Remus resented Arthur's request that he speak with the werewolf in St Mungo's. Of course he didn't let his irritation show, but he was irritated nonetheless. He did not want his friends - perhaps 'politely tolerant colleagues' would be more accurate he had internally snarked - to treat him as the werewolf interpreter, like some semi-domesticated link between man and beast. He wanted them to treat him as one of them.

The new wolf's name was Frederick, and he was large and redheaded.

He'll be terrifying when transformed, Remus thought uncharitably.

He dutifully dropped a few platitudes Frederick's way, awkwardly ignoring the fear and fervent desire for knowledge in the younger man's eyes.

"But what's it like?" Frederick asked. "Do you still have your old friends from before?"

"I was five," Remus said conversationally. "But I have managed to make some friends in spite of my…affliction."

You have friendly acquaintances who find you useful - and you have a terribly loyal, long-term friend, who is unable to replace you with anyone new due to being under house arrest.

"Friends who send you in to talk to a lonely werewolf on Christmas Day?" Frederick said pugnaciously, a gleam appearing in his eye.

Remus felt momentarily proud of his superior self control, born of having years of practice at controlling the wolf.

Frederick looked confused by the angry flush settling across his cheeks, as though he hadn't registered his temper rising until it was too late.

"It's only natural to be angry," said Remus, mildly as he was able.

For pity's sake, are you impersonating Snape?

*****break*****

Tonks's nocturnal Christmas schedule proved gruelling and she went home at six or seven in the mornings feeling utterly drained and almost insensible with exhaustion. Though she had planned to see Remus over the festive period, she quickly decided - as dirty clothes and plates piled up around her apartment - that she didn't have the energy to make a good impression.

And if their last meeting was anything to go by, she still had to make one of those on her bashful man.

He's not your man, she chided herself as she fell into bed alone.

As she awoke in the afternoon of the 27th and prepared for her final night(mare) shift, Tonks decided to follow up with Remus as soon as possible.

The first bit of their last day of 'Christmas Magic', as Proudfoot had termed all Christmas-related mayhem, occurred when a pair of Magical Law Enforcement grunts dragged in four large, swaggering, loudly protesting young men. The men were sequestered in the holding cells below the Ministry, and the grunts charged up to the Auror Office, eager to tell Proudfoot and Tonks that they may have stumbled upon something important.

"Well, who are they?" Proudfoot asked irritably.

"Quidditch players," said one of the grunts proudly. "Well, reserves. Oliver Wood and Ivan Poliakoff are reserves for Puddlemere, and Marcus Flint and Euan Munro are reserves for the Tutshill Tornados. As you know, we've been investigating the illegal use of dragon, troll, re'em and salamander blood as a performance enhancing drugs and-"

"You've come to us about the fucking quidditch league tables?" Proudfoot asked dangerously.

"Well, the Tutshill Tornados have improved their position on the league table by four places! That's mental, no one has ever done that, and they've got that new coach in from Fiji…" the grunt broke off when Proudfoot shot him a murderous glare.

"Not exactly," the second grunt said. "We arrested them following a pub brawl in Hogsmeade. It could've ended a lot worse - they're fit, strong, magically adept guys. Plus, two of them were carrying loads of vials of re'em blood. A while ago, Dawlish told all of us to notify you of any contraband matters."

"Re'em blood is a simple performance enhancing drug," said Proudfoot. "Charge them and release them on auror bail."

It was fortunate that Proudfoot had made that executive decision, because (suitably hushed) reports of someone conjuring the Dark Mark over a village in Canterbury soon had the two aurors' full attention.

*****break*****

At 2am, Proudfoot and Tonks returned from containing an incident in which several wizards - all purebloods, but none rumoured to have been Death Eaters in the first war - had terrorised a bus full of muggles. Tonks and Proudfoot made ten arrests, refused bail to all, and dragged their duelling-exhausted bodies back to the auror office.

"Tonks, you and I are not answering the floo for the next hour," huffed Proudfoot. "If you get us some coffee, I'll take care of the entertainment."

Tonks tried to squash her feeling of resentment at being directed to fetch refreshments, like a maid.

It's not because you're a woman, it's because you're junior, she told herself. Half of her even believed it.

Proudfoot flicked his wand at the ceiling, releasing the same sheet of paper on which Dawlish had projected Touré's face some weeks prior. He winked at Tonks, and the paper burst into life with figures in light blue robes tearing up a Quidditch pitch.

"Didn't catch the Arrows v Tornadoes on two nights ago?" Proudfoot asked.

Tonks shook her head.

"Might be able to see some of that re'em blood in action," said Proudfoot, putting his feet up and accepting a cup of coffee.

Tonks sat beside him, summoning a blanket as she did so.

Soon, the action of the game drew Tonks in and she mentally conceded that the Tornados did look amped up. Their traps and biceps - especially those of their female keeper - were suspiciously large and vascular.

As one of the Tornado beaters took out one of the Arrows beaters in spectacular style, Tonks voiced this view.

"That's not better training," she said, putting air quotes around the last two words.

There was a break in play while the unconscious Arrows beater was stretchered off, and the reserve - a man so comically large that both Proudfoot and Tonks simultaneously scoffed and commented that the doping clearly wasn't confined to the Tornados - was brought on.

When the Tornado seeker launched into a sleek dive, the new Arrows beater appeared out of nowhere. His enormous form tensed as he caught the bludger volleyed from the other end of the field by his substantially smaller - but still large - partner, and whacked it with sickening force at the seeker. With a crunch that Tonks felt rather than heard, the seeker was bowled entirely off her broom.

"An amazing shot from the Appleby Arrows' reserve beater!" enthused the commentator. "An injury to his left arm took him out of training over the summer, but he's in fine form now! That shot alone should take Thorfinn Rowle off the bench!"

Grinning, the beater flew closer toward camera, flexing an enormous right bicep in triumph. A horrible leer spread across his comically square-jawed face, flushed pink with exertion. His blond hair was cut brutally short, displaying his blunt head, and his blue eyes were slit-like. His left forearm was covered in blue sports tape.

"Proudfoot!" Tonks yelped. "That's him! I can't believe we didn't recognise him earlier!"

Proudfoot looked at the screen, transfixed. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then he froze the image, went to his desk, retrieved the Jackson file, and held the sketch up beside the projection.

"Yeah," Proudfoot said at last, his voice hoarse. "That looks exactly like him."

"Is it enough to arrest?" Tonks asked hopefully. "Look, his forearm just happens to be taped up!"

Proudfoot exhaled through pursed lips.

"Tonks, Rowle can't be a death eater," he said, with the tone of a parent talking to a petulant child refusing to leave its imaginary world. "He was a kid during the first war. He can't have the dark mark."

"I didn't say he did!" Tonks exclaimed. "Andrew Jackson did!"

"Well, Rowle was always a nasty bastard," offered Proudfoot. Tonks got the feeling he was talking more to himself than to her. "He might well have faked a dark mark to scare a simple farm boy. What is the betting Andrew Jackson doesn't know what the real thing looks like?"

Tonks forced herself to nod at this suggestion. There was no point on insisting that the appearance of a new dark mark on someone too young to have obtained it in the first war proved that Voldemort was back. Proudfoot would have to reach that conclusion himself.

"So can we arrest?" Tonks prompted. "Is this enough?"

"Rowle's old money, we can't touch him without a warrant," said Proudfoot.

"Dawlish won't have it," said Tonks. "Man does a good line in wilful blindness."

"Nah, Dawlish will help us to get a warrant when he sees this," said Proudfoot confidently. "Mad Eye's rubbed off on you. You're so paranoid these days, entertaining crazy conspiracy theories about you-know-who coming back-"

"I'm not saying he's back," Tonks lied blithely. "I'm saying his followers are getting more and more excited. And I don't reckon he's dead exactly, either."

*****break*****

On arriving home that morning, Tonks floo called Grimmauld Place, prepared to relay the information about Rowle to whoever appeared, and then instruct them to send Remus. Excitement flickered in the pit of her stomach when she saw a familiar pair of lanky, long-striding legs come into view.

"Morning Tonks," said Remus cheerfully enough. He took in her worn expression. "Long week?"

"I'm bloody exhausted," Tonks said. "But we solved one mystery and I think the Order needs to know about it. Thorfinn Rowle, the quidditch player, is a Death Eater, and he's taken the mark."

Remus's eyebrows shot up.

"I'll tell you all about it tonight, after I've got some rest. But Mad Eye and Dumbledore should know now, in case they want to put him under surveillance."

"Erm, will you be coming here tonight?" Remus asked.

Tonks's stomach flipped at his palpable nervousness.

He still fancies me.

"I can," she said, trying not to sound too eager.

"It's just - the house is completely full of Weasleys. Sirius seems happy for the first time in months, and I don't think my absence would be noticed. I could, if you were agreeable that is-" he blushed here "-come to yours?"

"That sounds wonderful - what time?" Tonks said a little too enthusiastically, knocking over a cup with her elbow.

"Is six too early?" Remus asked.

"Nope, I can't wait," said Tonks.

With a shuddering yawn, she somewhat regretfully excused herself from Remus's company and went to bed.

*****break*****

She woke at half past five, swore when she realised that she only had half an hour to clean her pigsty of an apartment, and leapt out of bed still feeling drowsy. Probably because she'd got up so fast, she felt slightly nauseous as she spelled plates into the sink and picked clothing up by hand. The place was presentable-ish by ten to six, when she leapt into the shower. The floo glowed while she was still wrapped in a towel.

"Hold on Remus, I'm starkers," she yelped through the door.

He answered her with a good-natured chuckle that made her shiver.

Almost by instinct, she pulled on one of her oversized Weird Sisters T-shirts - and then remembered who she was meeting. She changed it for her trusty, sexy-not-too-sexy beige-pink, silky camisole and, lest she appear suspiciously dressed up, flannel tartan pyjama pants.

She emerged from the bathroom at speed, her wet feet sliding on the floorboards. She just managed, by windmilling her arms in a comical fashion, to keep her arse off the ground.

For a fleeting instant, Remus looked at her in alarm, but then he covered his mouth with his hands and his eyes grew glassy as he strained to stifle his laughter.

"Did you learn that during your Christmas shifts?" Remus asked innocently, then frantically waved his arms in the air to emphasise his point. "Is it the ministry-approved method of blocking hostile spells when moving into a potential ambush?"

Amusement bubbled up in her throat and escaped as a little pig snort.

"Fuck. Off," she replied eloquently.

"Would you like me to leave the provisions that I brought?" Remus asked, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"Food? I suppose you can stay, then," she said. "I'm famished."

Looking more closely, Tonks saw that behind his legs the tall profile of a wine bottle and the silver dome of a plate cover sat on her coffee table. With a gentle wave of his wand, the cover levitated and then clinked quietly onto the floor.

The scent of roast vegetables hit her like the warmth of an open fire.

"I - er - thought you probably hadn't got the chance to have any form of Christmas dinner yet," he said nervously. "It's not much - er, most of it was on special and Molly saved me some goose from Christmas Day. I put a stasis charm on it, I hope it's alright-"

Tonks took the opportunity to fling her arms around him.

Tonks bit through the glass crisp crust and into the fluffy interior of a roast potato.

"Umf, m-" she began, and Remus rolled his eyes at her.

She finished her mouthful.

"Molly Weasley does an incredible potato," she said.

"Molly had cooked quite enough Christmas fare for one year. I simply borrowed her recipe."

"Then you do an incredible roast potato. And those boys don't appreciate her enough, you're right."

"Molly told me to cook them in some of the leftover fat from the goose," he said by way of explanation, then hastily added: "of course I didn't tell her who I was meeting for a late Christmas dinner."

Tonks wasn't sure what to make of that statement, and busied herself spearing a sprout on her fork.

"How was your Christmas?" Tonks asked.

"Good - like I said, Sirius is much happier with a house full of Weasleys. Arthur's on the mend and will be discharged soon."

He handed her a glass of wine, gently brushing her forearm as he withdrew. She blushed and grinned.

Some time after they'd finished eating, Tonks stood up to take their plates to the sink; when she returned to the sofa, Remus reached up with steady, gentle hands, took hold of her waist and eased her down to sit on his lap, facing perpendicular to him.

"Hi," she whispered.

He tilted her head toward him and kissed her. His other hand stayed firm and warm on her waist. The warm pressure of his hand on her waist melded with the warm pressure of arousal building behind her belly button and it took most of her considerable willpower to avoid shivering, or circling her hips.

When they broke apart, her ankles were crossed and his eyes were glassy.

"I do like this top," he said quietly, removing his hand from her waist and drawing the lightest possible line across her ribs, just below her breasts.

"You've seen it before?" Tonks bluffed, amused that he'd admitting to caring about - much less actively remembering - her fashion choices.

He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

"And what do you like about it?" Tonks whispered, sitting up taller and leaning her lips toward his ear.

"These," he said simply, tracing the outside of her aureola with his index finger, his touch feather-light.

She arched her back in encouragement, and gave a quiet gasp that was about thirty percent staged.

The pad of his finger ghosted over the peak of her nipple, its pressure dispersed by the silky fabric of her top, and she squeaked and kissed him hard.

He returned her enthusiastic kiss, his tongue insistent against her lips, his free hand in her hair and the hand that had been tracing circles on her nipples now cupping and squeezing her breast.

"Bed?" Tonks murmured against his lips, when they came up for air.

He looked up at her with dark, hungry eyes and nodded. She hopped up and, feeling somewhat tingly and light-headed, offered him her hand. As they passed through the curtain separating Tonks's bedroom from the rest of her flat, she magically dimmed the lights to a flattering glow and pulled her top up and over her head.

No time like the present.

She twirled into his arms and stood on the very tips of her toes, pressed tight against him, to get another kiss. One of his hands was heavy on her waist, the other cupped her arse and scooped her up against him. As his tongue brushed hers, she gave in to the overwhelming need to clench and release her internal muscles.

He broke the kiss to remove his shirt, and when he'd done so he tenderly placed a hand on her cheek and looked down at her with big, soft, shining brown-green eyes. She felt a lump grow in her throat, and quickly tried to distract herself by backing toward her bed, pulling him after her. She sat on her bed and he stood before her, between her knees.

Perfect.

Hoping she wouldn't make a mess of the task, she reached up and began removing his jeans. He cooperated, shucking them once she had undone them. But when she got to his boxers, he grabbed her hand and stilled her.

"Remus, what's wrong?"

"I…er…"

With a huff, he sat down on the bed next to her. Realising that he was about to go into one of his vulnerable states, Tonks laid her head on his shoulder.

"Are you old fashioned?" Tonks asked, aiming for a tone that was humorous, but not mocking.

"I'm a werewolf. If you…if we…if you get pregnant, the consequences will be far worse than usual," he said bluntly.

"I take a potion for that," she said, startled.

He dropped his head in his hands, elbows planted on his thighs.

"I know," he said at last, a touch irritably. "But it has a failure rate, and that matters because a werewolf foetus could probably kill you."

"Really? How old would it have to be?" Tonks asked, curious in spite of herself.

Nice. Sensitive. Definitely not treating him like a specimen to be gawked at.

"No one knows," he said grimly, mouth twisting in a bitter sort of grimace. "Most recorded hybrids were conceived by rape victims taken hostage and bitten some time afterward. There have, however, been rumours of werewolf babies tearing their way out of their mother on the full moon. "

"Right, so it's not going to kill me in the space of a week?" Tonks pushed on, ruthlessly.

"Nymphadora, that's hardly the point," he said tersely.

"Hey, I'm sorry," she took his hand. "It's actually very responsible of you."

"Oh yes," he said, with a bitterness that took her aback. "Responsible. That's me."