He was sitting at the kitchen table, a patched-up affair just traded in for a slab of plywood supported on stacks of nicked milk crates, holding a clean, empty mug in his hands and pretending he was interested in the apple in the other. She'd lived scant like this, long before him, he reasoned. It just seemed wrong, somehow, now that they were married—and he half-glared in slight alarm at the thick silver band on his left hand, perfectly matching the slim one he knew embraced her same finger. He should be providing for her, should be taking care of her. But, really, what could he do? she'd argued. He was already doing his part and more, and she expected nothing more from him than his love, for him to be there forever and always, always hers to touch and hold, always her walking, loving journal that answered back and brushed her tears away. And it was partially true, he was doing all he could; he hadn't had a proper job since that year at Hogwarts. Who would hire a werewolf? He sighed and looked out the small, dirty window to the London road outside. Bill and Fleur's wedding was tomorrow, that little rock that started the avalanche that had turned everything upside down and sent events spinning out of his control. But whenever he began to doubt, began to worry, he remembered her face smiling directly into his eyes—as she was nearly as tall as he was—the tears spilled on his account that were joyful at last. Her smiles could not assuage his doubts, could not prove that he had done the right thing, but let his tired brain believe for the time that her face gazed on him that her happiness was worth it. And wasn't he happy as well, with an elation nearly the match of hers?
She came out of the bedroom wearing nothing but his wrinkled oxford, further illustrating her presence by the slight sway in her hips as she approached that nearly drove him mad and was all that kept him sane. She took the chair opposite him—there were only two—rather than sit in his lap, as the teakettle boiled at that minute, setting up a shrill whistle that filled the small kitchen. He fetched the dented thing since she had just sat down and, careful not to let the hot metal touch his bare chest, he poured the steaming water into their empty cups, and she reached across the table for the small basket of teabags. He thought he saw the faint outline of tear-tracks gilding her high cheeks as he returned to his seat, and wariness flooded his heart. What had he done now? He nibbled half-hearted at the hunk of cheese to have something accountable to do with his hands as he saw her attack her bowl of porridge, dressing it liberally with cinnamon and maple syrup. She looked up at him finally, smiling from beneath the thorny bramble of her bright pink hair, perfectly ordered into chaos as it always was, even though his was tangled dreadfully still after last night. She made it halfway through the thick cereal before seeming to choke on nothing, and pushed the saccharine stuff away. His brows met in a sharp line; she was always hungry. Setting down his light breakfast—for all it was nearly noon—he waited for her spit out whatever it was she was composing herself to say. The worst possible answers popped into his mind, and he schooled his face into a blandly patient expression that betrayed none of the foreboding clutching his heart.
"Um, there's not really an easy way to say this… so I'm just gonna say it, gentle as I can." she told the tabletop, twisting her wedding band round and round her finger. Suddenly he knew, and felt the blood drain away from his face, the tips of his ice-cold fingers tingling uncomfortably. "I — I'm pregnant, Remus." She met his eyes, her face grave and slightly frightened, but she could not suppress the smile that suddenly leapt to her perfectly-sculpted lips at the awe-inspiring word.
He was suddenly cold, so cold, with blood roaring in his ears, and he couldn't react. He knew he should be smiling as widely as he could back at her, erase the sudden uncertainty that lined her brow, pinched her mouth, knew he should go to her and take her his arms, hold her tighter than ever before, tell her that everything would be alright. She knew the implications as well as he. She just never seemed really to care. And it was fear that made the question leap to his tongue before he could stop it. "Mine?"
Her look of affront quelled his heart. "And who the bloody hell else would it be, you idiot? I thought you trusted me. I swear on my wand, may it snap if I lie: The child is yours, no one else's." The cold finality in her voice broke him, but he knew she too bit out of fear, and said less than she meant. There was no chance, not now, no chance that she was joking with him, that she was lying. Her eyes, shining with tears again—though he could not tell if they were induced by amazement or joy or sadness or fear—were so earnest, begging him to understand, to forgive himself and her and let it go and be happy—for her, for their baby, for himself.
He smiled at her, struggling hard to control his voice when he spoke. "I trust you, 'Dora, more than I trust any living soul. I—I didn't mean it. So… A baby… That — that's incredible…"
"You don't have to lie to me, Remus," she told him almost coldly, her voice coloured with tears though she struggled to keep it level. "I know you're scared. I'm scared too; probably more scared than you are. I know this should never have happened at all. Just… now that it has, we have to make the best of it, don't we?" She seemed to be reassuring herself as much as him, and belatedly, he put his arms around her, knowing that he should have been comforting her, pledging to her beyond doubt that everything was all right. "I know the risks, I know why you jumped like that. Just… let's hang the rules, okay? It's not fair, and it's not right, and it's not the baby's fault whose dad it is. It is not your fault—no, it's not, and I don't want to hear it, Remus, please don't apologize to me!—It was an accident! I do not blame you. If I thought you'd listen, I'd thank you. Timing's not perfect, I'll admit, but it's not anybody's fault. Look, I signed up for this. I knew exactly what I was getting into when I married you. I do not regret anything. I'm willing to do this. I am, and nothing you or anyone can say will make me do any different, and I don't care. Somebody gave me a chance, when they didn't have to, but they did, and… well, I owe it, is all, and why should we have any say in it…" She sighed. "I'm not mad at you. I'm glad, all right? I'm scared, yeah, but I don't regret it, whether you do or not…" He felt guilt tinge his face, that she could read such emotion in him, and felt filthy as he, werewolf, never had before, to have thought such a thing in the first place.
"It's wrong to just assume, and not give this a chance," she half-sobbed with such conviction that he knew she had been trying to make herself believe the same thing while she cried in the bathroom. "We have to give it a chance. We have to." He couldn't stand her pleading with him, as if she had to make him believe what he already knew.
He held her tightly to him, trying to make her feel what he did, know what he knew without voicing it, reassure her as he was supposed to do. "I know. I know. Everything will be all right. I promise." She was crying into his shoulder now, shaking as he rocked their two—three—bodies gently to and fro. "I won't let anything hurt you—ever. You know that. It'll all be all right. Shh, shh…" He stroked her hair, held her too him. "Don't be scared. I'm right here, right here, holding you. I love you I love you I love you… Nothing can stop me loving you."
Three hours later, they had both cleaned up and were dressed. He had considered telling—asking—her to please, for the love of God, change her hair. But thought better of it. She'd probably put it up in blonde pigtails, anyway, just to annoy him. And that was far too much of a giveaway. He'd talked her into taking this slowly, to take a step at a time and see what happened. She had listened, and was comforted when her own thoughts were echoed in his words, and obediently promised to be careful. But she'd be hard pressed to keep a straight face all day. Half-heartedly, he wondered how long that would last. Even at home, she couldn't keep from smiling. He could almost feel the aura of wonder and delight pulsing off her. Now that he'd taken the edge off her fear, the wonder of it intoxicated her. He couldn't begrudge her the happiness; she looked more beautiful than ever, and certainly she deserved it, marrying him, but he wished she'd be more prudent. It seemed unreasonably cruel to remind her 'constant vigilance.' She'd only just put Moody's death behind her, and this had helped greatly, but it didn't stop him thinking it, and almost made wish he had the gall to actually say it. She was acting far too loud. He was scared and fighting hard not to show it, for her sake. This was probably the most inadvisable thing that had ever happened to him, apart from getting married, apart from getting bitten. For a moment wished that this had never happened, and instantly took it back. So he resigned himself to a trying day, being dragged about in her train and keeping a close watch on her tongue and who did or did not listen. Not that she would say anything, he amended, but she'd be sorely tempted. He wondered if he ought to relent and let her tell Molly like she'd begged; they'd gotten pretty close over the summer, when she'd taken refuge from his face in her kitchen, but would one little advance prompt another, and then another? Take it slow… Bah.
She really wasn't looking forward to the prospect of Apparation, unsure of how it would go, but glad they were going nevertheless. She felt like she'd been floating an inch off the floor all day. Of course she was scared. Terrified, really. She wasn't even twenty-five, and she was an Auror, and she wasn't even 'legally' married; they hadn't been able to register a claim with the Ministry, it was far too dangerous—oh, she was so sick of that word—and he still walked out on her for a week out of the month, even when he wasn't gadding about for the Order like she barely got to do anymore. They'd been having the same argument for months now. He was so drattedly noble, and it was cute, but she would not be left at home to worry about him while he was out fighting and she was locked away for her own protection. She worried about him enough as it was. She hated when he wasn't there, but that was part of the agreement, and she was lucky she'd made it in the first place.
They were supposed to stay over at the Burrow tonight, Molly had asked, since the service was in the morning, and Harry's seventeenth birthday was today. She stifled a laugh at the thought.
Mad-Eye wouldn't be there, and Remus would have been anyway, so she took a place she had long been filling. She pulled a Weird Sister's t-shirt over her head, began to hunt down her jeans. Remus had insisted that she pack the finery for tomorrow and not wear it. She'd retorted that he could shove it and she wouldn't pack anything, like Molly would care. She'd shown up to their wedding in freaking jeans, after all, and he hadn't exactly been wearing dress robes. He could be nearly as obstinate as she, and far more patient, but the warning gleam in his eye had made her shut up, sure she was about to get another sermon on caution. She was not in the mood for sermons. If Mum had anything to say about it, she'd be hearing nothing but sermons for months to come. If they came from a time-tested source, she might just be able to pretend to listen; if he kept on badgering her, she knew she would cry.
She put it out of her mind. It was nobody's fault, and too late to change, anyhow. She resolved to just be happy. What's the point in fretting over something no one can fix?