I've Found Mine

by MeticulousMuse

Metamorphmagus. Auror. I have never failed at making myself what I wanted to be. Never. Well, here's what I want: I want to be his.

I never thought I'd have much of a problem attracting blokes.

I mean, Metamorphmagus, right? If I can't land a decent wizard, what hope is there for witchkind really?

Not that I'd... ew. I mean, it would be so tacky and weird, making myself up as some adolescent fantasy, knockers like something out of Playwitch and... anyway. I might joke about it, or I used to, I'd give the 'Puff guys back at school a real hard time over just how easy it was for a mischievous soul like me to manipulate their primitive male brain stems, but, I'd never actually cheat like that in an actual relationship. I wouldn't want anything to do with a guy that asked me to be some lust object. Anyway.

I don't think I'd actually want anyone else anymore, 'cause I think I've found mine and... and he wouldn't ever ask me to be something I'm not.

Even if he doesn't seem to want what I am, either.

Bugger. I said I wouldn't cry again.

I never really doubted that I could do anything I set my mind to. Only peacetime Auror candidate in five years, thank you very much, even though I had two left feet and certain of my relatives were among Azkaban's most deserving inmates. Of Azkaban, that is. I had to get perfect OWLs and perfect NEWTs, and even then, I barely got my dream career, but in the end, I did it. Damn it, I did. If I could become an Auror I can do anything.

But I can't get him to stay with me. Can't get him to stay at all.

Right. I should start at the beginning. No crying. Nothing to cry about, back then, all it meant to be Order was pulling late nights and fudging the law (a term that took on a whole new meaning that year, but still fits) to watch a door.

Last year, when we were first getting to know each other as friends, I knew I could always make him smile. I'd walk in before a meeting and find him already sitting at the table, reading alone with a cup of tea, and the look in his eyes when he saw me was like the sun emerging from behind the clouds, and my own smile must've looked rather girlishly giddy but he didn't ever seem to mind. He'd always compliment me, even if I walked in with a duck bill, or kelp dreadlocks, or irises in gradients, and actually surprising him, impressing him, catching his eye and his curiosity, had become a special treat that I craved more and more. Anything to get him to look at me like that, study whatever I'd done with my face as though it were an albino grindylow or the page of a rare book.

That was long before the Department of Mysteries. Before the Second Order of the Phoenix had its first encounter with the grand sodding mystery of Death. Before...

Well, he and Sirius saw it coming, though. And Mad-Eye, of course, expects doom around every corner. Most of the Order was waiting for something like this to happen eventually, 'cept maybe me. I knew, but I didn't understand; the last war ended when I was nine, and I barely knew anyone who died. I just remember the day the world partied and celebrated while mum wept quietly about her cousin, who had done something very evil.

Maybe nothing could've prepared me for last month, but if anything from before helps, it's remembering all those conversations and reminisces, lounging around that grim old drawing room after hours, Sirius with a shot of brandy and Remus by the fire with a crusty old book, with the firelight shining gold on the silvery threads in his hair.

"Now, see, thistlehead, that's your basic misapprehension," Sirius was saying one evening over a nightcap. "This isn't war."

My hair was a short lavender buzz that night. Sirius had the habit of teasingly nicknaming me by whatever my hair happened to look like at the moment. For bright green, it was 'Easter basket'. For Weasley red, it was 'honorary spawn'. For brown like my mum's, it was 'mini-Dromeda'. When I'd gone cobalt, it was 'blueberry'.

This was, after all, the man who had named Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs.

I miss him, too. Merlin, I do. It hurts so much to think I'll never get to try to stump him by showing up at- well, I can't say it- at headquarters, then- with my hair the color of a Muggle highlighter pen. He'd help me with Remus, I know he would. Sirius always wanted the people he loved to be happy- Harry, Remus. Me, too. He'd tell me what in hell Remus is so scared of, how to get him to *trust* me, to...

Anyway, hence 'thistlehead'.

"What else would you call it?" I argued then.
"Posturing and planning," Remus suggested quietly from the armchair near the fire. He was still on the mend after the other day's full moon, and I was considering suitable excuses for tucking another blanket over him. "A cold war, which isn't really a war so much as intimidation."
"But he doesn't mean to keep it to that," I challenged.
"No, I very much doubt that he does," was the quiet, steely response. Sirius' face was just as distant.

In that moment it struck me powerfully that if ever heroes existed in real life, I was gadding around a moldy old drawing room with two of them, had helped them feed hippogriffs and cook breakfast and conduct highly amusing sabotage to the Weasley twins' shower in just retaliation for their efforts to impress Mssrs. Padfoot and Moony. Both of these men had lived through what they called real war, when they were younger than I was even then. They had lost friends, family, to far worse fates than the murder curse. And they were just people.

But they *knew*.

Everyone else in the Order *knew*.

They were all veterans. They all understood what was coming.

I couldn't imagine it, back then, is what I'm saying. Not without their help. I couldn't imagine *me* as a hero, too, or people I know dying, or how Lily Potter found the courage to stand in front of her baby's crib that night.

Everyone else in the Order was either so old they'd fought Grindelwald or, in the Weasleys' cases, they hadn't fought in the last war either, but Remus and Sirius had joined the seventies Order when they were just a few years younger than I was when I joined the nineties one. They understood what it was like for me, and they were always willing to help. They were the two best friends I've ever had.

Maybe that's why I fell so hard for him. Remus, I mean.

I think the first time he finally kissed me, he'd lost a bet with Sirius. The second time, though... It was kind of adorable, he passed me a note at the end of the next meeting, trying not to blush, and the polite invitation spelled out his not-entirely-conversational intentions for asking me to meet him afterward and made painstakingly clear that he didn't expect anything just because of what had happened the other day (the aforementioned suspected forfeit) and I was free to decline and-

I stuffed the rest of the note in my pocket, grabbed him by the arm, ducked out of the crowded kitchen into the unused corridor leading to the dark, dangerous banquet hall and snogged him then and there against the wall until neither of us could even breathe or think. When we opened our eyes and looked at each other again, I could see even in the dark that he had that same look of wonder and surprise on his face, but even more so. What else could I do? I kissed him again. After that it became less clear who was kissing who.

He hasn't so much as held my hand since that stupid veil of Death, but it's not that he doesn't want me in that way, or that he's over me. Primitive brain stems, remember? I know better than anybody how it looks when a bloke's thinking with his... well, you know. Not his brain. Even now, the last meeting before he went underground, the one time he looked me in the eyes I felt positively dizzy at the thought that someone like him- intelligent, dignified, brave- felt that way about clumsy little me. Then he looked away, as though ashamed of himself.

Or of me.

No, it's not that. It's- he keeps saying that he's too old for me, and too poor, and too dangerous, and when he does I insist that I don't care, but he doesn't listen. Last year it was more of a teasing protest between snogs, like he was testing, probing, trying to see if I maybe really did mind it.

"Such passion, Nymphadora- mmmh- I fear that you may've- confused me with some handsome young devil. I couldn't bear to disappoint-"
"Mmmmh, like hell, Remus, mmmmm, and don't call me Nymphad- ooh!"
Soft laughter in the dark. "Apologies, Nymphadora, but I got distracted by something rather marvelous. What was that last bit again?"

Like I said, I'm pretty sure I've found mine, and he's spoken for. You'll just have to go find your own and train him to kiss like that, because this one's taken. I'm an Auror; I am highly proficient in casting multiple very nasty hexes at the same time, and I'm not above defending tweedy sexy werewolves from undue harassment. You've been emphatically warned.

Oh. Werewolves. Right, about that.

Now, I know what you're going to say, and he's not like that at all. You think of what's been in the news, with Greyback and the group of feral savage werewolves he's been putting together, and how they're probably allied with You-Know- dammit. Voldemort, okay? He's back, it's real, and we'll just have to deal with it. And if he doesn't have a whole load of snarling furry cannibals who worship the sodding moon ready to sic on people within the next year, it'll all be because of-

Well. That's rather need-to-know.

Let's just say that not all werewolves are like that, mine's not, he's a damn hero (as I mentioned) and he's off being one right this very minute, and the likes of Greyback's curs aren't fit to lick the mud off *my* tweedy sexy devil's raggedy brown librarian loafers. So there.

Merlin, I miss him so much it hurts, and why won't he even...

Too poor. Can he really see me as so shallow and immature- too young for him- that I give a damn about that? So what if the only date we ever had was a picnic on the beach? He Apparated us both forty miles- forty miles, made it look easy!- to this hidden little cove that was private enough that we wouldn't be seen together in public and tagged as Order and the Ministry wouldn't raise a stink over us, and he'd sweet-talked Molly into making him a scant double-helping (when she'd rather cook for twenty) of all my favorite foods, and we buried each other's toes in warm sand and when the sun set we made a little campfire and I Accio'ed some marshmallows from the nearest Tesco (and discreetly Banished back a pound piece, don't look at me like that) and taught him how to make s'mores with that medicinal chocolate he always keeps in his pocket. He put his arm around me and held me close until the fire burned down to embers and I'd never felt more safe.

I keep that particular memory in *my* pocket for next time the bloody depressing fog around here elects to stop shagging and get fresh with me.

He is not too dangerous. Yes he is a werewolf, but he takes Wolfsbane and he'd never willingly hurt anybody (except Death Eaters, he's pretty good at hurting them when in human shape), and I'm a flipping Auror, okay? Perfect OWLs, perfect NEWTs, three years of training, and Mad-Eye effing Moody set my final examinations. Yes, it was the real one! I qualified in May of ninety-four, and I've been active on the force for two whole years, and-

Owww.

Okay, fine. And the only time I ever fought any Death Eaters, I was the one who got hexed halfway to Monday, fell down the effing stairs, and got five broken ribs and a concussion. Maybe that's why he doesn't think I'm safe anymore; I've pretty much proven how much I need to be coddled and protected or I'll hurt myself or something.

Well, Mad-Eye already said it about the duelling: I just need to buck up and practice more, be ready next time and grateful I got a chance to learn this time instead of something more permanent.

I've got to do better.

Too old, too poor, too dangerous. Hmph. Guess that just makes me too immature, too fragile, too weak. And if he won't give it a go anyway, I'll just have to do the walking.

Metamorphmagus. Auror. I have never failed at making myself what I wanted to be. Never.

Well, here's what I want: I want to be his. I want to be good enough for him. Mature enough, wise enough, strong enough, that he won't *be* too old, too poor, too dangerous for me.

I close my eyes, standing in front of my bathroom mirror. I don't want my hair pink, or green, or purple, or anything; don't give a damn what my nose looks like, or my eyes, or my lips. I think instead of how the silvery hair that the saddest wisdom gave him glows golden in the firelight... how his weary blue eyes light up for the simple pleasure of a warm cup of tea and he never takes the smallest moment of happiness for granted... the set of his shoulders as he fearlessly crossed wands with two Death Eaters at once last month, the same way he stood from his chair at the last Order meeting and said yes, he would go, he would... bloody- stop crying... I want to be the way his arms feel around me and... and the way he isn't even scared of turning into a great sodding *wolf* once a month even though the potion's bitter and awful and it hurts like shite even with the potion and... and I love him and all I want is... is...

Well.

Apparently trying to morph into 'whatever mature, strong, wise love looks like' makes you look like... that.

Well, I do look more mature, I guess. Maybe I can shift the follicles just a little so it looks somewhat less like a dead rat. Now then...

Eyes closed. Come on now.

Nope.

Bugger... Something's wrong.

"Well, Auror Tonks, I'm afraid I can't give you much information. Medical magic regarding shapeshifting abilities such as yours is just too under-researched. Could it possibly be your recent injury, or something in your diet?"

I just want to be the way his arms feel around me...

"Bloody hell, Tonks, what *was* that thing?! I thought your Patronus was a goose or something!"

The fearless set of his shoulders...

"God, Dora, you look... are you all right? Your injuries..."
Her chin lifted stubbornly, and her eyes were dry.
"Never better, Remus. You just focus on not getting yourself killed out there."

Not scared even when it hurts like shite and it's so, so bitter...

"Still can't change, can you, girl? Still moping over a broken heart?"
"Stuff it, Mad-Eye, all right, I'm not *moping*."
"You're not fit for it. Going to get that cloud-bound head of yours hexed straight off your shoulders that way, girl, Merlin! You're better than this! Listen. We can't afford to lose you and Dumbledore wants one of our people in Hogsmeade full-time. I'm going to point out your hair to Robards and nudge him into moving you to the back ranks."
"The-? *The Hogsmeade detail*?! Mad-Eye, please, it's back of beyond, *nothing's* happening there-"
"It's the new post for screwups and deadbeats like Dawlish and that hussy Proudfoot, I know. It's also the safest Auror post there is."
"I'm not an *Auror of the Phoenix* to be *safe*, Mad-Eye! Bellatrix *Lestrange* is still out there and I-"
"Your magic is demonstrably unreliable and we can't afford to let you get killed before you straighten it out, and we need one of ours on the ground in Hogsmeade, so shut up and take your medicine!"

How his eyes light up just over a warm cup of tea...

"Sit down, dear, and drink up 'till you're warmed. I don't need to hear you say anything to know that you're in love with a man who's being a stupid noble prat. He'll come 'round, dear, men do get over their sillinesses eventually if you keep at them long enough. Arthur did."

Never taking the smallest moment of happiness for granted...

"Happy Christmas, Dora. I, understand... if you would rather that I leave-"
"No... stay."
"I don't- I- I have to be gone by morning, and it would be, cruel and selfish of me, to..."
"To stop in to tease me and then go scarper off into the woods again?"
"Yes."
"I don't care. I want you to stay, as long as you can."
"I can't promise you... anything at all. I don't want to hurt you any worse than I already-"
Door slams shut, bodies press up against it, lips plunder desperately, hands grasp as though for dear life.
"Shut up and touch me, Remus, you damned well know you want to."

The saddest wisdom...

"Mrs. Montgomery? I'm Auror Tonks; I'm so sorry for your loss. Please, I need to ask you some questions about what happened last night..."

That's what I am now; that's all I want to be, even if my stupid hair never changes again. Because like I said, I know I've found mine, and I love him, and he needs me, and I won't give up until I'm strong enough that he can love me, too.

"Dora? Please don't walk away. About what happened earlier..."
"You mean our scandalous public row? It's fine, Remus."
"No, it's... not. I've treated you abominably, patronized and condescended, as though you were some damsel who needed to be kept safe; as though you didn't know your own mind and heart. As though I *did*. I wouldn't blame you for having given up on me for the one reason I *haven't* used as an excuse yet."
"Your being a prat about it?"
"Exactly... and I'm sorry. I reckon I should stop *being* such a prat and trying to make up your mind for you, and beg you for another chance."
"What made you first kiss me?"
"I- what? Ow. Sirius bet me you would find an excuse to change your hair to a brighter color at some point during the mission and I lost."
"I knew it."
"Why?"
"Just checking. Polyjuiced Death Eaters, you know. Or, appearance-charmed, in your case."
"I've been a complete arse, Dora, but I love you more than life, and can you ever forgive me for all the hurt I've caused you?"
"You- love me?"
"For your wisdom, and your kindness, and how you make everything brighter just by being near, for your bravery and your strength. I will never know what I did to deserve the honor of meeting you, let alone loving you or being blessed with your regard in return. Please forgive me for trying to throw it all away; I must have been out of my bloody mind."
"You love me."
"I never didn't, Dora. I'll never let you doubt it again, I promise you- Dora? ... Ssh, there now... Please don't cry, Dora, I'm sorry..."
"No, I'm happy, I'm happy! I- I love you too, so, so much, and- it's just- after all this... Please, d-don't let go of me, Remus, just hold me, please."
"Forever and ever, Nymphadora, if you wish it."
"Don't call me Nymphadora, you great prat."
"Even if it's making you pink, love?"
"You're joking."
"Have a look, Nymphadora."
"Stop that! Wow... I forgot I could be so... bright."
"I didn't... I've missed that brightness every single day."

Like I said, I found mine, and he's bloody brilliant so hands off. He loves me just the way I am and he'd never ask me to be anything but what I choose to be, and I love him so much it makes my eyebrows twinkle (no really, sometimes I don't even notice when they're doing that). And life is tough, and scary, and there's a damn war on and either one of us could die tomorrow but that's how it goes. Love is worth it. The great man we're sitting in these little white uncomfortable chairs under the baking midday sun for was right, and I hope he and Sirius are somewhere right now having a good laugh together over the whole awful mess we made of it all. Love is the most powerful magic there is... and I'm not scared of tomorrow, because I've found mine.