This fic follows Lovesbane in the Transfigured Hearts series, and is set during chapter six of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Special thanks to Godricgal for beta-reading this piece. As always, concrit and feedback are much appreciated.

Hunger

Years had passed since Remus Lupin experienced the heart-lurching dread of having Apparated to an unintended location. He knew he risked it today – or worse, risked splinching – by attempting to do so on an empty stomach, after his first transformation among feral werewolves which, in order to maintain his cover as a spy, he was now forced to endure without Wolfsbane Potion. But he'd Apparated anyway, thinking that the ache of hunger would fixate his thoughts on Molly Weasley's kitchen and the prospect of her cheerful family and the Order members gathering for Harry's birthday and would guide him to his destination of the Burrow.

Apparently thinking on an empty stomach after a full moon was as hazardous as Apparating. His feet found solid ground in a grassy field. Or rather, his knees crashed painfully to the ground as he dropped to avoid a careening broomstick.

"Oy! Look out!"

A second broomstick swooped upward, but not before Remus covered his head as he fell back to avoid a heavy object swinging down, striking a black sphere with a thud. A bat and Bludger.

He'd Apparated to a Quidditch pitch?

"Bill, you prat!" shrieked a girlish voice. "You nearly killed Professor Lupin!"

Remus looked up as Ginny swerved and slowed her broom to ask if he was all right. Up ahead, Bill, red ponytail streaming as he swooped toward a Quaffle, threw an apology over his shoulder before launching the ball at the goal Ron kept. Flying up the pitch after Ginny, Harry's bright green eyes – Lily's eyes – lit up behind his round eyeglasses as he waved. Despite his aching shoulder, Remus managed to return the greeting.

With a familiar sly grin that made Remus think for a moment he'd somehow been transported to the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch twenty years in the past, Harry accelerated and darted past Ginny.

"Oy!" Ginny whirled on her broom. "No fair!" She streaked after him.

Though relieved that his Apparation ability remained in tact, Remus was irked that his wits weren't yet sharp enough to have immediately identified his location as the hillside Apparation point yards from the Weasley house. He'd forgot how long the fingers of ferocity and fatigue clung to his mind when he wasn't taking his Wolfsbane regimen.

He would have to learn to cope better.

As Remus, with cracking joints, hoisted himself to his feet, dusted himself off, and backed away from the playing field, he did not take it amiss that the game of pick-up Quidditch continued as though his arrival were commonplace. Not to receive any more notice than another adult would was normal. To the kids, at least, he remained Professor Lupin. That was good.

A degree of his inner gnawing abated.

"I told them not to play Quidditch near the Apparation point," came the pert voice of Hermione Granger from behind.

"Perhaps a more likely solution," Remus said, turning to see the frizzy-haired teenager seated under a tree, surrounded by books and parchment and quills, "would be to move the Apparation point from the Quidditch pitch."

Hermione's thick brows knit in a troubled expression as she studied him with pursed lips. Under her scrutiny, Remus shuffled his feet awkwardly. He had not seen himself in a mirror since he'd begun his spying mission at the feral colony, and though he supposed Hermione noticed more detail than the average teenager, he must look a fright to merit her prolonged inspection. Harry, Ginny, and Ron had not seemed to notice his appearance, but then, they had been engrossed by the Quidditch.

Shaking herself slightly, as though some inner voice had reminded her she was staring, and that it was generally considered rude, Hermione's mouth twitched at the corners. "I suppose it's an added security measure, to have Beaters on the alert."

"Yes. Alastor Moody certainly would approve," Remus said, chuckling.

Merlin. Laughter was a foreign sound, a strange tickle in his throat and chest. A knot loosened –

-- only to tighten again as his laughter died.

Hermione was too young to have thoughts of security so close to her mind. Not that he and James and Sirius had been much older when they'd joined the first Order; but at least their school years had remained untouched by the shadow of war.

"Hello, Hermione," Remus said, realising he had not greeted her properly. He regarded the academic clutter strewn around her and recalled her rattling off passage from her Defence Against Dark Arts text almost verbatim before he'd assigned the class readings. "Getting ahead on your reading?"

It was a stupid, distant thing to say, and he wished he'd said something more personal, mentioned her House-elf rights campaign.

Hermione, however, didn't seem offended. "We haven't got our booklists yet. I've wanted to look through these since Harry got here…"

Leaning closer, Remus noted that the books were the set of Defence Against Dark Arts texts he and Sirius had given Harry last Christmas.

Nose crinkling, Hermione added, "…but they've been dragging me into playing with them when Bill's at Gringotts."

Remus tried to imagine Hermione playing Quidditch, but his brain refused to attach her to athletic images. He stifled a grin at the thought of how chuffed it must make the young perfectionist not to excel at an activity that, technically, she might have learnt the technique by reading. Or was that mentality restricted to schoolwork? As a boy Remus had been perturbed that he did not take to the sport; but considering his studious nature was not quite on par with Hermione's, he suspected now that might have had more to with the fact that it was not ineptitude that stunted his athleticism, but simply being too peaky. Sirius, on the other hand, who never had to work hard at anything, had been greatly irked to be just a passable player in a pick-up game; he had not qualified for the Gryffindor team, even though James had put in more hours than a captain trying to train him.

"Thanks to the DA," Hermione went on, "I don't feel too far behind in Defence. The textbooks you and Sirius…" Her eyes clouded and bent almost guiltily. "They're really helpful."

"I am glad to hear it." Remus' voice sounded far away, and he felt a little light-headed. He leant against the tree. He really needed to eat. "Sirius would be, too."

"Professor Dumbledore took Harry to meet the new Defence professor," Hermione continued brusquely. "Slughorn. D'you know him?"

"He was—"

Remus caught himself on the verge of unwisely blurting out that Horace Slughorn had been his Potionsmaster. That Slughorn had any particular expertise against the Dark Arts was news to Remus. Of course, anyone who taught practical Defence would be an improvement over Umbridge – and certainly over Gilderoy Lockhart.

Or a werewolf given to carelessness.

Apparently taking his silence for a negative, Hermione said, "I'd hoped that after the Umbridge fiasco they'd beg you to come back."

Remus looked away. His gaze wandered to the Quidditch pitch, and the image of Harry casting his first corporeal Patronus during a match forced itself to the forefront of his memory. Of course it had hurt to see James' and Lily's boy in dire need of that sort of protector at the age of thirteen. Yet he'd been proud – prouder than he'd felt in ages – to have taught such an advanced charm to Harry.

He'd felt certain that wherever they were, they were proud, too.

"No," said Remus hoarsely. "Even if the Ministry had revoked the werewolf employment legislation, I could not return to Hogwarts. Professor Dumbledore has other work for me."

Other work.

Which only Remus Lupin werewolf, could do.

His stomach growled loudly.

"Well," said Hermione, eyes dropping briefly to his waist, forehead creasing again, "you know who will do something about that."

Nodding, and mumbling stilted well wishes for the coming school term, Remus shoved his hands deep into his trouser pockets and shambled on toward the house. Now that someone had actually spoken of Molly's cooking, his stomach twisted and grumbled painfully. He was grateful, for once, that hunger overpowered every other thought.

He quickened his pace. Or rather, tried to. His stiff, uncooperative limbs seemed to move slower.

Or was that because the brooms were whizzing past again, making him feel hopelessly older than thirty-seven?

"Bonjour – and look where you are walking."

Remus stopped short just in time to avoid running over Bill's fiancée Fleur, who perched primly on a silk-tufted stool she had to have conjured. Manicured fingers flipped through Witch Weekly: Bridal Robes Edition. She did look like a bride-to-be, glowing as her gaze glided out to the Quidditch pitch, following Bill's every move.

Naturally, Remus' thoughts turned to Tonks.

If she were here, under different circumstances, he could imagine her sitting down with Fleur, talking about wedding robes and hairstyles, casting meaningful glances at him, joy and anticipation of their own impending marriage shining in her dark eyes. She would have enjoyed winding Fleur up by exaggerating her own outlandish fashion sense.

Would Nymphadora have worn pink hair for their wedding?

His insides constricted.

"Hello, Fleur," Remus said, forcing a smile and tried not to associate the image of Fleur with Tonks.

But the alternative was the realisation that Fleur was apprising him with that impeccable gaze. He absolutely did not need a mirror to tell him he looked a right vagrant; Fleur's souring expression made that plain enough. He was ragged, dirty. Though he had wand-cleaned his clothing as best he could, it was not the same as soap and water.

He made to walk away, but Fleur cleared her throat. "Are you sure you want to go in zere?"

Remus halted. Why wouldn't he want to go in?

Was Tonks there?

"Messus Weasley eez not very 'appy weeth you."

Oh. dear. Merlin.

Head swimming, Remus reached for support that was not there. What had Molly said? In front of whom? He loved her dearly, but he wished she'd learn a bit of discretion. It was humiliating enough that Tonks knew what an utter bastard he was. Did everyone in the bleeding Order – and everyone remotely connected with Order members – know?

"I theenk…" Fleur's silvery blonde hair shimmered in the sunlight as she flicked it over her shoulders. "…that eet eez none of her beezness what ozzer people choose to do een zer love lives."

Remus looked up and noticed a cloudy expression in Fleur's blue eyes.

Empathy.

Fleur Delacour empathised with him.

"How are the wedding plans?" Remus asked softly. "Are you enjoying your stay with the Weasleys?"

Again he cursed himself for his clumsy small talk. He had witnessed for himself the tension between Fleur and her potential mother and sister-in-law. But surely in the past weeks, as they got to know each other, relations had improved?

"Ze wedding eez a long way off," said Fleur wistfully, "but I am very 'appy weeth Bill."

She banished the reflective expression by flashing a bright smile. A brave smile.

It made him think of Tonks.

And oddly, of himself.

He did not say so, but he wished Fleur well. He hoped romance worked out for her much better than it had for him.

Not that there was any comparison.

And with that thought, discomfort set in again. Remus was not the same. He was not like any of these people, not remotely, least of all Fleur Delacour. Fleur was misunderstood.

There should be no misunderstanding a werewolf.

Yet people did misunderstand. Tonks did. Molly.

He glanced at the Burrow, which until moments before had seemed like a refuge. Now he did not want to go in at all. What if Tonks turned up? It was likely she would. Last year she'd accepted all Molly's invitations to special celebrations at Grimmauld Place.

Of course, she had been interested in him.

No – Tonks was as concerned as any of them about creating a happy environment for Harry. She would be sensitive to the fact that Harry had just lost Sirius.

Remus wanted very much to Disapparate.

His stomach loudly protested at the idea of abandoning a chance at a real meal.

"Nice move, Harry!" Bill's voice carried from down the makeshift Quidditch pitch.

Harry grinned at Remus again as he flew past. How like James he looked – yet how unlike. The grin had not filled his eyes as it would have filled James'. On his sixteenth birthday, doing what he loved best, surrounded by his dearest friends and praised, James would have…

If James had lost Sirius, he would have looked every bit like Harry did now.

Leaving was not an option. Harry was sixteen, and one of them ought to be here. Remus could not be a coward, could not think of himself.

Werewolves thought only of themselves.

"Well," said Remus, remembering Fleur. He startled himself with the amount of levity he mustered to say, "I had best take a deep breath and plunge into the ocean of Molly's displeasure."

Fleur turned her empathetic gaze upon him again – no, no one could do that. Pity, perhaps. Sincerity.

"Good luck."

"Thanks. You too."

Fleur's eyes welled, and she let out a shuddering breath. Ginny cast a scowl over her shoulder as she flew past. Just as quickly, Fleur blinked, then beamed again, masking vulnerability with beautiful unconcern. "Merci."

Somehow bolstered by the exchange, Remus turned and completed the short distance to the back door of the house.

His hunger again distracted him from thinking about what Molly would say or whether Tonks was or would be at the party. He couldn't think at all when Molly opened the door and he was inundated with the aromas of chocolate cake baking, the autumnal smell of fresh pumpkin juice, and underlying it all the thick smell of something fried – oh Merlin, fish…

"Remus," said Molly in an uncharacteristic manner that made Remus feel as though all the oxygen had swept past him out the door. "I'm so glad you made it. I hope you'd no difficulty slipping away from…" Her gaze dropped, and she bit her lip furtively. "…there."

"Not at all."

He said it with no small measure of relief, having been unsure whether he would be able to leave the colony unnoticed. As it turned out, the feral werewolves slept hard the day after full moon, some nursing wounds from fights, some over-sated from hunting, all in too much post-transformation agony to move more than was strictly necessary. The difficulty for Remus had been the last: his own body had been a greater obstacle than Fenrir Greyback.

"Thank you for having me."

Molly nodded tightly as she peered around him out the door. "Did you speak to Harry?"

There was an accusatory edge to her voice that had nothing to do with Harry, and it stung. Whatever terms Remus was on with Tonks, Molly knew perfectly well he was not in the habit of avoiding social confrontations.

"He said hello," Remus replied, matching Molly's tone despite a concentrated effort at a casual demeanour, "but I believe at the moment his priority was to beat Ginny to the snitch."

Molly pursed her lips, and Remus felt acutely that he was alone with her in the house, and the Weasley matriarch had much to say.

"I apologise if I have arrived too early," he said, realising for the first time in all his eagerness to leave the colony how very unlike him it was to turn up at a place prior to the time at which he'd been invited.

As he ran a hand through his hair, Molly's eyes followed the gesture. Remus knew she was thinking how sorely he was in need of a haircut. His arm fell limp at his side.

"When do you expect Mad-Eye?"

"Not till tea. Come in." Molly turned on her heel and bustled to the counter, where she resumed the obviously interrupted task of peeling potatoes.

Wiping his feet with more care than dirt caked onto his shoes, Remus stepped inside, then shut the door behind him. In what he hoped was a casual tone, he asked, "Is anyone else coming?"

"Not Tonks." Molly threw a fierce look over her shoulder as she dropped a potato into a pot boiling on the stove.

Remus let out his breath and fought against the urge to lean heavily against the door as she swiped her peeler vigorously over the potato. The skin came off in a perfect spiral and levitated to the rubbish bin. Though he had eaten little other than potatoes lately, the prospect of Molly's roasted ones whet his appetite.

"Merlin knows," Molly continued in the harsh tone normally reserved for lecturing the twins, "it'd be good for the poor girl to have a spot of company and some fun." But she doesn't want—" Her lips formed a colourless line as she pinched them tightly together.

"—to see me," Remus concluded for her, thinking that he ought to be more relieved by this than he was.

"No." Molly snorted. "That's not it at all."

What didn't Tonks want, then? As Remus regarded Molly, it was obvious from her expression that Tonks had confided in her. While Molly was prone to let her tongue wag about her own feelings, Remus had an almost sinking feeling that she knew how to keep her mouth shut when it came to words spoken in confidence.

He would simply have to be content with the knowledge that whatever her reasons for avoiding him, it was better for Tonks in the end. She would forget about him.

The pit shifted from his stomach, splitting a chasm in his very core.

Molly sighed heavily and laid down her peeler. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to Remus. Her brown eyes were warm and pitying.

God. Remus looked down at his tired shoes. He must look wretched. Thank Merlin Tonks wasn't here, looking at him like Molly was. He could bear many things from Tonks – negative things, every one deserved – but never pity…

"I'm sorry, Remus," said Molly in a voice thick with emotion. "You've been sacrificing all the creature comforts to do your assignment, and here I am treating you like you're not wanted. You are, very much, by all of us, and I'm glad you're early for Harry's party." She smiled sadly, but her mouth and the lines of her face formed a deep frown as she looked him over. "You look like you could do with a bite to hold you over till tea."

Before Remus could stop himself, he admitted, "I could eat."

"You'll want to wash first."

In truth, Remus wondered if he could make it through a shower without fainting from hunger. But as the hot water pelted his dry, weathered skin, and coursed through his matted hair, and the tang of soap filled his nostrils, the delicious feelings quelled his appetite for food. He lingered in the shower for a long time, leaning against the cool tiles after weeks' worth of grime swirled away down the drain.

However, the intense pleasure slipped away the moment he shut off the tap, leaving him shivering and pondering how low he'd sunk.

In all his impoverished adult life, he had never been denied basic necessities such as a place to keep clean. He had at least lived like a person.

As Tonks had put it, feral werewolves did not.

He might feel like a human now, donning a set of patched but clean robes and trousers he'd left at the Burrow with his few other meagre belongings. But the realty he'd faced for the past month was that he was a Dark Creature, shunning and shunned by society.

He would have to dirty himself again before going back. Or lie. Say he'd broken into a house. Cleaned up. Stolen.

But there would be no proof that he had done, nor would anyone approve of his lingering at the scene of a crime.

No, a hungry werewolf thought of food, not cleanliness.

He'd lived too long among wizards.

He slipped off his robes carefully folded and tucked them back into his tatty suitcase, slipping instead into a baggy jumper with patched elbows.

Staring at his haggard face in the mirror, noting the shadow of grey stubble above his thin lips, along his chin, he caved to the desire to shave. It would grow back soon enough. He'd never had enough of a beard, even for a month's worth of growth, that anyone would notice the lack of one.

Maybe Tonks should have come, he thought as he pumped out a minimal amount of shaving lotion, then lathered his face. She might have been put off to see him struggling with these basic decisions that made it impossible for him to fit in this world.

He stopped his razor mid-stroke.

Who was he kidding? Tonks would not be put off. She would have made him forget again. She fitted herself to him.

The hand holding his razor fell to his side.

His arms felt emptier and ached more than his stomach with the longing to hold her.

To feel her body – her natural body – fitted against his.

He ordered himself not to think about the emptiness that could not be filled. It would only drive him mad, and that was the whole problem the Wizarding world faced from the werewolves, wasn't it? The last thing Dumbledore needed was for his spy to become distracted from his objective by indulging in self-pity.

A thick sandwich and tall glass of pumpkin juice were on the table when Remus returned to the kitchen.

"I hope you like fish fingers," Molly said over her shoulder as she iced Harry's birthday cake.

Despite never having been hugely fond of fish finger sandwiches, Remus' stomach told him otherwise. As he shuffled to the table, he guiltily noted an assortment of dishes warming on the counters.

"You did not have to go out of your way to make me a sandwich," said Remus, pulling out a chair. "I could have waited till tea."

"I can hear your stomach growling from here," said Molly. "And a sandwich's no trouble when you've raised seven children."

"No," said Remus, taking in the civilized sensation of sitting in a chair at a table, with crockery and utensils laid out before him, "I suppose not."

Abruptly, Molly turned and inspected him. "You're thin."

Remus sat up straighter and squared his shoulders so that his posture might disguise the fact. "I have always been thin."

"Don't take that attitude with me, Remus Lupin." Molly's hands flew to her hips. "I've got eyes. Those clothes fit you decently before you left, and now they're hanging off you. I know you haven't cast an enlargement charm on them."

As Remus bit into the sandwich, fried fish – light and crispy on the outside, juicy and fresh on the inside – sweet tomatoes, and warm, fluffy bread nearly made him forget he was in the midst of a scolding.

"How regularly are you eating?" Molly demanded.

Remus swallowed. "Every day."

Molly arched her eyebrows. "I assume you mean one meal a day?"

Quickly, Remus took another bite of sandwich. Nothing that he had eaten since he'd gone underground constituted a meal, especially by Molly standards.

He silently pleaded with Merlin not to let Molly pry into what he was eating –

– or where it came from.

In all his years of poverty, he had never before been reduced to pilfering potatoes from a farmer's field.

Shaking her head, Molly resumed icing the cake. "Can't the Order do something about that? It's not right for you to be starving when any one of us could easily bring you food. Mad-Eye'd lend his Invisibility Cloak."

"That is very kind." Remus took a long drink of pumpkin juice, relishing the way the sweet liquid slid down his dry throat. "But I would only draw attention to myself if I were better fed than anyone else. So far I have managed to effectively blend in."

His voice rang hollow in his ears. It was nothing to take pride in, fitting in with a pack of half-starved werewolves.

"I don't see how you'll make a very good spy if you're fainting from hunger."

Remus chewed slowly, reflecting on Molly's point. Had not hadn't realised till now, as eating cleared it, that he'd been operating for the past few weeks under a sort of mental fog. But he would simply have to soldier on, adapt.

"I will not have Order members endangering themselves unnecessarily," said Remus, popping the last bit of sandwich into his mouth and rising from the table with his empty plate. "I will manage."

"Tonks will have something to say about you managing without any food."

Remus dropped the plate into the dishwater a little too quickly, and it clinked against the porcelain basin. He fished it out and inspected it for chips. Molly had said Tonks was not coming, so he was relieved he would not have to deal with her pressing – and she would not stop, as Molly had – the issue of food.

"Did she have duty today?" he asked. It was the only likely reason for Tonks' absence, as Molly had ruled out not wanting to see him.

With pursed lips, Molly was using her wand to write Happy 16th birthday, Harry! in white frosting. "Maybe, but that wasn't the excuse she gave. She—" Her chin flexed as if she were physically biting back words.

What was Molly not saying?

"Tonks just won't come," she said. "She doesn't want to make it difficult on you."

Molly spun and wagged her wand at him, face reddening as she went on, "Which says a lot about the kind of a person she is, seeing as you're the one who did the heart breaking."

Remus winced. He deserved this berating for the poor manner in which he'd handled things with Tonks – who was, indeed, a remarkable person. And God – that Tonks seemed to think this was her fault, that she had hurt him…He was such a bastard. Molly had every right to say these things to him, to say worse things.

But why could no one but he understand that he had to let her go? Surely Molly could take a mother's perspective and encourage Tonks to forget about him.

"Please don't tell her about the food," said Remus. "She's got enough on her mind without worrying that my stomach's growling."

Molly snorted and resumed decorating Harry's cake, now with yellow broomsticks and snitches. "Is it any worse for her to know you're starving than to imagine you're starving?"

"I'd prefer she didn't spare me a thought at all." Remus' gaze wandered out the window over the sink, where the Quidditch continued in the field.

"For Merlin's sake!" Molly cried. "She loves you!"

Palms splayed on the counter, Remus leant heavily against it. Tonks shouldn't love him.

He had broken promises.

He had abandoned her.

He had not even had the courage to tell her about the mission before Dumbledore announced it at an Order meeting.

He had made her feel inadequate and rejected…

A wonderful woman and capable Auror inadequate for and rejected by a werewolf.

Tonks should hate him.

Yet nothing like hate had been in her eyes the last night he'd seen her. Her sadness haunted him. At the thought of her not having progressed to some stronger emotion than sadness, Remus' stomach twisted, threatening to purge itself of the sandwich.

"I don't mean to pry, Remus…" said Molly in gentler tones. Out of the corner of his eye Remus saw her twisting her wand in her hands. "…but did you ask Tonks to marry you?"

Again the plate slipped from his hands, splashing dishwater. Paralyzed, he did not reach for it. "Not officially."

Molly turned to him with a deeply furrowed brow. "But for all intents and purposes?"

Her practiced expression that commanded the truth compelled Remus – against his natural inclination – to admit, "We talked about it." Hurriedly, he added, "Though I never would have if I had known about the mission…"

"What you would have done doesn't count for anything." Molly tucked her wand into her apron pocket, then settled her hands on her hips. "You did talk about marriage, and then you ran away. Like it or not, you've made a commitment to Tonks. You've got a responsibility to—"

"You don't think engagements can be broken, then?" asked Remus pointedly. "What if one of the parties realises the arrangement is all wrong?"

Every speck of colour drained from Molly's face, making her hair look redder, and the few shaded streaks more pronounced. Her mouth hung agape for a moment. She closed it, then opened it, but when no sound came out, sbut it again. Clearly, she had not missed his meaning.

"That…" Her voice was too high, shaky. "That's not fair, Remus. It's different with you and Tonks—"

"That's right, Molly," he spoke over her, feeling that while he had not been as polite as he might have, he had not been unfair. "It is different."

Molly's cheeks reddened with exasperation. "I don't mean different like you mean different." She turned back to the cake, wand poised, but doing nothing. "I mean you and Tonks have been together for a long time. You know each other, and you're older—"

"Tonks is younger than Bill," Remus said tolerantly, "and I am old enough that I should have considered all along that werewolves do not make suitable partners for women like Tonks."

Though Molly's lips fell open in an O-shape, no sound came from her mouth.

At her lack of argument, Remus bowed his head and slid his hands into his pockets. One finger poked through a hole.

"She is too good for me," he said, quietly. "I want her to have the world, and I am not the one who can give her that."

For a long time Molly remained silent. Glancing out of the corner of his eye through his fringe, Remus noted the same look he'd seen earlier. She was keeping something from him.

Finally, she said, "She misses you."

"I have only been away for a month." The statement fell flat, but he went on, giving voice to his earlier thoughts, as though speaking them aloud would make them more convincing. "It is better that she is not here. Not seeing me…She will move on more quickly."

"I believe they say absence makes the heart grow fonder Remus."

"I have discovered that most adages do not apply to werewolves. Tonks just needs a little time." To Remus' relief, his voice was steady, confident. He pushed up the sleeves of his jumper over his skinny forearms, plunged them into the dishwater, and scrubbed his plate. "She will see how much better she can do than me."

"Perhaps," said Molly. Remus barely had time to register the relief of someone at last acknowledging that Tonks was young and resilient and not doomed to pining for him for the rest of her life before Molly asked, "But what will you see?"

That he was a fool.

"I will see her happy. That is all I want."

"But you'll still be hungry."

The deep sadness in her voice made Remus bristle. "As I said, I will manage."

Eyes welling, Molly clutched the hem of her apron, wringing it in her fists. For a moment, Remus thought she might raise it to dab at her eyes. Dear Lord, he had not intended to wallow, or to beg company for his misery.

But as though she'd uttered a charm, the moisture in Molly's eyes vanished, replaced by an indignant blaze.

"It's Harry's birthday." With a swoop of her wand, the cake divided itself into generous portions, and she sent all the food to the table. "It's wartime, and we've all got our troubles, but we can put all that aside for a little while for his sake, can't we?"

Remus nodded, though he was unsure how capable he was of cheer, even for Harry's sake.

"Good," said Molly, summoning a stack of plates from a cupboard. "Oh! We've a bit of good news I suppose you've not heard. Arthur was promot—"

The door banged open, and Bill blundered in, a chattering Fleur clinging to his arm as he noisily scraped his dragon hide boots on the stoop.

"'Lo, Remus. Sorry I nearly decapitated you out there." Approaching Remus, he extended his large, strong hand. As they shook hands, Bill's youthful, carefree face hardened with grim lines. "What's the news from the underworld?"

Ignoring Molly's protesting snort, he stepped into the sitting room to talk with Bill. Remus was, after all, a spy. He had information to relay.

Party or no party, he had to make the most of his limited time among wizards.

The End

A/N: Thanks very much for all your patience with my Transfigured Hearts hiatus during the June/July RT Challenge at LiveJournal. I hope to update more regularly now that's done, although my energies are very agreeable divided between TH and my joint effort with Gilpin. I truly appreciate all your support and feedback throughout this ever-growing saga.

Reviewers get to support and scold The Noble Prat in whatever manner they deem most effective: a motherly lecture over a fish-finger sandwich, a pointed rant during a hair cut, or a mild rebuke whilst he showers.