, and were currently entangled with a girl each.
It was Valentine's Day, and Remus was writing an essay.
And to top things off, it was the full moon that night.
He thought of the last full moon; how they had been able to stay with him. To feel eyes on him as he had transformed, and to feel that he wasn't alone. Someone had heard his screams; watched as his human flesh gave way to a tail and claws and a violent beast within. But they had laughed and joked afterwards that fur was very becoming of him, and all he could do was laugh faintly in disbelief.
The clock struck six o'clock, and it began to rain heart shaped confetti. Remus sighed and brushed it off his roll of parchment, settling the paper hearts in the palm of his hand and throwing them one-by-one into the roaring fire. No one noticed, wrapped up in each other as they were, and Remus brushed away the urge to cry. He brushed away the longing for home and the need for his mother's warm arms so close to the full moon. Dumbledore was funny and kind as he spoke to Remus every month before the full moon, and Madam Pomfrey was always kind to him, but neither were his mother or father, and the Shrieking Shack was cold and desolate, and it reminded him of just how different he was.
It all got exponentially worse when the harps started playing.
The girl that was sitting in Sirius' lap broke away from his mouth to enthuse at the gaudy confetti and silken music, and Sirius couldn't look less interested in what she was saying, chasing her mouth with his. James had pulled away from his blonde conquest a couple of times to shoot apologetic, sympathetic glances over her shoulder at Remus, who had shrugged carefully in response each time. Peter looked as miserable as Remus did, seemingly absorbed in a book in the corner – Remus knew better, and saw his eyes flicker over the top of the book every now and then to stare at their two friends and the girls they were with.
The sun would soon be going down; the moon would rule, and he would be finding heart-shaped confetti in his fur all night.
He was twenty-one, and his friends were dead.
Those boys he had met on the train; all of them...
Two dead, one turned traitor. It was worse than death; worse than betrayal and worse than the moon. Sirius was dead to him – the boy he had known at Hogwarts ceased to exist, because in his place were violent thoughts of murder and betrayal and bloodlust. How could this have happened? They had been so careful, so watchful of whom they were friends with and who they trusted with their secrets.
How did this become of the boys who had laughed at his joke on that first train ride to Hogwarts; to home...?
He saw the light leave chubby Peter's eyes as his friend turned on him over and over and over again, until Remus forgot that they were in a war, and forgot that he was ruled by the moon, until all that was left was anger and betrayal. He wanted to rage and fight and scream until his lungs were shrivelled and Sirius Black would hear exactly what he had done to the man he had called friend.
Remus sat in his empty childhood home, looking around at the fireplace that had been burnt out for over two years, and the sofa that had held so much life. This cottage had seen him grow up, and he had seen it grow in return. It was where he had longed for so during the cold lonely nights in his first year where he would gaze anxiously out at the growing moon and think of his fights with the wolf.
His mother and father were gone, leaving nothing but deadened silence where their laughter used to ring and two empty chairs by the hearth. But this time, there was no James to pull him into a nearby carriage and help him make friends, because his friends were gone, his parents were gone, and the tears ran freely down his face. Colours blurred, his waving parents shrank on the platform, the confetti was stuck in his goddamn fur and over and over and over again Sirius took the life from Peter's eyes.
He pressed the heel of his hands into his eye-sockets and tried to push the images away or at least to the back of his mind where they couldn't assault him.
He wouldn't sleep; not for another month. Not for another year.
It had been too much to expect a normal life, and there he was sitting with only the company of the empty basement beneath him, waiting for the wolf. And no father to hold him in the moments before, and no mother with a hot roast dinner waiting the next morning. No friends to trot alongside him in acceptance of the beast that he was and no Lily Potter to tell him that he was worth the best of lives...
The silence mocked him, and he let himself scream.
He was thirty-six, and Nymphadora Tonks would be the death of him.
The cup of tea shook at little as she set it down in front of him, and he tried to keep his eyes on the floor, noticing the ripped knee of her jeans and the grazed, pale skin beneath. He brushed aside thoughts of how it would feel to kiss the tiny little flesh wound better and focused on the book in his hand. She didn't move, and he could feel her eyes on him, as though she were expecting something.
Finally, he looked up. Her hair was the brightest pink he had ever seen, and she looked exceptionally proud of the relatively un-spilled tea that she had set in front of him. He offered her a weak smile and she grinned back, settling herself next to him on the sofa. He shifted a little awkwardly, torn between leaning into the soft warmth of her hip against his and moving away altogether. She was too young for him, but her skin flushed a glorious pink whenever she was near him, and it made him want to kiss her breathless.
He watched the Christmas tree twinkle at the other side of the drawing room. Her shoulder bumped his, and just for a second he could see a life with her. And then it was gone; given way to the moon burned into the back of his eyes and the image of his parents growing smaller and smaller and the heart-shaped confetti in his tangled fur.
He couldn't be with her. He was barely human.
"Nymphadora, I..."
"Merry Christmas, Remus." She smiled, stopping whatever he was about to say.
For once, she didn't correct his use of her first name, and her hair was soft against his chin as she rested it on his shoulder. Together, they watched the snow fall outside, and a whole life together pass before their eyes like a promise ripped from their hands before they could even blink. She was so vibrant, and so what he needed. She rubbed her soft nose against his shoulder affectionately, and for a moment she reminded him of something animal and sweet, and oh so hopeful for the future. She honestly believed they could make it together.
She believed that love was enough. Maybe it was, but that only applied when the object of her affections was a young man with a free, stable life.
She deserved the world, and before he knew it, he was tilting his head up and his lips were gently pressing against hers. She held still for a moment, and then poured her soul into the kiss, grabbing huge fists of his greying hair as though she never wanted him to leave. It would be easier if she hadn't wanted him back, but oh, there was no denying the way she drew herself into him.
Everything would be so much more complicated.
The skin on the back of her neck was soft as his thumb grazed over it, and the sound of Sirius singing loud, obnoxious renditions of Carols rand through the quiet room like a constant reminder; this was wrong...too poor...to dangerous...
But oh, she was the best thing in the world.
Her lips brushed his with promise; every second he could spend in her vibrant company, wasting away the rest of their deliriously happy lives; fighting, living, loving. She offered it to him, right there, with each brush of her fingertips against his face and sigh against his mouth her pink hair opened doors to places he'd never dared to believe he would go. She lived in a world of colour and love, and hope and joy; he couldn't taint that world with what he was. A vile old wolf wandering through a field of flowers; out of place and dangerous.
Too late to spare her feelings, he tugged her gently off him. The Christmas lights and the roaring fire highlighted just how smooth her skin was; how young she looked. He told her they could never happen, and watched as the smooth skin gave way to worry lines.
The next time he saw her, her hair was considerably less pink.
And that was the beginning; with every passing glance that he averted his eyes away from, and every time he moved his hand when hers brushed the skin of his fingers, he saw the colour leave her just a little. The hope was literally draining from her, and by the middle of the summer, her hair was a dull shade of mousy brown.
What he had feared had happened; she had become like him. Old and weary. Where had that entire colour gone? Was it his fault?
No, it was the wolf.
Always, the bloody wolf.
He was thirty-seven, and his wife made the most beautiful of noises when she came.
He focused on the feel of her beneath him; her warm legs wrapped around his waist and the slow slide of her hands up his slick back. His arms trembled with the force of his climax, and he relaxed against her feeling each puff of her breath against his face. Her wedding ring was cool against his heated skin, and he closed his eyes and buried his face in her soft neck; a surrender. He had married her, let himself love her, and given her everything she wanted.
He was so tired of screaming with no one to hear.
And now he didn't have to scream, because now he had her.
Last year, he had watched the colour leave her, oblivious to the power he held to put it all back. He had kissed her, and the mousy brown hair had turned miraculously pink again, and they were so gloriously together after all that time; every time they made love was like a cry of relief; a warm and stable home. He had been out in the cold for so long, and she was a hearth. The hole where his parents had been; where his friends had left all that room for love but nothing but an empty basement – she had filled that hole so effortlessly, and she didn't even know what she had done.
Why had he denied her for so long? Was he too used to the aching silence that he couldn't let a soft voice in? Was his heart really so old and dusty?
"I love you, Remus," she whispered against his ear, and he swallowed back tears.
Finally, he was Remus again; the wolf hadn't defeated him, not tonight. The moon was all but there, and his wife lay beneath him. They could be true, careless newlyweds and forget about the war together.
He didn't care about the heart-shaped confetti, and his parents were only waving goodbye until the next time. The empty basement that haunted him wouldn't frighten him anymore; he didn't have his father to hold him before the full moon but he had Nymphadora, and she would bring him a cup of tea in the morning after and he could make love to her in that dark and dingy old basement and together they could exorcise the old screams he had left behind.
She would be there with him; forever.
For too long he had felt sorry for himself. The world had given him enough bad; it was time for him to make a life for himself.
He told her he loved her back, and he did. Oh, so much.
Those old images burned into the back of his eyelids had been soothed, replaced by her bright laughter, and the way she tipped her neck back when he moved his hips a certain way against hers, and the feel of her scarred knees beneath his lips. Heart-shaped confetti became her heart-shaped face, and he would never let anything ruin them.
With her, he could live.
Feedback is appreciated, as ever.