Harry Potter and its associated characters, stories, and trademarks do not belong to me. This is a purely non-profit endeavour, for which I expect absolutely nothing in return but perhaps the kindness of strangers who generously share and invest their time in my imagination.
The title of this work and the summary are borrowed from Alicia Ostriker's amazing and ageless "A Young Woman, a Tree".
The room was small; she couldn't fully stretch out her legs, and she was, at least naturally, shorter than average. There was just enough space for her to scoot between butt cheeks. Her hands were bound behind her—her fingers could graze the cold hard floor. There was a layer of coarse dust on it. A broom cupboard? she ventured. Then there must be something, a broom, a mop, anything that she could use. All her efforts availed her were more bruises under the self-tightening magical rope.
A distant scream had pierced the silence some time ago. It's okay, she had told herself, you'll be alright, old girl. She desperately searched her mind for anything to distract her from the rising feeling of dread in her stomach. Twenty one years she had been alive—surely, perhaps, there could be some good memories in there?
She thought of her father's crackling wireless on the dining table. She thought of her father combing his hair back, croaking thankyew very much thankyew very much in a terrible gurgling American accent—no, he was no Andy Kaufman. She thought of a gentle, lazy guitar riff in a loop: C major, Em11, C major. C major, Em11, C major.
The door slammed open, narrowly missing her feet. It was little things like this that kept her spirit up.
"Nymphadora Tonks," whispered a malicious voice, "Auror."
The blindfold disappeared. She blinked in the faint, flickering light of the gas lamp above her.
A masked man had entered the room. She could see another pair of boots behind him: the room was too small for both of them to fit in here at the same time. Good.
"Just Tonks, please."
"You know the drill." The masked man spoke in a theatrically menacing voice with drawn-out enunciation. "Be a good girl and give us the information we want. Then maybe, we'll show you mercy."
"Did you know," said Tonks casually, "that the Muggles have put a man on the moon?"
"You think this is funny?" growled a voice behind the masked man.
"No, I think it's amazing, they're brilliant, aren't they, the Muggles."
"Enough," said the masked man. He jabbed a finger at her. "You will tell us where the Aurors have hidden the thing we seek!"
"No can't do," she said, grinning in spite of herself, "I just started work, see, and I'd be so fired if I just roll over and give it up, wouldn't I?"
The masked man almost stepped on her when he dashed forward and yanked her up by the hair. She knew what was coming when his eyes bored into hers. She was ready for the rush of memories racing past her—it became so crowded and noisy in the room, she could hardly keep her mind on the same lazy guitar riff that had been stuck in her head since waking up here—oh, here we go. C major. Em11. C major. I'll see you in heaven if you make the list.
The masked man stepped back. "What is that repulsive noise?" he grunted.
"Peaking at number 18 on the UK Singles' chart," muttered Tonks between panting, grinning from how satisfied she was at herself, "Muggle genius—honestly, their music is magical..."
Something hot slapped against her face. She spat out saliva tinged with blood.
"She's still not taking this seriously," said the hidden man.
"I know. Enough of the mouth, girl," hissed the masked man, his wand still pointed at her.
"My mouth and I are a package deal, sorry. Luckily, you're a wizard, and unlike me, you have a wand. The incantation you're looking for is Silencio," said Tonks.
The masked man groaned exasperatedly. "Why must you make this so hard," he muttered. Then his voice dropped an octave lower: "We can still use you against the Ministry whether you like it or not."
He raised his wand. "Imperio!"
The expected sensation of lightness rushed over her. She turned her senses outward first. She tried to feel the bite of the tight rope against her skin, the sting of the wound on her face, the cramp setting in her leg... Everything became numb... she was floating in vacuum, in blissful nothingness...
The masked man's voice echoed in her head. Stand up and say I will obey. Stand up and say I will obey.
And still the guitar riff looped in her head. C major. Em11. C major. If you believed, they put a man on the moon. The chords became louder and louder: it started to drown out the masked man's voice. She could slowly feel the bruise on her wrists where the rope bit into them. She could feel her tongue, and then the vibration of her vocal chords, and then she heard her voice:
"I
Will
Not!"
Each word felt like a massive rock she had to cough off her chest. When the curse was lifted, she found herself with one knee on the floor, already half-getting up. She blinked. Her body was reacquainted with the sensation of gravity and she collapsed onto the cold hard floor.
"Not bad," sneered the masked man.
"Thank you," muttered Tonks, grimacing. Once she had caught her breath she looked up at the masked man. "Are we done here, then? No? Well. We can do this all night long, babe."
The masked man sighed. He lowered his wand. And then a hand yanked him out of the room, and a shorter masked man limped out of the darkness. There was only one eye hole in his mask, from which he glared at her with barely concealed anger.
"I'll deal with her myself," said the new man.
She gave him her best cockiest smile. "Now, where are your manners? Are we going to introduce ourselves?"
He stabbed his wand into the spot mere inches from her nose.
"Crucio."
White hot pain cracked through her body like a whip. Breathe, she reminded herself, but when she tried to inhale it was like breathing in thumbtacks. And then it stopped. She coughed—she had choked a little on her saliva. There was suddenly an explosion of yells that made her ears ring.
"YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WE DON'T USE THE CRUCIATUS CURSE ON CANDIDATES ANYMORE—"
Her binding was gone. She flexed and massaged her wrists as she climbed up to her feet, still wheezing.
"—HIGHLY IRRESPONSIBLE, YOU JUST OPENED US UP TO LIABILITIES—"
"Can I go now, Sir?"
The first masked man had ripped off his mask—he gestured at Tonks to get out. Tonks turned to wave at the shorter masked man, who was standing with his arms crossed and head lolled to the side as if bored.
She was the last to finish the test. When she reached the Aurors' office on the Second Floor, she found it mostly deserted. There was only Kingsley's tall figure poking out of the maze of cubicles.
"Wotcher, Kingsley."
"How'd it go?"
"Oh—" she shrugged; she hated going over tests. "—alright, I guess. I did knock over a vase while tailing a suspect; you don't reckon they'll fail me for that?"
"You'll be fine," said Kingsley in his deep, calm voice. "Do you want something for that?"
He pointed at the cut on her cheek.
"It's just a scratch," said Tonks. She rubbed at it with the back of her hand. "I thought it'd be worse than this—okay, I was caught off-guard at the Cruciatus curse, but then again it isn't in the grading scheme, is it, so I thought overall—"
"The Cruciatus curse?" cut Kingsley sharply, "no, they can't do that—" Realisation set into his face, and he frowned. "Oh, he's not going to do himself any favour."
"Since when has he cared about that?" said Tonks, chuckling. "Speak of the devil..."
A wooden clunking echoed down the corridor and Alastor Moody emerged into the office. He was still dressed in the dark robes of the examiners. He pointed at Tonks, and then beckoned her to follow him.
"See you," she whispered quickly to Kingsley.
Since his old room was Dawlish's now, he led her to the pantry instead. He leaned against the counter and scowled at her.
"How much trouble did you get into?" said Tonks.
"I don't work here anymore, do I, they've driven me out—"
"—into a peaceful well-deserved retirement—"
"—please, give me hell, anytime," grunted Moody. "They were the ones who begged me to come back to be an examiner."
"Well, Cameron did just lose an arm in the Devonshire mission," said Tonks, "yeah, I know, I know, what soft coddled things we've become. You never let a missing limb or two stop you from working."
He continued scowling at her with his normal eye.
"Rix asked me to ask you if you are going to sue the Ministry."
"No," grinned Tonks, "Well. As long as my mother doesn't know. Ohhhh, do you think I can use this as blackmail material over Scrimgeour's head?"
"Don't try that man," said Moody darkly. "Anyway, you—you're OK."
She wasn't sure if it was a question or a statement.
"Aw, you're worried about me," she cooed. "You know how you have to mean it for Cruciatus Curse to be effective—" she clutched her chest "—I'm so glad, Mad-Eye! Thank you for reaffirming this strong mentor-mentee bond between us."
Moody made a low rumbling noise and looked away.
"Did I pass?"
"If it were up to just me," said Moody, "No."
"What? I demonstrated perfect Occlumency, as well as strong resilience against the Imperius Curse! And I better get some extra points for standing up against the Cruciatus Curse too—"
"You still take this as a game," growled Moody, "what were you thinking, taunting your captors like that?"
Tonks crossed her arms. "If that were real, I know I'd be dead anyway. Do you think I would go gentle into that good night? I'll make sure I continue to be a frustratingly adorable smart-arse while staring at Death in the face because like hell I will let my enemy have the satisfaction of knowing I was fucking terrified of them."
"There are worse things than killing you that bad people can do, lassie!"
"I know, alright?!" said Tonks furiously, "so why not annoy the shit out of them and encourage them to get on with it and kill me quickly!"
Moody scoffed. "You're not going to survive very long as an Auror with that kind of attitude."
"Well, I'll make sure I'll be a damn good one in the meantime," said Tonks, "otherwise I'd be a bad reflection on my mentor—and I could never disappoint you like that."
"You and your mouth," muttered Moody.
"Better get used to it, Professor," said Tonks cheerfully, "There's going to be more of this—" she gestured at her lips "—from your students at Hogwarts."
Moody groaned.
"Bloody Albus, this is a terrible fucking idea," he said as he pulled a hand down his face, making his features even more grotesque, "Why did I agree—" he glared at her"—why did I tell you."
"Because you're going to be a brilliant teacher," said Tonks, "Unconventional and intimidating, yes, but brilliant." She crossed her arms and grinned. "Trust me. I'm the best person to tell you that."
Moody stared at her for a second with both his eyes. And then he left the room with the smallest of nod and the clunk of his wooden leg.
"Right," said Tonks to the empty room, "Still not big on the feelings thing, then. But we're getting there, old man."
And they've come a long way too.
The other two Auror trainees had patted her on the shoulder when they found out the team she had been assigned to.
"Can't believe that old codger's still hanging around after all this time," said Frost, a tall Ravenclaw with a permanently upturned nose.
Tonks was surprised at his tone. "He's a war hero."
"He was," chimed Bishop, another Ravenclaw and a former Keeper for his house Quidditch team. He had large watchful eyes that blinked often and watered easily. "But he's, er, lost it since the end of the First War. He still sees Dark Wizards everywhere—"
"If you ask me, he actually misses You-Know-Who," muttered Frost.
"—and he even harasses those people who were suspected of being Death Eaters. Lucius Malfoy actually got a restraining order against him a few years back. My father—" Bishop Sr was an Auror stationed in Brighton, which team Bishop would be joining as a trainee "—says the only reason Moody isn't fired yet is because the Aurors need to keep an eye on him—he's becoming such a press liability these days—at least until they can persuade him to retire. Yeah, he was a great Auror—the greatest, some say—but..."
"Times have changed and he has not," finished Frost with a shrug.
She felt a surge of pity for a man she had never met. She thought of how Boris Davies had dumped her in sixth year when she refused to indulge him in his sexual fantasies. She was embarrassed thinking about it: of course it wasn't the same at all, and yet she could sympathise, even if just a little, with how hurtful it was to be thrown to the side once you're of no use to someone.
Moody's team was a small, four-men operation stationed at HQ itself. There was John Dawlish: sturdy, greying, stoic. He was also a veteran of the War. Linus Proudfoot was a pale, freckled wizard with copper afro. Sean Savage was a broad-shouldered Brummy who had no left ear (a Leprechaun bit it off—Tonks never did find out the full story) but had a gregarious laughter that could be heard all the way in the Misuse of Muggle's office down the floor. And then Alastor Moody himself: she had seen enough pictures of him to know his appearance—grizzled, jigsaw pieces for a face, a wooden claw for a leg—but he wasn't there when she met the rest of the team in their cluster of cubicles.
"Welcome to the team! You're our first trainee in a while—"
"They stopped assigning trainees to us after we lost the last one," grinned Savage.
"Lost?" inquired Tonks sharply.
"—you'll soon learn to treat Sean as background noise." Proudfoot reached a hand out and she shook it. "Your cubicle is this one here—mind the cabinet, we think a Boggart just moved in last night. We'll get rid of it when we have the time."
"Or you can do it," said Savage, "You're here to impress us anyway."
Tonks sniffed and made to open the cabinet, but Proudfoot stopped her. "No, no, you don't want a Boggart transforming in the Aurors' HQ. We've just renovated the place, too."
She took her seat and dumped her bag on top of the rattling cabinet. Savage and Proudfoot were still peering down at her over the dividers.
"So, Rookie," said Savage, "do you know what are the three cardinal rules of being an Auror?"
She paused to actually think the question through. There was an ethical code of conduct all Aurors were sworn to follow, but that was a list of ten, not three. Did she already forget anything from the rigorous six month theory course she just went through?
She gave it a go anyway. "Independence and Impartiality—"
"No, no," said Savage, waving his hand dismissively. "Okay, note this down, Rookie."
She sighed. "Tonks."
"Number one, Rookie," said Savage, lifting his index finger up, "is that an Auror always obeys their superior's orders."
She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. "Even if it's a stupid order?"
Proudfoot cleared his throat. "Number two," he said as Savage waved two fingers at her, "a superior's order is never stupid."
"And three," continued Savage, "I like my coffee with a dash of cream and three spoonful of sugar. John takes his with soy, no sugar, and Linus only drinks tea, Darjeeling, boiling, plain."
"Oh, piss off," said Tonks, rolling her eyes. "I'm a trainee, not your house-elf."
"Hey, this is a tradition for all trainees, Rookie!" said Savage indignantly, "it builds character and a sense of team camaraderie!"
Someone sighed and slammed something down at the cubicle next to hers.
"Sit down and be quiet, Sean, I'm trying to write a report." Dawlish stood up to his full height and looked down at Tonks. "Enough lounging about. Go see Moody and get some work to do. You can make us our tea and coffee tomorrow."
Proudfoot helpfully pointed out to her Moody's room. He muttered a "Don't worry" to her, which slightly alarmed her because she was not remotely worried before this. Savage flashed her a thumbs-up that looked ironic with his cheeky grin.
She knew that magical eye of his would have seen her coming. But she knocked first and waited for him to bark an invitation before opening the door.
His appearance was more awful in person. The scars on his face and limbs were not your average flesh scars—they looked like a map of mountain ridges and valleys, as if pieces of the flesh had been gouged out. There were missing chunks of nose and lip. And the magical eye was almost comical in its grotesqueness—Tonks was reminded of some Japanese muggle comics she had seen and felt an odd urge to laugh.
He was bent over a long parchment. From time to time he would make a note in rapid swiping movements with his quill. The magical eye swivelled in every direction but hers.
It must have been a minute or two until he spoke.
"Yeah?"
"I'm the trainee assigned to your team, Sir," began Tonks. She wasn't sure if she should approach the desk to shake his hand. She decided that she should just keep her hands visible at all times by her side.
"Why."
"Uh," said Tonks, "well, I passed my exam after the six months theory classes, and then I was assigned to your team. I'm not sure how they actually did the assignment—I would assume it's randomly made, but my classmate was assigned to his father's team so—"
"No." His normal eye had looked up from the parchment too. It bored into her. "Why are you here. Why do you want to be an Auror."
She caught her left wrist with her right hand and rubbed it. She thought she had given a pretty satisfactory answer for this during her first round of application interviews. Wouldn't he have a record of that?
"Trying to make daddy and mommy proud?" Moody was now walking around his desk to approach her: the clunk of his wooden leg punctuated his sentences. "Trying to satisfy a hero complex? Trying to have something impressive on your CV to kick start a political career?"
He was standing in front of her now. She wanted to take a step back and averted her gaze. She caught herself. No, she wasn't going to he intimidated by him.
"I want to do some good with my life."
(She only just realised how pathetic she sounded. How the fuck did the interviewers let her in?)
Whatever was left of his upper lip curled up into a sneer. "Be a Healer then."
"With respect—Sir," said Tonks coolly, "it is not for you to tell me what I should be or not be."
He was not much taller than her. She could stare back at him without straining her neck.
"Too many people," grunted Moody, "have forgotten what this job is like. Or at least, what it should be like. This isn't a cushy government job. It sure as hell isn't a glorious heroic job. It is a calling. It is a lifelong mission. Death is an occupational hazard and these—" He pointed at his misshapen nose "—are our uniforms."
Tonks raised her left arm slowly to her shoulder level without breaking eye contact with him. The sleeve of her robe slid down to her elbow. The smooth skin underneath was rippling.
"Do you think that just because I'm a witch, I would be afraid of scars?"
There was now an ugly, jagged line of pink raised flesh down the length of her arm. She tugged the collar of her robe down just as the skin knotted into a brownish scar tracing her collar bone. Then she pointed at the faint line just to the right of her philstrum, the one she never bothered to hide away.
"That's really offensive," she finished, "Sir."
Moody's magical eye swiveled from scar to scar.
"So, you're the Metamorphmagus."
"Yeah," said Tonks, "Sir."
"Don't think that I'm impressed with that," said Moody. He turned back to his desk. "Being an Auror is more than just fancy disguises and costumes."
"Good," shot Tonks back, "because I am so much more than just a Metamorphmagus."
He sat back down on his chair and picked up his parchment again. "We'll see."
She remained standing in front of his desk. After another minute he looked up again.
"Yeah?"
"Well," said Tonks, "Dawlish said you'd give me work to do. Sir."
"You can start with that Boggart under your desk. I'll call you when I need you," growled Moody. "Get out, get out."
She opened the door and paused.
"When you do need me," she said, "my name is Tonks. Sir."
Tonks went to work next week as a fully qualified Auror.
She took particular care to reach work on time, which meant there was nobody else in the office when she took her seat at her cubicle. There was an odd feeling of waiting for something that had already arrived. It had taken her three years and dozens of tests to get here. But she didn't feel any different as she sat down in her usual seat; for all she knew time had looped in upon itself and she was reliving her first day as trainee again, if not for the weight of the badge in her pocket.
Proudfoot was the first of the team to arrive. He shrugged off his travelling cloak before approaching her cubicle.
"Morning, Rookie," he grinned, "sorry to hear you've made it. Now you're stuck with us."
"Thanks, Linus," grinned back Tonks.
Savage joined them soon. He had a present for Tonks: her own cup of coffee. It tasted like dishwater, and she only took a sip for his benefit.
"But don't forget, you're still the baby of this team," he said in a mock stern manner, "and always, always remember the three cardinal rules Aurors live by—"
If Savage was going to give her a refresher course on those rules, it was put on hold when Dawlish strode over to them, commanding them to their office for a briefing on an urgent new case.
"As everyone is well aware," he said once they were all inside his office, "the Quidditch World Cup is happening next month."
"No way," gasped Tonks in feigned surprise. Savage stifled a giggle.
"And as everyone is also aware, Bagman's department is doing an excellent job fucking it up. So the Minister for Magic has suggested that I—that this team work together with Bagman's department to double check the security measures."
Dawlish's chest had inflated when he mentioned Fudge's name. Tonks caught Savage's eyes: she put her pen in her mouth and blew her cheek. He disguised his laughter as a sneeze.
Dawlish concluded the meeting by delegating the different tasks (Tonks was to survey the different Portkey spots and their protections—it would mean spending the day Apparating into stinky garbage dumps, but anything beats staying in the office).
"Right, let's get to work then, Aurors."
They turned and left his office. Tonks put her badge around her neck. "Auror," she declared, in Alastor Moody's growl and tapped R's: the best embodiment of the word. She smiled.
"Now that I think about it," said Tonks, "shouldn't there be a trainee with us?"
It was more than six months since she received the badge which weight had become so familiar around her neck.
"Nah," said Savage in between mouthful of sandwich, "I hear they didn't accept any candidates this year. Are you already itching for a trainee to boss over, Rookie?"
"The number of recruits has been steadily dropping over these ten years," added Proudfoot, "makes sense really, the job now seems less glamorous when compared to, say, magical law, curse-breaking, or magical banking and finance, as my wife is always keen to remind me."
The most exciting thing case they'd had in the six months was the discovery of a family of Trolls in an abandoned Muggle factory at Manchester.
"But I guess it can only be a good thing that the world sees a need for less Aurors," mused Proudfoot.
She thought of Moody. He was pushed kicking and screaming into retirement, yes, but he would have been miserable at how peaceful the world was becoming, wouldn't he? He was restless even during his final year: he took her tailing and investigating the wildest of rumours on Dark Magic activities, mostly to no avail. He must be having a better time at Hogwarts now, so good that (Tonks noted with slight bitterness) he had forgotten to write to her at all. He didn't even reply to her bloody Christmas card.
She saw Kingsley walking towards her cubicle and called out to him. Two interdepartmental memos fluttered above him like flies.
"Alright, Kingsley! How was Tunisia?"
"Very agreeable climate, but it suffered from a lack of Sirius Black," said Kingsley, smiling. "Thanks for the Christmas card—oh, and the nougats too. They were delicious."
"No problem, I'll tell my mom you liked 'em, she'd be delighted," replied Tonks. "By the way, have you heard from Mad-Eye lately?" she added casually.
"No. But I thought if anyone would have heard from him in this office, it would have been his protégée," chuckled Kingsley. Tonks rolled her eyes and gave him the special groan both she and Moody had for when people call her that—"a load of posh bollocks" as Moody put it. "Why'd you ask? Did something happen?"
"Nothing," sighed Tonks, "that's just it, none of us has heard from him since he left for Hogwarts. Ah, it's alright, he's probably really busy—my God, he's probably investigating every case of Dungbombs set off in the corridors... Maybe he's taken Filch under his wing now."
She let her mind wander to the plenty of Dungbombs she had set off herself in those very same hallowed corridors. What if she was a student at Hogwarts now—what if her first time meeting Moody was in his Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, or plausibly (given her track record), in detention? She'd still have won him over with her brand of charm and cheekiness, wouldn't she? It wasn't as if she was any different now than she was in school. What did Professor Sprout write in her letter of recommendation? Natural leadership qualities, creative and spirited, full of initiative and self-actualisation. (Her heart swelled in fond memory of her Head of House.) She was still all of those things! Well, maybe she had grown up a little—she could be quite full of herself last time, not that it was a bad thing. She was a force of nature then—she never worried about fitting in, she was cocksure about herself in any situation. Brimming with confidence, Professor Sprout had said—to the point of obnoxiousness, Professor Snape would have added.
Actually, she thought wistfully, she missed being that young Nymphadora Tonks.
"Rookie!" yelled Savage, "c'mon, we're escorting Fudge to the grand opening of St Mungo's new ward!"
She made a face to Kingsley. Take me with you, she pleaded silently. He was the cool Auror who answered directly to Scrimgeour with the cool job of hunting down wanted dark Wizards. Dawlish, on the other hand, was very happy for his team to become glorified security details for Ministry VIPs.
Kingsley mouthed something that looked like "next time", and left her cubicle with a wink. Tonks groaned and trudged to Savage.
"Are you just going like that?" he said, pointing at his own face because she'd jabbed him in the eye with his own finger if he'd pointed at her.
Dawlish had told her that Fudge expected his female Auror escorts to be "suitably presentable". What the hell does that mean, Tonks had asked. Dawlish had glanced at her hair (a mossy shade of green on that day), her pierced ears, and the tattered jeans under her robe. You know what it means, he had said with an air of finality, you don't need me to spell it out.
Tonks let Savage know how she felt about his helpful reminder with two choice fingers. She closed her eyes, and the next time she opened them, Savage was looking at John Dawlish with a slightly awed look.
"You sure your balls will fit in that?" he said as Tonks Transfigured her robes into Dawlish's preferred suit and pants.
"Right, right, right," said Tonks, her voice lowering and flattening in pitch as she morphed her vocal chord to get Dawlish's rasping tenor. "Bright eyes, proud chest, Savage, we are representing the Ministry!"
The next day, John Dawlish met Cornelius Fudge in the Atrium, and was greeted with a very firm clap on the shoulder, and Fudge's declaration that he was a "good man! Excellent drinker, bottomless pit of a stomach, and wicked—oh, so very much wicked—sense of humour!" If he ever suspected Tonks of any mischief that night (and Tonks was sure he certainly did), he never did bring it up to her.
A/N: Peaking at number 18 on the UK Singles' chart in 1992 was Man on the Moon by the Muggle alternative rock band R.E.M. It was the second single from their album Automatic for the People.