The Dreadfuls

TanninTele

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

I:

With a self-confident sway to her step, Nymphadora Tonks made her way down Blackfriars Road, a bubble of gum expanding from her lips. Her hair, equally pink, was kept in two short pigtails beneath a worn beanie. Her plaid skirt brushed against her thighs, fishnet leggings tastefully ripped to reveal pale, smooth skin.

Tonks' roommate, a fashion major, called it 'grunge revival' as he took a scissors to her tattered denim jacket, turning it into a vest. To be honest, Tonks could wear a damn trash bag and make it work, with her long-lashed bedroom eyes, slim figure and - if her ex-boyfriend could be trusted - her damn fine arse. Tonks didn't trust him.

Remus was a pathological liar with a tendency to get into bar fights, and was arrested ages ago for disorderly conduct and indecent exposure (he mooned a crowdfull of cops), but Dora was no better.

As she shoved past a crowd waiting for the crosswalk, her hand slipped into a man's overlarge trench coat. Nimble fingers relinquished him of his wallet.

She turned left onto a street littered with bird shit. A flock of pigeons scattered as she clomped past, flipping through the wallet's folds. The wallet was made of cheap leather and had only a handful of pounds, a picture of a little girl, and a Travel Card. Popping her gum, Dora tossed the wallet over her shoulder and counted out around twenty notes. She could probably buy pizza tonight, meat-lovers for herself and Harry, cheese for Hermione.

" - ferme ta gueule, Caractacus," someone snapped, their voice echoing through an alley. "Do not tell me you have this shite under control. This hasn't been 'under control' for a month; in fact, it's only gotten worse because of your ineptitude."

Tonks paused at that irritatingly pompous tone. "Good God," she murmured to herself, pressing against a wall. "I have the best luck."

"I don't care what you have to do, who you have to bribe, but you will drain Rita Skeeter and her damn gossip rag for all it's worth. Call it libel. Call it false reporting. Threaten a lawsuit - ten lawsuits, if you must - I want her off my back about this. She's worse than my father, and that's saying something."

The man continued speaking through his bluetooth. He was dressed head-to-toe in black, from his turtleneck to his shiny leather oxfords, as though in mourning. Mourning the state of his hair, maybe. Tonks scrunched her nose at the unnaturally white color, gelled locks plastered to his head like a protective helmet. He was leaning against his motorbike, the keys spinning around his manicured finger in an anxious manner. "You don't know the lengths I went through just to leave the penthouse this morning. The 'razzi swarmed my car, so I had to take my bike and park it a damn block from the studio so they wouldn't fucking - don't tell me to watch my fucking language."

Calmly, Tonks reached down as if to tie her boot laces. She pulled the lace from it's holes and doubled it, yanking it tight between her hands.

" - I'm not being childish, this is serious," Draco insisted. "You can't tell him. Father would kill me," he was damn near pleading. "And t- that's a breach of our contract, you wouldn't dare. Yes. I'll tell him, eventually. Yes, I swear. Goodbye, Caractacus, and fuck you, too." He hung up, breathing out in irritation. "Arsehole."

As Draco reached for his bike helmet, Tonks crept up behind him, brown eyes flashing with anticipation. In one, swift motion, she looped the laces around his throat. Draco gasped, hands flying upwards.

"Drop the keys," Tonks hissed into his ear, voice thick with a Cockney accent. "Drop them, now."

He began to tremble and the darting of his eyes betrayed an inner debate between fight or flight. But they were alone in the alley, and while Draco was finely muscled for his profession, Tonks wasn't afraid of breaking a nail. She tightened the cord, and his fingers dutifully uncurled.

The keys fell with a clatter onto the cement, and she covered them with her boot, sliding them towards her. Tonks smiled. "Thanks, love," her bubble blew, and popped, the pink bits spraying onto the fine strands of his hair. Draco made a soft whimpering noise.

A new bounce to her step, Tonks snatched up the keys and straddled the bike. It was a beautiful beast, white and sleek. She slipped the helmet over her outrageously pink hair and waved a hand. In it was his brand-new cell phone, glossy and lighting up with new texts. Where are you, baby? One read, from a contact labeled simply Tori with a emoticon heart.

She tsked, tossing it over her shoulder, where the screen shattered. "Wotcher, man-whore."

Outrage flashed in Draco's icy eyes, but before he could speak - voice likely damaged, anyhow - the motor revved and Tonks took off into the streets

Tonks arrived safely at their apartment, pulling into a parking space near the front door. She didn't much care if that prick's bike got stolen (again). Even if it was a beautiful ride and probably cost half her tuition, it's owner left much to be desired.

Tucking the helmet beneath her armpit, she slid her ID into the scanner, and with a green blink, the lobby door clicked open. The lobby was unmanned. Tonks took the opportunity to check their mail, the envelopes crisp in her calloused hands. She took the elevator up, and tasting that her gum had lost it's flavor, stuck it to the button for level 3. The muscle-headed assholes in the room above them had been playing video games until three a.m. for the past week, and she was sick and tired of hearing gunfire and victorious shouts. She got enough of that shit at work, thanks.

Room 2-b's door was propped open. Harry didn't listen to music while he worked. He said it influenced him too much, forcing ideas and themes that hindered his creative process. Tonks didn't mind, as Harry's music taste was shit anyways, but it was always eerie to come home to an utterly silent home, with nothing but the soft chink of his needle passing through fabric.

Harry was on his knees before a half-mannequin, the head absent and it's torso swathed in some creamy, chiffon fabric. His green eyes were narrowed in deep concentration as he pinned a corner up, the draping resembling some Ancient Greek fashion.

"It's a toga," he said to himself. "It's a fucking toga." Removing the pins from his mouth, he slashed a violent line through the open sketch book on his lap. He tugged a hand through his dark curls, coiffed and falling purposefully over his forehead. His long sleeved shirt was rolled up at his elbows, his jeans faded and distressed. Quite like him.

"Jesus," Tonks said in amusement, shutting the door. "Or, should I say, Zeus?"

Harry pushed away the mannequin, it's wheels squeaking against the hardwood. "You would know, Nymphadora."

"Don't call me Nymphadora." By now, she'd said the words so often they didn't have quite the same sting. She looked down at the motorcycle helmet. "Catch."

The small man grunted, the helmet colliding with his stomach. "What the -"

"Look familiar?" Tonks grinned, collapsing onto their futon. She pushed aside Harry's box of colored pencils and the squares of fabric scattered on the cushion, making room for her legs. Toeing off her boots, she leaned back and smirked at the ceiling fan.

Harry turned the helmet around in his hands, eyes widening at the customized logo. DM. "Tonks! You can't keep doing this!"

"Whyever not?" she asked, innocent, as though she hadn't just committed a larceny.

"You're going to end up with a restraining order," Harry warned, standing. He threw the helmet onto the coffee table, shoved at her legs and collapsed exhaustedly beside her. "First you hacked his Wikipedia page - "

"It's not hacking if they have an 'edit' button."

"It's hacking if you made it permanent," Harry reminds, before continuing. "You hacked his Wikipedia page, changing his middle name to 'Lucinda' and, in his bio, heavily imply he was born out of wedlock and subscribes to neo-nazism."

Tonks snorted, putting her feet in Harry's lap. "He's the poster-boy for the Aryan race. Besides, you told me he has a tattoo on his back that highly resembles a swastika."

"It was a Celtic knot, Tonks. A Celtic. Knot." He emphasized.

Pink hair splayed across the pillow as she tilted her head. "Any picture proof?" she asked slyly. "I know a guy who works Photoshop like his bitch."

Taking a breath for courage, Harry ignored her. "Then, you sprayed 'Man-Whore' across his billboard on Piccadilly, and now, grand theft auto. One of these things is worse than the others, " he sang to her.

"Oh," she flapped a negligent hand. "Malfoy isn't gonna snitch. He knows he deserves it. Simple reminder, Harry, he cheated on you. He gave you that ugly shiner you hide beneath all that concealer," Harry pushed up his vintage, wire-rimmed glasses, flushing. "And immediately left to fuck one of the infamous Greengrass sisters." Tonks narrowed her eyes. "Or was it both? I've lost track of the scandal."

Harry's voice was tight, forcibly dismissive. "I have it on good authority that Daphne is in Havana with her screenwriter girlfriend. It was Astoria that he fucked, to state it crudely, and I don't want to talk about it."

Tonks blinked at him, brows drawn. "I'm worried about you, is all. Your sketchbook consists of more angry scribbles than art, and you've begun to take it out on your mannequins," she nodded toward the headless object, looking pitiful in nude colors and drooping fabric. Harry made a pained, contorted expression.

Tonks sat up, scooting towards him. "We have thin walls, you know. I heard you crying last night. Practically moaning." Her tone softened, almost teasing, to lighten the situation. "I suppose it was a nightmare about all that unsatisfactory sex you had with Draco, hm?"

A bright pink flush cross Harry's features, climbing down his throat, tastefully covered with a patterned neckerchief. A dark, prominent mark stood out on his pale skin. "Um."

Tonks gasped. Her hand flew to yank down the fabric, whistling at the gnarly hickey. "Harry James! You moved on quick. Who was it, then? Or, rather, how was it?" she wiggled her brows.

"Tom was quite attentive, thank you," he slapped her hand away and fixed the kerchief.

"How did he even get in?"

"Through the window," Harry admitted shyly. "He climbed up the fire escape."

Tonks cooed. "How Romeo and Juliet ."

"If by that, you mean foolishly romantic, then yes," With a sigh, Harry laid his head against Tonks' knee, running an idle finger up the fishnet. "But to answer your question, he was very, very good."

The front door slammed open. Harry sat up, while Tonks remained reclined, used to Hermione's theatrics. "Who was very good?"

Hermione was a flurry of shopping bags and dark hair. Harry immediately stood to help her with the bags, grunting at the weight of what seemed like dozens of books. "There was a sale at Flourish and Blotts," she explained, removing a novel entitled Das Parfum. She tossed it at Tonks, smiling placidly at the exclamation of pain. "When I saw it, I thought of you. I bought a copy, also. Your mum would want you to keep up with your German, ja?"

"Küss meinen arsch," Tonks mumbled, rubbing the side of her head.

"So," Hermione huffed, releasing her armful of bags onto the kitchen counter. "What were you talking about?"

Harry's hands stilled as he sorted through the books. "Um."

"Our precious, innocent boy has been having a secret affair behind our backs!" Tonks said, grinning broadly. "He's been fooling around with Tom Riddle. Tomfoolery."

Hermione swung around to glare accusingly at Harry. "You aren't!"

"He is!" Tonks said gleefully. "I, for one, am jealous. Tom is every man and woman's dream. Tall, dark, and - "

"Running the largest con operation in Greater London," the dark-skinned girl hissed.

"Allegedly," Tonks added.

"What if he's conning you?"

Dora grinned. "It must be a very long con, then, eh, Harry?" Although red-faced, Harry gave Tonks a subtle nod.

Hermione threw her hands up and turned to her bag. "You've already had your heart broken once this year, Harry," she spoke primly. "I don't think jumping into a relationship with a known heart-breaker would be good for you."

"Just because you haven't had a relationship with anyone other than your fictional characters -" Harry began.

With a gasp, Hermione hit him with a magazine. "You twat!"

"That's a hate crime!" he announced.

"Speaking of twats, I ran into the king of them today," Tonks spoke idly from the couch. She was flipping through Das Parfum, nose crinkled in boredom. "I overheard him screeching at some poor lad on the phone, and, well, I stole his phone." Harry covered his face in his hands. "I couldn't help it," she said in defense. "Also, I'm paying for dinner tonight."

"We don't want your dirty money," Hermione snipped, escorting the weak-kneed Harry over to an armchair. "As much as I abhor that Riddle fellow, I'm awfully glad you've moved on," she told him. "I've got news. Astoria Greengrass - that bitch -" she and Tonks harmonized. "Has made the front page of Rita Skeeter's Daily Prophet."

"Again?" Harry asked, peeking through his fingers. "I hope she had a nip-slip."

"Worse," Hermione said grimly. She passed him the magazine, previously used to assault him. The attractive blonde on the cover was dressed in sweatpants and a ponytail, a red arrow pointing beneath her rather voluptuous breasts.

"ASTOUNDING!" Harry read aloud. "Astoria Greengrass, Five Months Pregnant?" he lowered the paper, voice breaking. "Is model Draco Malfoy the father?"

Tonks sat up abruptly, snatching the magazine from his hands. She immediately flipped to the indicated page. Harry felt deeply ill.

Hermione raised her hands, consolingly. "Let's not panic."

"He's panicking," Tonks sighed. Harry's eyes were glistening, his head angled down toward his empty lap, hands trembling.

"Five months," Harry murmured, fists clenching. "That means he was with her while we were dating. More than the once."

Hermione's features pinched as she tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder. "It could be speculation. Rita Skeeter isn't known for her journalistic integrity, and you know how she loves dragging reputations through the mud. Just last week, she accused the Black family of incest -"

Tonks raised a finger. "That is, unfortunately, true."

"Thanks, Dora," Hermione sent her a warning glare. "The point is - "

"He mentioned Skeeter," Tonks spoke abruptly, glancing up from the article. "He was talking this guy, Cataracts-something about suing her for libel."

"See!" Hermione said, pleased. "It's fake."

Harry raked a hand through his hair. "No," he sighed, voice breaking. "Caractacus Burke is the Malfoy's lawyer. If Burke is involved, you know it's big. It must be true."

Hermione and Tonks exchanged a long glance. The night Harry came home a month ago, tears drying on his cheeks and a dark bruise blossoming beneath his eye was still fresh in their memories. The television had been on, an image of Harry's boyfriend snogging with famous actress Astoria Greengrass broadcast on nearly all the celebrity channels.

Astoria had been cast as the lead in a television drama, with Draco co-starring as her character's on-again, off-again boyfriend. Harry had felt incredibly uncomfortable watching the show's premiere, and was secretly pleased when the ratings had sunk. Draco had been rarely on-screen except for the occasional hook-up or petty fight, but the chemistry between the two had been obvious.

Harry supposed he should have expected it.

That didn't make him feel any less like shit.

To be continued . . .