Author's Note: This will most likely develop into a series of Harry Potter one-shots, about various characters. If so, updates probably won't be consistent, for which I apologise in advance. Also, this one alludes to events in "Guide You Home," an earlier one-shot of mine, but it's not necessary to read that one first. Anyway, thank you very much for reading.
December 25th, 1997
"Merry Christmas Remus."
"Merry Christmas Dora."
The greetings are generic, and tinged with a lingering uncertainty, because he's only been back for a month after all, and it's not quite long enough for her to trust him again, or for him to feel comfortable with what their marriage has become.
Tonks' eyes fall on the Christmas tree near the window of her mother's sitting room, the one they decorated together a few days before Remus had come back. The tree is symbolic of all that Christmas embodies – joy, love, peace, grace, and the intangible, priceless and incomparable bonds that exist between human beings.
"Right," she says decisively, "that's enough of this awkwardness," and she envelopes him in a massive hug.
He embraces her a little more cautiously. His arms can no longer wrap around her, their baby – he still trembles inwardly with pride and fear when he considers what they've created – prevents him. He's slowly getting used to the contours of her new body, despite it being a confronting reminder of all his doubts, and his shame.
"That's better. See, baby, isn't this nicer? The baby agrees with me, Remus."
"Of course it does. Who wouldn't agree with you?"
"Exactly."
Nothing more needs to be said, and they simply stay that way for a while, content with each other's company. This kind of silence, the kind where secrets and insecurities have been revealed and do not hang oppressively in the air, the kind where serenity descends, is a blessing.
The sound of Andromeda's footsteps on the stairs cause them to part. This day will be especially hard for her, the first Christmas in many years that she will spend without her husband. Ted's absence is the elephant in the room. They all feel it, but there is an unspoken agreement between the three of them not to broach the subject, as though doing so would bring all their greatest fears to life and take him away from them.
Carrying her breakfast, Andromeda enters the sitting room and takes a seat, staring blankly at the tree. For Tonks, the changes in her mother have never been more apparent. Her composure during the day is always carefully maintained, a testament to her upbringing as a Black, but her hair, once the same mousy brown as her daughter's, had slowly turned grey.
"Mum?" Tonks ventures.
"Oh, Merry Christmas you two," she replies, managing a weak smile.
"Mum…why are you eating now? We're going to the Weasley's for Christmas, remember?"
"Yes, well, I thought I'd stay here. You two can go, though. Don't mind me."
"But Molly invited you as well. She'll be disappointed if you don't come. Besides, do you think dad would have wanted you to sit around all day worrying about him? He'd want you – all of us – to be together, and make the most of Christmas."
Sensing her emotion, Remus grasps her hand. "No one should have to be alone on Christmas." She can't help but return the smile he's giving her, aware that he'd said exactly the same words to her a year ago. A suden rush of gratitude overwhelms her, gratitude for the person beside her and the life they are rebuilding, piece by piece.
Later, they're sitting side by side on the old Weasley couch. It's seen better days, its springs long since worn away, but Remus thinks he's never been more comfortable than he is right now on this faded couch. Tonks' voice, when she speaks, is a whisper meant for his ears only, and it contains an unmistakable note of anxiety, as though she doesn't want to hear his response.
"I'm so glad you came back."
"So am I Dora," he replies, placing a kiss atop her head. "And this time I promise I'll still be here in the morning."
His attempt at lightening the mood falls flat and she tenses, obviously remembering their last Christmas just as clearly as he is. They've come a long way from the tea and laughter they shared over guard duty and those long nights they spent in Grimmauld Place, trying in vain to dispel the ghosts Sirius struggled to fight alone with the weapon of their presence. She's lost some of her youth and her naiveté, and he's gained a lot more fear and a lot more love, but they both know that there's an even greater way to go yet. The world – both the wider world of the war, and the smaller, precious world that belongs to the two of them – has not known peace lately, but they both hold onto the hope that it will, eventually. It is their hope that keeps them fighting.
He finds himself filled with gratitude, because even though they're in a war, even though there's people dying every day, in this moment, none of that matters. Tonks is beginning to forgive him, and maybe he can finally start to forgive himself.
Suddenly Tonks gasps and places a hand on her growing stomach.
"What's wrong?" Remus asks quickly, his voice tight with tension.
"Nothing's wrong, it's okay. Our baby just kicked." He is conscious of the fact that this is the first time she has called their son – for it will be a boy, somehow he's sure of it – 'our' baby, rather than 'the baby' as she had pointedly been doing since his return. In that deliberate choice he senses that she is, consciously or unconsciously, forgiving him.
He knows it to be true when she gently takes his hand in hers and guides it so that it rests on her stomach, and places hers directly on top, so that they are holding hands.
As Dolohov's curse sails towards him at the Battle of Hogwarts, this is what Remus inexplicably remembers:
The scent of Molly's Christmas pudding, wafting through the house and, beneath that, Dora's lavender perfume, which has always reminded him distinctly of home.
The feel of her bright pink hair tickling his cheek, and of her hand in his.
The sight of her stomach rising and falling with each breath, and their hands intertwined.
And, above all, the incontrovertible truth that he is loved.
Unseen by either of them, Andromeda approaches, camera in hand. "Smile," she breathes, loathe to disturb the beauty of this fleeting flash of time. And with the click of a camera, this moment lasts forever. Just a few months later, death will claim them as his own, and time will ravage their soulless bodies. Yet in this image they are safe and ever-alive, beyond the reaches of such inevitabilities.
When they have gone to a place Andromeda cannot follow, she will show her grandson this photograph, and it will be a testament to the love that brought him into the world. She will raise him to know the stories of his parents' lives, and to cherish in his own the small blessings that life constantly provides from among the storms.