Note: And here we are, almost at the end. 'Tis but a coda, but needed to be on its own, because it draws the whole thing together (… I hope). Thank you for reading, and as always I'd love to hear what you think ^^

Tonks closed her eyes, stormy grey today, and he saw that she understood.

"You are far too perceptive," she said. "Should have known. You have as much practise counting the days of the month as I have, haven't you?"

"I'm not – ," he said. "I'm not keeping a calendar on you or anything."

"Because that would be weird," said Tonks.

"Bit weird," said Remus, and it was, it was definitely a bit weird. He could perceive the clockwork, the waxing and waning inside his wife, with a sense he couldn't even name. And it had derailed just after the wedding and oh god he was mixing metaphors now.

"That's what you were talking to Molly about, isn't it?" he said, trying not to let on that he was ignoring visions of an impending train crash.

"Well," said Tonks, trying to keep a straight face but failing utterly. "You can't deny that she has tonnes of experience with that sort of thing."

At that, he laughed. "True."

"Most people would probably go to their own mums, but she'd have flipped out, probably, and it's – it's too early," said Tonks. "For flipping out, one way or the other. It could still just go away on its own."

Remus truly hoped that the long pause that followed didn't betray his thoughts on the matter. That it could be so, so easy. He had a feeling it wasn't going to be.

"I know it's not what you wanted," she said, in the face of his silence.

And still he was stalling, trying to think of words to say, the right words, but no words had the power to change any of this. He realised any passing second was making this worse. "It would be insanity to deny my role in this," he said finally.

"And you're not –" she began.

She didn't say what. Angry. Disappointed. Terrified. He was all of these things. He didn't think he'd been this scared of something since the first war.

"Because I am," said Tonks.

"You are?"

"Little bit," she said, and he saw she was shivering despite the lingering heat.

"Oh, love," he said. "Come here."

He drew her towards him. He couldn't not. The late James Potter himself may rise from his grave just to slap some sense into him if he did anything but hold her right now. His wife in his arms, her head on his shoulder, he breathed in, the green apple scent of her bubblegum and something different, alien, new.

"Still not flipping out, I see," she said into his collar. "That's good."

"Give me a minute, I'll get there," he said, and to his credit, he was mostly joking.

He remembered how terrified James had been, back then, how Sirius'd had to go and slap some sense into him, and that just made him hold on tighter. It was easier being brave when he had nothing to lose.

"Remus."

It was the voice that did it. It wasn't the joking voice, the tripping-over-nothing voice, or even the rare sincerity of her wedding vows. It was the voice that drew him back from the darkness.

With that voice, she said, very softly, "You realise we still have a choice."

He breathed out, slowly. He knew what she was offering, and how much it cost her, and so it couldn't be what he wanted. Not like that. "That's illegal, Auror Tonks," he said gently.

"Muggles," she said simply.

"Well then," he said, gathering what he hoped was strength. He hoped it wasn't stupidity. "You know my thoughts on the matter, and it feels like entirely the wrong moment to repeat them. This choice is yours to make."

Funny, he thought. It didn't feel like strength, and different from any stupidity he'd known so far.

"That's very progressive of you, love," she said drily. "But I won't. Not before I know whether you will be by my side." She drew back, just a little, to look him in the eyes. Hers were darker now, full of feeling.

He didn't trust himself to speak, but it was with regret and relief and abject terror that he found himself capable of nodding.

Seal his future, seal his fate.

He'd told her, when they'd first discussed this, of the terrible fact lodged deep in his memory: All four of Fenrir Greyback's biological children were werewolves. Two of his grandchildren were, too. But you know what he is, she'd said gently. I know exactly what he is, he'd said. He thinks I'm his. And all that is mine, is his. And now not even that had swayed her.

Despite everything, the smile that spread over her face was purely wonderful. Simplicity.

"I know I'm insane, love," she said. "I know I'm sentimental. I know I'm naïve. I want a family."

She was all of these things, he thought. He probably was, too. "And you are quite sure that you want it now," he said, "and that you want it with me."

"I married you, you pillock," she said.

She was only wearing a raggedy tank top and a pair of ripped shorts in the summer heat, and he could feel her body through it, more angular then soft, pressed into his. They were both thinner than they should be. It had been madness from the start, that affair, that inevitability, that rock'n'roll marriage.

"Well then," he said, feeling utterly overwhelmed. "One of us will have to learn how to cook."

"Not me, I have a very demanding job," she murmured.

"I failed my Potions O.W.L.," said Remus. "Slughorn said he didn't trust me to make tea."

"Joke's on him, then," she said. "You make tea just fine. Oh god. Does this mean we have to learn common household spells now?"

"No more chocolate for breakfast," he said.

"No more smoking in the bathtub," she said.

"We'll probably have to get out of bed on Sundays."

"Paint the spare room."

"Find the spare room."

"Oh god."

"Oh god."

Over Tonks's shoulder, he noticed Hermione on the porch, looking back at them. Lord knew how they must look. Peaceful. In love. Embracing under the indigo summer sky, amidst the decorations for someone else's wedding.

Behind his wife's back, he waved for Hermione to go away, a little surprised at himself that this was where he drew the line. This was private.

Hermione, bless her, left without another look.

"Are you still going?" he asks into that tumbling mass of blue-black hair. "Tomorrow. It'll be dangerous."

"You, Mr Tonks," she said, "have as much reason to stay home as I have."

"And as much reason to go as you, Mrs Lupin," he said. He'd never in a thousand years say this out aloud, but he thought, quite hard, Please don't make me choose. Between the kid he had failed, and the family he was going to fail.

"If you're going, I'm going," she said simply. "And I know you're going. Remember our wedding vows."

He did. "Together," he said, and thought of fools, and dusty death.

"We're seeing this through," she said. "This war. To the end."

It was easier to nod this time. Tomorrow they'd get Harry. Tomorrow, they might die trying. If this were Shakespeare, then the final act was upon them.

A tale told by an idiot, he thought, full of sound and fury. Signifying –

What, exactly?

Maybe Hermione was right and this was a comedy. After all, it had started with laughter.

The End.