~ 11 ~

All That I Am

Remus was no stranger to voices in his head. The little voice that never missed an opportunity to remind him what a danger he was to others, for example, was a constant companion.

But this time, the words that echoed in his mind were something else entirely.

His own words—

...it will be better off, a hundred times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!

—and Harry's words—

My father died trying to protect my mother and me, and you reckon he'd tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?

—repeated and reverberated until Remus no longer knew who was wrong and who was right.

And there were other words, too. Words that he had spoken only a little more than two weeks before.

I, Remus John Lupin, take thee, Nymphadora Andromeda Tonks...

Those words, he never should have said. Already in only a fortnight Dora had lost her career, lost her flat, lost everything—all because she had married him.

But at least she had chosen that. She had chosen him.

For as long as we both shall live.

Not so for the—

Remus shuddered.

The child.

It had never chosen to have a destitute outcast for a father.

And so Remus had been forced to do the choosing, to choose to set it free. For the child's own sake.

Only, Harry hadn't understood. He didn't understand how difficult Remus's condition always made things for the people he loved. The world was so simple, for Harry—good or bad, hero or...

I'd never have believed this. The man who taught me to fight dementors—a coward.

"Merlin forgive me," Remus whispered. "I hexed him." James and Lily's son, the very boy—no, young man, now—that Remus had sworn he would do everything in his power to assist. To protect.

He never should have lost his temper that way.

But leaving Dora—it hurt, so much, so damned much. How could anyone call him a coward for leaving, when to stay with Dora and raise a child—their child—together—

Remus forced himself to breathe.

It would be an utter miracle. Beyond anything he had ever dreamed could be possible.

But that was just it. It was beyond possible. Not for you, said the usual voice in his head. Never for you.

Every time he dreamed of going back to Dora, of trying to be a father, Remus saw a child, with his eyes in Dora's face, looking back at him with loathing. Sometimes the child merely hated him because of the cloud of poverty and ostracism that cast its shadow over anyone who came too near. But other times—

Other times, it hated him because he had passed his curse on. Had contaminated an innocent, helpless child.

Everyone said lycanthropy could only be transmitted by a bite, but Remus had searched once, years ago, and there were no records anywhere of a werewolf actually having sired a child. Most werewolves were not, he supposed, in a position to keep records... But then, how could he know there was no risk?

And so the vision of the child haunted him. He couldn't bear to imagine loathing and disgust in eyes that looked like his own. It—

It frightened him.

Which meant that perhaps Harry was right about what he was.

It will be better off—My father died—For as long as we both shall live—

Coward.

All those words had echoed in his mind for a day and a night, until he no longer knew what he should do or where he should go.

But Harry wouldn't have him. And Dora had never once told him to leave, even though he had cost her the career she loved. Even though her parents surely despised him for ruining her life.

Harry didn't understand anything about lycanthropy—about Remus—about the way that everything he touched turned to ashes in his hands. But if there was one thing that Harry did understand, it was life as a child with no father. And he seemed to think that no child would choose to grow up that way.

That was why Remus was standing here now. In Ted and Andromeda's front garden. Five days after the night when he had thought he was leaving forever.

If Harry was right, then the honourable thing to do would be to let the child choose, after all. Let the child be the one to reject him one day, or, perhaps—could it ever be?—not.

In the meantime, he could stay with Dora, and be what she—and the child—needed him to be. In the meantime.

And somewhere, beneath the confusion, beneath the fear, a locked-away piece of Remus's soul knew only that leaving Dora had hurt more than anything had ever hurt before.

He wanted to be here. To be home.

~o~

At his knock, the door opened, slowly, and dark eyes met his.

And that was when Remus understood what he had lost.

What he had destroyed.

The year before, he had known he was making Dora miserable—pushing her away, denying her the love that should have been hers. But every time he saw her, there was life in her eyes. Sometimes it was eagerness to see him, as loath as he was to admit it; sometimes it was anger; sometimes it was even a bit of gallows humour. But always, there had been a spark, and the merest glimpse of that spark had enough to keep Remus warm for days.

This time, her eyes were flat, expressionless, as though her soul were somewhere far away. The spark was gone.

And it was he who had extinguished it.

Remus felt a great, crushing weight against his heart. When he knocked, he had meant to apologise, or try to explain. But whatever words he might have used were gone, erased by the blankness in those eyes.

He had wanted to come home. But there might be no home for him any longer.

"Dora." He swallowed, and it burned past the lump in his throat, almost like firewhisky. "I came back because—because I realised I was wrong to go. But if what you actually want is for me to leave again..."

He drew a breath. He could feel it shudder.

"...then I shall."

Dora didn't move. She didn't even blink. She stood, one hand on the doorknob, and looked at him with eyes that were a million miles away.

There was a ringing in his ears.

He was such a fool not to have seen it—that he was not the only one with the power to take the fragile but beautiful bond between them and crush it like so much spun glass.

...the union of two faithful souls...

"Dora?" His voice was every bit as hoarse as after moons. "Do you want me to leave?"

She turned away.

He couldn't breathe.

But then she turned to face him again, and he realised that she had merely stepped inside the house, out of the doorway. Her eyes were still empty, distant. Devoid of hope. But she held the door open, and her other hand came to rest on her stomach.

The word she finally spoke was, "No."

~o~

Dora pushed the door shut behind them and crossed her arms over her chest. "What did we have for dinner on our wedding night?"

Remus knew that this was nothing more than a security question. But that knowledge didn't save him from drowning in the memory of Dora's dark eyes—sometimes laughing, sometimes almost shy—glowing in the light of the mismatched candles she had fished out of a cupboard for their impromptu wedding supper.

He forced himself to meet those eyes, so lifeless now. "A roast chicken. From Molly."

She nodded and looked away.

The silence lengthened, turning brittle. Remus could not look away from her.

She would not look at him.

But where her arms were crossed, something gleamed on the fourth finger of her left hand. She could have taken the ring off after he went away.

But there it still was.

He took a deep breath. "I know I said a lot of things that night before I left, and they are no less true now, but—"

"Remus. Just—don't."

There was a flood of words burning in his chest, but he swallowed them and waited for her to finish.

She shook her head, listlessly, and her bleak gaze slid away from his again. "I'm not ready to talk about it."

It was Remus's turn to nod.

~o~

That day was not a comfortable one.

Remus had spent most of it helping Dora sort through an immense pile of documents for the Order. They had barely spoken.

Now it was after seven, and he had just started putting something together for supper while Dora carried on with the Order work.

He heard voices outside. The door opened.

Her parents were home.

Andromeda stopped short and stared at the sight of Remus standing in her kitchen, but she recovered her poise almost immediately (so like Sirius!) and swept past without a word, icy and remote, disappearing down the hallway.

Ted glanced after his wife, but then he strode across to the worktop where Remus was peeling potatoes. His hands were on his hips, his face mere inches away.

"Are you here to stay this time, Lupin? Because if you make Dora think you've come back for good, and then you leave again, I swear I'll—"

"Dad. It's okay." Dora's colourless voice drifted in from the dining room, where Order documents were spread across the whole of the long table. "Leave him alone."

Ted stopped speaking, although he was still grinding his teeth.

Remus looked him in the eye. "I'm here for as long as Nymphadora wants me here." Come what may, it was the truth.

But he wondered how long that would actually be.

~o~

No one said much over their late supper—but at least, Remus reflected, neither Andromeda nor Ted had actually thrown him out of the house.

Now everyone was getting ready for bed.

Remus had no idea where he was meant to sleep, so he fetched a set of sheets and began to make up the bed in the guest room. The thought of sleeping alone when Dora was so near made him feel cold and hollow. Still, surely it was better not to presume.

"Dammit, Remus. What do you think you're doing?"

He turned. Dora was standing in the doorway with her arms crossed again. He caught his breath, because there was just the tiniest bit of annoyance visible in the tilt of her brows and the press of her lips. He was sorry to have annoyed her, but immensely relieved to see something—anything—on that face at last.

"I was—" He gestured awkwardly at the half-made bed. "I thought you might prefer it if I slept in here."

"Don't be stupid." She shook her head, almost impatiently. "How am I ever going to learn to trust you if you aren't there?"

She stalked away. He stood, frozen, with a pillowcase in one hand, and a pain in his heart whose sudden acid sharpness surprised him.

Trust.

That was what was gone—what he had lost—why there was no life in her eyes.

What he must do everything in his power to earn from her again.

~o~

Remus put out the light in the bathroom and slowly made his way to Dora's childhood bedroom. It was only a few days after new moon, but the faint glow from a street lamp was enough to let him keep his bearings in the darkness.

Dora was nothing but a lump under the covers, far over on one edge of the bed. She was silent and motionless, but entirely too rigid to be asleep.

Remus climbed into bed on the other side. He was careful not to jostle the mattress, and even more careful not to touch her, not to breach the distance she had planted like a wall between them. He lay awake for what seemed like hours, watching the shadows of trees moving on the wall, listening to Dora trying to keep her breathing even.

He wasn't sure that his was, either.

~o~

He must have fallen asleep at last, because he found himself startled awake again. As the shreds of some meaningless dream faded into the darkness, he realised that he could smell lavender.

For a brief moment, it was a comfort. It was Dora's shampoo, and the fragrance flooded him with memories of the handful of days after they were married—waking in her bed, basking in the delighted smile that would fill her sleepy eyes when she saw him there.

But then he remembered what he had done, and the scent took on a taunting bitterness. He might well have lost those mornings forever.

Except—as he lay there, breathing lavender—he felt soft hair brush his cheek.

Dora's head was resting against his shoulder.

It was suddenly impossible to swallow.

This was the first he had touched her in five days, and this barest hint of physical contact was excruciating. He ached to fold her into his arms, to let her warmth soothe away the chill that had settled around his heart. But he had no right to do that, not any longer.

He lay very still and let his eyes have their fill of her instead.

She had one fist clenched around a handful of his pyjama shirt, so tightly that her knuckles stood out in stark relief even in the faint light from the street lamp. She stirred, just a little, and traces of tears shone on her cheeks.

Remus reached over to the night table on his side of the bed and fumbled quietly until he found the clean handkerchief that had been in his pocket that day. He held his breath and wiped away her tears, as gently as he could.

Then he covered her rigid, clenched fist with his own hand, stroking her knuckles softly with his thumb. Dora gave a little shuddering sigh, and her grip on his shirt relaxed. But she did not let go.

So neither did he.

It was a long, long time before he fell asleep again.

~o~

When Remus next woke, it was light out, the pale clear light of early morning.

Dora's side of the bed was empty, and after a moment, Remus heard faint but unmistakable sounds of retching. He was up in an instant, grabbing his wand from the night table, racing down the hall.

He found her kneeling in front of the toilet. She had made her hair very short for the occasion, so there was no need for him to hold the brown curls away from her face. But he had to do something. He knelt behind her on the cold tile floor and rubbed his hand lightly over her back. Her shoulder blades and the ridge of her spine were sharp beneath his palm.

This was new. There had been no morning sickness before he left.

It was also a salient reminder of what he had managed to avoid facing since she let him into the house the day before—

Dora was carrying their child.

All at once Remus tasted bile himself.

He wrestled back the panic by trying to work out what Dora needed at that particular moment. She seemed to have stopped being sick; she was merely taking deep breaths. He Summoned a flannel, dampened it with his wand, and held it out to her. She accepted it, wordlessly, and wiped her face.

Before he realised what he was doing, his hand had returned to its place on her back.

He winced, but he forced himself to hold still. Pulling away again would only call attention to the liberty he had taken.

But then, with a tiny sigh, Dora leaned back against his hand—just long enough for his heart to skip a single beat—before she stood and walked away.

~o~

Remus hurried downstairs to the kitchen and tapped the kettle with his wand. As the water began to boil, he peered into a cupboard and located a tin of peppermint tea.

His hands were shaking as he tried to open the tin. What in heaven's name had made him think he had the right to come back to Dora when he had done this to her? And—especially—to the child? When he had guaranteed it a life of poverty, and maybe even condemned it to share in his curse?

But he remembered Harry's face, flushed with straightforward, uncomplicated anger. I'm pretty sure my father would have wanted to know why you aren't sticking with your own kid...

For all that Harry never knew his parents, he had hit the nail squarely on the head. Prongs hadn't been so very much older than Harry was now when his son was born. Remus knew exactly what expression would have filled those hazel eyes if he had told James he was leaving his pregnant wife to fend for herself—leaving his unborn child with no father.

Harry came by his strong sense of right and wrong very honestly.

Remus swallowed against the tightness in his chest.

Was he really strong enough to let the child choose whether to have him in its life? He was rubbish at that sort of thing, always had been—rubbish at standing his ground and waiting for rejection. Distance had always been his surest defence.

But he couldn't distance himself from the child, not and heed Harry's words. And if he really was going to go on living with Dora, he wouldn't be able to keep her at arm's length, either, not even for her own good. It was far too late for that. She was already deep inside his soul.

What could he do?

To begin with, he could make peppermint tea every morning, to settle Dora's queasy stomach.

Andromeda came into the kitchen then, blinking sleepily, knotting the sash of her dressing gown. She stopped when she saw him pouring the tea in a cloud of minty steam.

"Peppermint." Her tone had lost some of the hostile edge it had had at supper the night before. "Is that for Nymphadora?"

Remus was not certain that he could keep his voice steady, so he merely nodded.

"Good," she said, almost gently, and turned to go back to her bedroom.

~o~

Remus carried the tea into the sitting room. Dora was huddled in an armchair, staring out the window, with her arms wrapped around her knees. He held out the mug. She reached for it with remote, polite thanks, clearly taking pains not to brush his fingers with hers.

"Are you feeling any better?" he ventured.

"No," she said flatly, sipping at the tea.

He wasn't sure whether she was referring to the morning sickness, or to his return. Perhaps it was both.

He perched on one end of the sofa, close enough to her chair that he could reach out and touch her if he chose, although of course he did no such thing. Her hair, limp and brown yesterday, was now the same shaggy black she wore after Dumbledore was killed. Her pyjamas were lime green spattered with rainbow-coloured stars, and they contrasted sharply with the pale lifelessness of her face.

Remus didn't have even an glimmer of an idea of what to do next. It was up to Dora to choose the path forward for the two of them; he had forfeited any right he might once have had to make decisions. But if she would not touch him—oh, Merlin, he must not even think about her warm sweet touch—and she did not want words—then what was left for him to do?

Peppermint tea, he supposed.

And then Dora looked over at him. "Have you already let Molly and Arthur know you're back, and you didn't find Harry and the others?"

A surge of guilt made him sit straight up. Selfish—always so selfish—he had been so caught up in his own worries that he had never spared a thought for two dear friends, waiting for word of their son.

"I did find them," he said, weakly, "but you're right, of course." A glance at the grandfather clock in the corner showed that it was early yet—Arthur probably wouldn't have left the Burrow. He still addressed the Patronus to Molly only, just in case; it would not do to have Order Patronuses flying around the Ministry.

"I found three Galleons," Remus informed his little cloud of silver mist. "They're a little dusty, but they're all in fine shape. Now I've come back to help mind the shop. I'll be in touch with you soon."

The Patronus vanished, and he looked up to see Dora staring at him.

"You found them? And then you came back here anyway?" She laughed, mirthlessly. "Setting out to find Harry, and help him do whatever Dumbledore wanted him to do, was the only part of what you said about leaving that made any sense. Now I don't—"

Tears spilled over, and she scowled, scrubbing at them angrily with the heels of her hands. Dora always did hate to cry.

"I didn't understand why you left, and now I don't understand why you've come back." She held his gaze, glaring, but he could see fresh tears shimmering. "And I suppose it's only a matter of time before you leave again."

"No," Remus whispered. He wanted so desperately to hold her close, to let her cry on his shoulder until her frustration was spent. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I meant what I told your father last night. I'm back for good, for as long as you want me to stay."

Her face darkened; her lips drew into a thin line. "You've said that before. Remember? To have and to hold—till death do us part." She looked away again.

"I tried to explain, before I left..." He shook his head helplessly. "It wasn't you I was leaving. All I could think was that I had to go, to let the—the child—to let it grow up without me, so that I wouldn't ruin its life the way I've already ruined yours."

"Him." Dora was scowling at him again.

"I—what?"

"Don't call him it. Madam Pomfrey came to check on me again, after you left, and she says we're having a boy."

A son. Remus blinked. Our son. Knowing this about the child made it—made him—suddenly that much more real.

It was hard to breathe again.

"Anyway, none of that makes any sense!" Dora's eyes were flashing now, her hands balled into fists.

Unexpectedly, he felt relief. He deserved her anger, this much and more, and he was so terribly glad to see life in those eyes.

"He's already your son, Remus. Whatever effect your being his father will have—it's already going to happen." She slammed her mug down on the coffee table. "And, even what you said about infecting him—"

Remus flinched. Oh, please, no, let him be healthy—

Dora sighed in exasperation. "You couldn't have done. Lycanthropy doesn't work that way."

"That we know of..."

"But even if you were right about that, which you're not—" Dora leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Were you really going to let me deal with the aftermath of his transformations alone every month?"

Remus froze. Somehow, that aspect of the situation had never occurred to him. He thought of his own parents, of how it took both of them to comfort and reassure him after each moon when he was small.

She nodded, watching his face. "You see? Life may not be perfect for this child, but werewolf or not—and he won't be—he and I need you."

Remus sighed. "That's what Harry said, too."

Dora blinked at him. "What?"

He started to reach for her hand, but he caught himself and settled for a grim smile instead. "Harry feels very strongly that no child would choose to grow up without a father. And he certainly knows something about that."

Her eyes searched his, and there was an expression on her face that looked tantalisingly like the beginning of hope. "And that's why you've come back? Because Harry changed your mind?"

"It is." His attempt at a smile faded. "But, Dora...the child—our son—he may still decide that I am more trouble as a father than I am worth. If it comes to that—if he decides that I should go—then I'll need to go. You see that, don't you?"

Her expression went completely inscrutable. "So you're telling me you're here to stay until our son asks you to leave."

"Yes." He reached out again, and this time he rested his hand on top of hers, very lightly. "I promise you that, and—and I promise the child as well."

She took his hand and held it gently against her stomach. It was still flat—of course there was nothing to feel there yet—but a thrill ran through him all the same as he thought about the tiny beginnings of their son, growing a little every day.

Then she released him and looked up, nodding slowly. "You have to promise me something else, too."

Remus sat back against the sofa. His hand was cold where her fingers were suddenly absent, and his heart wanted to say yes, anything, if you'll only let me hold you. But he could not afford to be so rash. He must not break his word to her again, not ever, so he had to know what she wanted before he could make any promises.

She crossed her arms and held his gaze. "Promise me you'll only leave 'for the child's sake' if he comes to you and tells you, in so many words, that this is what he wants."

"Of course." He frowned, confused. "That's what I've just been saying."

"No, it's not." Dora's eyes flashed once before the impassive look settled over her face again. "You have to promise that you won't leave because you think it's what the child wants, or because you've decided that it's what he ought to want. Only if he says those words to you."

Remus swallowed. She knew him so very, very well.

And she had not yet finished with him. "I also want your word that you won't start by telling him that you'll leave any time he wants you to—it has to be something that comes from him first. Because—" and here her voice faltered for the first time—"because I don't want my son to grow up lying awake every night, wondering if his father will be there in the morning."

"I promise." His voice is low and rough. "I'll not leave this family again unless the child, himself, says he wants me to go."

"Good." To his astonishment, a small smile warmed her face for the briefest of moments. "You may not understand this yet, Remus, but—no child of yours will ever tell you that."

He drew a quick, shaky breath. Hermione had said essentially the same thing, in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place.

He wanted so much to believe it.

~o~

Remus watched Dora sipping at her peppermint tea. Unexpectedly, her eyes met his. She seemed to be about to speak. But just then her mother swept into the sitting room, looking elegant in a set of simply tailored robes and carrying a shiny dragon-hide briefcase.

"Goodbye, Nymphadora." Andromeda's voice was warm as she bent over the armchair to kiss her daughter's pale cheek. Then there was a small pause, and a significant drop in temperature. "Remus."

He stood, smiled politely, and wished her a good day. But behind the smile, he clenched his teeth, trying not to let hot shame colour his face. Here he was, seeing his in-laws off to work, still dressed in his threadbare pyjamas.

Ted appeared, every bit as rumpled as his wife was impeccable. "Don't wait for me for supper tonight, you lot—I might be a bit late. The Ministry wants us to recalibrate all of our transmitters for the new broadcast schedule."

Dora frowned suddenly, twisting in her chair so she could look her father in the eye. "Dad, please be careful. I don't like what I'm seeing in the Prophet about all this Muggle-born Registration business. If anyone starts asking you funny questions, I want you to Apparate straight out of there."

Ted kissed the top of her head. "Don't worry about me. No one's going to bother about a nameless wireless technician."

Remus recognised that a Muggle-born married to a Black might not be all that nameless, and Death Eaters had already found Ted once. He watched Dora exchange a grimly significant look with her mother before the Tonkses stepped through the door and closed it behind them.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, still feeling the caustic sting of shame. "I must not be a layabout, if there is a baby coming. I can probably bring in a little money if I find a part-time Muggle job. Maybe I can clean floors, or mind the till at a supermarket—I've done things like that before."

Dora was clutching her mug to her chest, and her eyes had gone flat again. "You blame me, don't you. For the baby."

"What?" Remus dropped heavily back into his place on the sofa, flabbergasted. "No, Dora. Never." His face grew hot. "I suppose it was—Was it the night that Mad-Eye—?"

She nodded.

"I thought it must be." He forced his mouth to twist into a smile, but he could not meet her eyes. "I seem to recall that I was a bit—eager—that night. That must be why we forgot the Charm." The memories were overwhelming—how frightened he had been when she was late returning to the Burrow with Ron, how badly he had needed her touch when it was all over. He rested his head in his hands. "I only blame myself. This is yet another way that marrying me has ruined your life."

"You stop that!"

Her voice was sharp, and when he looked up, she was wearing a fierce, defiant expression. Her hand rested protectively over her stomach.

"I want this child, Remus! I mean, I hate it that the timing is crap, and I won't be much use to the Order in a few months. But I'd always wanted us to have a family someday."

She stopped, and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, her voice was much softer, even hesitant.

"What about you? Did you—did you ever want us to have a baby?"

Remus stared down at his hand as his fingers clenched on the armrest of the sofa; he felt dizzy, almost faint. The stern, strident voice in his head began to shout—the voice that had tried all his life to keep others safe from him, to keep himself safe from hurt and disappointment. Not you. Never you. Don't even think about it.

Of course, that voice used to say the same thing about marriage. And yet, now he had a wife—who knew him better than he knew himself, and had married him anyway.

But a child—so small, so vulnerable—that was something else entirely.

Not you. Never you.

Only, now the reality was that there was a child. So he had no choice—he must silence the voice. He must learn to be a father.

And then an image came floating up, of a tiny baby boy, with his eyes in Dora's face. The baby looked right at him and curled a small fist around his finger.

And giggled.

Remus's throat twisted closed. He could not speak to save his life. All he could do was look at Dora and shake his head helplessly.

"Oh." Her voice was almost a whisper.

Perhaps his eyes were saying something of what his voice would not.

With a tangled flop of arms, legs, and pyjamas, she left her armchair and landed on the sofa with one leg curled underneath, facing him. Her small, strong hands closed over his shoulders. And—could it be? Was that the ghost of a smile?

"I swear, Remus, the more you want something, the more determined you are to convince yourself you don't deserve it."

"It doesn't matter if I want the child," he rasped. "It's my fault that he'll be poor—and if he's a werewolf—"

"He won't be a werewolf." Dora shook his shoulders, gently but insistently, and leaned in toward him. "And we won't be poor forever. We'll find a way to make things work."

Her words warmed him. She seemed so certain.

But her face was very close to his.

Too close.

Remus was completely lost in those eyes, drowning in the scent of lavender. His breaths came too fast, too shallow. He was helpless to prevent himself from lifting one hand and brushing a finger along the curve of her jaw.

She did not pull away.

Instead, her lashes swept down over her eyes, and she leaned even closer, making a soft eager sound in the back of her throat.

Oh, Merlin—after all that he had put her through—how could she possibly—

But she did.

She wanted him to kiss her.

He cupped her cheek in his hand, stroking it with his thumb. She shivered, which sent an answering shiver along his spine. Her hand slid up his arm and settled on his shoulder again.

He drew a ragged breath and leaned forward, bridging the last inch of the gulf between them. Her other arm wrapped around his waist. His hand came to rest in the middle of her back.

Time slowed, and the world tasted of peppermint tea.

But then, all at once, she was gone—the press of her lips against his, the warmth of her arms—everything melted away. Remus was still drunk from the kiss as his eyes struggled open, but the sight that greeted him might as well have been a glass of cold water thrown in his face.

Dora was right there, sitting sideways on the sofa, facing him. But she was twisting at the wedding ring that fit so snugly on her finger.

His heart stopped.

He had thought she was going to give him a chance to make things right for her, for their son. Surely she wouldn't—

She pulled the ring free.

Yet again, Remus found himself completely unable to speak.

But her eyes never left his. "Here," she whispered, placing the ring in his hand and closing his fingers over it.

He could only stare, bewildered.

A smile flickered across her face. "So you can give it to me again."

Oh.

Remus did not deserve this second chance. But he would be worse than a fool not to take it.

With one hand, he held hers. With the other, he slid the delicate gold ring back onto her finger. Where it belonged.

The words he needed now, he knew where to find.

"Nymphadora Andromeda Tonks—" his voice cracked—"Lupin."

Dora's face was solemn, but her eyes filled with the light of a thousand stars.

"I give thee this ring as a sign of our vow."

She smiled, looking both relieved and expectant. Waiting to hear more.

"All that I have, I share with thee—" But Remus broke off, with a tiny laugh to hide the sudden sinking of his heart. He'd felt like a liar saying this the first time, and it was no better now. "Only—Dora—I have nothing. There is nothing I can share."

She sighed, and her smile turned wry. "I wish you could see how much more you have than you think." She fingered his cheek, once, softly. "But I don't need that promise. I know you'll share with me, anyway, because that's what you do." She looked down, at his hand holding hers. "It's the other part I really want to hear."

The other part...

He touched her chin and tilted her face up until those dark eyes met his again. In their depths he could see the uncertainty, the hope. The need.

She needed this—needed him—maybe even as much as he needed her.

His thumb brushed over the ring shining on her finger. The other part of the vow, he could say with no hesitation, this time. He had already done all the damage he could do by marrying her. Now there was nowhere to go but onward.

Together.

"Dora." He tried to tell her with his eyes: I mean it—I promise. "All that I am, I give to thee."

Her smile burst forth again, too large, too bright for the room to contain.

But—all that I am. How, he wondered, could that ever be enough?

And yet—

Dora climbed into his lap, slid one hand along his back, and threaded her fingers through his hair, right above his ear, in that way of hers that always made him quiver. Her lips found his again, and she kissed him as though she never planned to stop.

Apparently, it was.

~o~

The sun was high in the sky. They lay together in their bed, tangled in the sheets, tangled with each other. Dora's skin was soft and warm, and everything smelled of lavender.

Remus slid his hand from her hip to her stomach. She covered his hand with hers, and they laced their fingers together.

Their son was in there. A baby they had made—Dora and he—out of their love and their need for each other.

His lips found the tender spot behind her earlobe and then moved to taste the smooth hollow of her throat. Her fingers tightened over his.

"How long do you think it will be before I can feel him kick?" His voice was a drowsy murmur.

Dora laughed, a slow lazy chuckle that spread a grin across Remus's face as well. "Don't hold your breath. That's months away." She turned toward him, burying her nose in his shoulder, and draped her arm across his chest in a loose embrace. He ran his hand slowly up and down her back. She cuddled closer with a contented little hum that made his heart swell.

Both of them were out of work. There was a war on. The world outside would surely get worse before it got better.

But Remus had a family, and his family needed him.

Me, he thought.

Just as I am.

~o~

Author's notes: This chapter was originally posted in four parts at the rt_challenge community on LiveJournal for the "Not Forgotten" event in March 2008. I have revised it slightly to fit with surrounding chapters—this includes taking it out of first-person/present tense, which was a fun experiment at the time, but doesn't work so well as a part of a larger story.

The dialogue from Remus's confrontation with Harry is from DH, Chapter 11, "The Bribe;" the union of two faithful souls is from DH, Chapter 8, "The Wedding;" other wedding-vow snippets were adapted from Church of England resources I found online.

I know that the middle of the second week after conception is a little early for morning sickness, but it's a useful plot point here and I've heard it's not impossible. (Or we could assume that Metamorphmagi are different?) I also had a reviewer once who was very concerned that this was too early to tell the sex of the baby. For Muggles, of course it would be, but I saw no reason why Madam Pomfrey wouldn't know a spell for that.

And if anyone needs a little antidote to Remus's parenting angst in this chapter, I would point you to "Independent Research" in my post-war AU series, which is when a young Teddy starts to understand more about what being a werewolf entails.