She opens the door the moment his feet touch the garden path.
She must have seen him apparate, he reflects. She must have - his heart clenches at the thought - she must have been watching the gate out of the window. She must have been waiting.
He walks with his head down, shoulders drooped, hands clenching anxiously at his sides; the universal body language of apology. Of shame. He is truly ashamed and disgusted and repulsed by himself, and an apology is all he has left to give. It isn't enough, it will never be enough, it never could be enough - he knows that. But he prays that, for any reason he does not deserve, she will pretend that it is enough for the moment.
He lifts his head a little as his thin-soled shoes crunch the gravel of the path, and he sees her framed in the doorway. He'd thought through this moment a hundred times in his mind, and he'd imagined her with bright red hair, swirling furiously about her head in anger, or sleek and black as she readied herself for wrath. In a truly shameful moment, he'd hoped that he might see the barest tinges of pink on the very tips of her tresses, that she may be happy to see him return.
It is like a punch to the gut to see her hair a limp mousey brown.
She is wearing a big old t-shirt that had probably once belonged to her father, and a pair of ripped-beyond-repair jeans. He fixes his eyes on her tiny bare feet, toe nails still painted the shade of bright turquoise he'd watched her apply on the day she'd told she was pregnant. The memory makes his stomach churn, and he forces himself to meet her gaze as he stops in front of her.
Her face is twisted into an expression that one might apply to a person who had just been mildly insulted. Somehow, it is colder and more terrifying than a scowl or a glare could ever be. He doesn't squirm - he will grant himself that - but he meets it solidly with simple acceptance, of his guilt, of his shame, of whatever punishment she saw fit to deal out. She says nothing, but lifts her chin a little, and he makes the mistake of believing this to be a cue to speak.
"Dora…Dora I-"
Her hand meets his cheek in a stinging slap that makes him turn his head with its force. He has seen her punch or hex people for irritating her before, but there is something terrible about a woman delivering a slap. However, it brings a strange relief; it is the hope of his absolution and the beginning of his penance.
When he meets her gaze again, she notices that she has folded her arms, making the small protrusion of her stomach all the more prominent. He forces down the surge of fear at the sight and instead, kindles the small joy that sparks in his heart. He watches her face, and she does not move or speak, and so he opens his mouth.
"No." she says simply, before he can utter a word, the finger pointed rigidly up at him more threatening than a wand or a sword, "Don't."
He blinks once, then nods. Her shoulders relax a little and the finger is lowered. Her jaw is clenched as she turns away, but the door is left open in an invitation. Come on in then, it said, If you think you're hard enough. He is ready to babble in sheer relief, and for once is thankful for the lump in his throat that prevents him. He closes the door carefully behind them with a foot, his insides twisting uncomfortably as they pass Andromeda who is descending the stairs.
Her lips pinch together into a furious line, eyes communicating pure ice; an expression he has seen before on the face of Sirius, and once or twice on Narcissa and Bellatrix when they were at school. It is the aristocrats' way of portraying total and all-consuming hatred, and his knees nearly give way beneath it. She walks past them to the kitchen, wrath postponed for now, and he follows Dora's path into the sitting room.
They sit down together on a squashy sofa. She does not allow a single part of her body to touch his, but sits in a determinedly elegant position, a tremendous feat when one has a tendency to periodically by swallowed by cushions.
"I am not angry at you for myself," she says, voice calm and level, "I can forgive you for hurting me. I have rather a lot of practice, if you recall."
He cannot help it - he winces. She nods, satisfied by his regret.
"What I cannot forgive, however, is your decision to abandon your baby. Our baby. You condemned it to fatherlessness, you betrayed a defenceless, innocent child, whose only crime to the world is its own existence." she swallowed heavily, "How could I explain to it why its father left? Would you have our child grow up, believing that its father did not love it enough to face his fears? I cannot forgive you for that. Only he, or she, will be able to do that."
The realisation that, one day, he will have to tell his son or daughter that he abandoned them, makes him feel physically ill. He hangs his head, "I was a fool."
"A bloody, bloody idiot! What made you come to your senses?"
"Harry."
She smiles. Just a little bit. His heart soars at the sight.
"Clever boy." she murmurs.
"A bloody, bloody genius." he agrees.
There is a moment of quiet between them, and things are very nearly right. He cannot remember feeling this comfortable around her since the first few days of their marriage. Carefully and timidly, he lifts his arm and rests it on the sofa above her shoulders, walking his fingers along like an anxious teenager on his first date. The gesture makes the corners of her lips curl up, but she does not lean back against him.
"I want you to go back to our house."
He nods quickly, a little upset but eager to do whatever it took.
"Of course."
She looks up and studies his face for a few moments, reading repentance in every line and every grey hair, "Give me a few days. I need to sort things out in my head, and with mum."
"Of course. Take as long as you need." he gives her a wry smile, "I won't be going anywhere."
She almost chokes at this, and he feels his heart plummet and regrets the careless comment immediately. Sensing that she does not wish to break down in front of him - at least, not yet - he stands.
"I'll go now." he says quietly. She scrubs a hand over her bowed face, then awkwardly attempts to pull herself to her feet. He holds out a hand to help and, to his surprise, she takes it.
Together, they walk to the front door. He opens it and steps outside, before turning to face her. He thinks he hears the words Don't Go hanging in the air, but is sure that she hasn't spoken. Her eyes are full of heartbreak as, once again, she watches him walk out of her life.
"Can I see you tomorrow?" he asks.
"Yeah," she breathes, after a moment's thought, "Okay. Mum's going to The Burrow at two, best for your safety if you come when she's not around."
"Thank you."
She permits him to press a kiss to her cheek and her fingers linger on his jaw, pressing against the heavy stubble he'd neglected to remove. When he pulls back she gives him an appraising once over, a golden smile alighting on her lips.
"I like the scruff. Suits you."
He makes a mental note not to shave the next morning, and smiles back. "Thank you. Goodnight, Dora."
"Goodnight, Remus."
He walks to the end of the garden, along the path, climbs carefully over the gate to avoid its screeching hinges, and apparates a small distance away. His heart warmed to see that she doesn't close the door until he has gone.