"The bustle in a house,
The morning after death
Is the solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth,--"
Emily Dickinson
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Story Title: The Mourning After
-- chapter one: HIS NATURAL HAIR --
Molly's thrown me out of the kitchen again.
Really, I may be clumsy, but I can certainly chop some carrots or wash potatoes.
And well, I wasn't really honest before, because she doesn't even throw me out, which would have been much more comforting. When I offer to help, she acts patronizingly gentle, and spews out some reason that I shouldn't have to help. "You've had a long day, dear. Go and relax," she'll say. Or: "I'm sure Remus could use your company and comfort, rather than me." And tonight, she smiled too sweetly at me, and patted my shoulder too soothingly when she gave her excuse. And then she told me to send Ginny in.
I'd be much happier if she just told me I'd ruin her perfect dinner, or butcher the kitchen. Or she could just tell me she doesn't like my new-age, non-house-wife attitude.
But passing by the Library, I see Ginny talking with Ron, and quickly tell her to see her mother down in the kitchen, before heading down the hallway.
But maybe I will go find Remus. . . . I haven't seen him about in a few hours, and you can only take Weasleys for so long. So I take the stairs to the third level of the house, and briefly wonder if he's actually talked to anyone about Sirius's death. Probably not, I decide, but he's always seemed like a person who enjoys his own company.
And then, then I think that maybe I shouldn't burst in on him. If he wanted my company, he would have sought it, and do I really want to spend time being called Nymphadora?
But nonetheless, climbing the stairs, I decide that, no, I won't go searching for Remus, but will maybe head up to the attic and play with Buckbeak for a bit, who is surely missing Sirius just as much as Remus is. . . . Just as much as I am.
Would anyone would have guessed I adored Sirius when I was younger? Even though he was ten years older than me, he was always my favorite relative. When he was at Hogwarts and I was only four or five, whenever our families got together over the summer holidays, he would slip chocolate bars in my pockets, or pull me aside and narrate the most wonderful stories to me. Of course, once he was incarcerated, my mum wouldn't let me associate myself with him, because, after all, the only reason she had let Sirius visit us before was because he had apparently rebelled against his parents and what it meant to be a Black. Yet at ten or eleven, trying to convince my parents that Sirius had to be innocent, I was so sure he could not have killed anyone. I suppose it was only my innocent, un-polluted mind that could see the truth. . . . And then Sirius returned! My favorite relative! But he never really had a chance to slip chocolate into my pocket or pull me aside and tell me great stories. . . . Still, it was nice to talk with Sirius, and sometimes--
But then I feel my foot slip, missing the next stair, and I am tumbling through air, groping for nonexistent supports. I hit the stairs again, and continue to topple, hitting my back and then leg, and twisting my arm a bit. And with a hard thud, I've landed at the base of the stairs, with a rather large pain shooting up my backside.
Groaning slightly, I flip over, so I am lying flat on my stomach, and attempt to rub the pain from my buttocks. But hearing footsteps from above, I pull my self to my knees and sit on my heels, still rubbing at my bottom with one hand, while the other massages a shoulder.
"Nymphadora? Is that you?"
And I groan again. I really don't feel like talking to him right now. "It's Tonks," I grit, hissing as my fingers reach a particularly sore spot on my shoulder.
"Right. Tonks. Did you fall? I heard a thump," he goes on.
Attempting to bring myself to my feet, I wobble, bending slowly up, with that odd feeling at the bottom of my back -- the one where you feel too inflexible, and it's like your bones won't move, so when you're fully upright, it feels tight in your stomach. And my shoulder feels like it's burning, and my head is pounding a bit, so I put my arm out to the wall to support myself, but I misjudged the distance and stumble again. Then Remus, who was still at a few steps above, is now gliding down the last couple steps, and then grasping my upper arm firmly, steadying me. "What happened?" he asks, gently.
But it's not the Molly gentle, where it is just attempts to cover other feelings, but I think he's genuinely worried, so I answer. "I fell down the stairs," I mumble.
His lips smile gently, and he rubs my shoulder a bit. "Are you all right?"
"No," I grumble lowly, so he can't hear me. "Could you do a few healing charms for me?" I ask louder. "I was never very good at them, and I don't feel like loosing a bone. . . Or a spine."
He smiles lightly again, and I know he's good at basic healing, because he has to be; because he's a Werewolf, and most of the time, there was no one to mend his cuts or bruises after transformations. "Of course," he replies, and slides an arm under my shoulders, helping me support my weight.
That tight feeling in my stomach, and the ache in my bottom still hurts, although the pain in my shoulder has faded slightly. With ease, he helps me take a seat on one of the stairs, and then squats next to me. "So," he begins, "what first?" But his eyes, surveying me, catch a bit of blood trickling at my feet. "Where are you bleeding?" he asks.
But I blink, because I didn't even realize I was bleeding. Pulling at the hem of my robes, I find a huge gash on my right knee, and oh! There's that pain. . . . Flinching at the sting as he probes the cut a bit, I continue to rub my shoulder, and attempt to ignore the fact the sitting is making the pain in my lower back and bottom hurt more. As Remus flutters his wand about, and mutters a few incantations, I glance up the carpeted stairs, and see a bit of blood smeared on the wall, and then see a crimson nail protruding from the side of a step.
Glimpsing at my knee when the pain leaves, I now see a thin discoloration sliding across the cap.
"Shoulder?" he asks, as he slips the hem of my robes back to my feet. With my affirmative nod, he leans forward and casts a few spells.
"So," I say filling the silence, as he is pressing his fingers to my collar bone, probably checking for any irregularities. Then he glances up towards my eyes, so I go on. "How have you been?" But he is silent and his fingers have stopped moving at my shoulder. Have I upset him? "Oh, Remus, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. You don't have to answer it, I'll just leave, and finish this up myself. Thanks for--"
"Nymphadora," he cuts in softly, "it's okay."
But I am half-standing now, and rambling. "Sorry to bother you, I'll be -- Oh."
"I've been all right," he answers. But I'm considering him, with his pale, gaunt features, and the obviously tense shoulder muscles. His eyes sag slightly also, and I wonder if he remembers I'm a Metamorphmagus. There's no use lying to a Metamorphmagus about emotions, really. I've learned to pay so much attention to them, adding wrinkles here or tense muscle there when I'm trying to create a certain effect; undercover jobs for both the Ministry and the Order have sharpened these skills greatly. So I know that even the slightest adjustments in the most obscure of body parts tells a secret. And he tries to let a sickly face, tense shoulders, and drooping eyes pass as "all right?" But he must notice my scrutiny, and redirects the conversation. "What about you?"
But I just shrug, and say, "I've been okay."
And there's silence again, until he swallows. "Where else?" he asks
And we're both standing now, and although that tight feeling in my stomach--that one where you feel inflexible and unable to move--is gone, the sharp pains are still firing up my lower back and buttocks. And I'm blushing when I continue. "Err, well, you see. . . The stairs are quite high, and, really, the ground is very hard, so, when, err, when I landed, you see, flat on my arse. . . ." And even though my eyes are flitting about the room, avoiding his face, I can tell he's smiling a bit, and his eyes are dancing. But I gather all my Gryffindor courage, and look up. Seeing him attempting to conceal laughter, I indignantly cry, "Its hurts," and stamp my foot slightly to make my point. Oh, but I regret that because that only makes it worse. And wincing, I turn away from him slightly.
"Oh," he begins lightly, "Nymphadora, stop that. I was only joking."
"Fine," I let out, huffily.
"All right. Well, I can't do it through your robes, you see. So. . ."
"Oh, I have some muggle clothes under this, and besides, these are a bit bloody from that cut. Once second. . ." So I slip my robes over my head, being sure that my skirt or short doesn't cling to it, and even though I'm facing the other way, I can feel Remus's gaze traveling up my body. Yes, all that Auror training does have its physical benefits. . . . But still, he laughs at me and then thinks he can just check me out? Men. . . . Although, I must admit, Remus certainly isn't the worst of them. . . .
But turning back to face him, I smooth out my skirt and blouse and then bite my lip slightly. "Well, what now?"
"Err. . . You'll have to pull your shirt up a few inches. I need access to your lower back." I nod and then turn around, reaching to my sides, and lifting the hem of my blouse a few inches. "Actually, could you just, well, your skirt. . . " And I sigh, but bunch the extra cloth from my shirt to one side, and use the other hand pull the upper hem of my skirt down a small inch with my thumb. Shifting my weight from side to side, I flinch when I feel his wand tap my lower back a bit. "Stop moving," he commands gently, with a hand steadying my hip. So I do, but bite my lip furiously. . . . This is awfully embarrassing, not to mention uncomfortable. And when I feel that familiar tingle up my spine, which I know means my bottom is healed, I let my shirt and skirt fall back to their regular positions along my body, and turn around. "Feel better?" he asks.
And I nod. "Yes, thanks. And sorry about that, but a bruise on my arse is not the most comfortable of things. . . ."
"Yeah, probably not," he answers obviously.
"Dinner should be ready in a little while," I state, moving the conversation away from my butt.
"Oh? Not helping prepare it?" he asks, although it sounds like he knows it is a pointless question.
So I snort obnoxiously, and cross my arms. "Molly Weasley will not let my touch a thing in this kitchen. I'm clumsy, yes," I continue, "but I can cast simple spells to wash dishes or heat water. I'm not incompetent!"
He smiles a little, but it really doesn't seem real. I'm still a metamorphmagus, and he still can't fool me. I even my breathing, though, and continue. "What have you been up too all afternoon, then?"
He shrugs. "Not much." Such a liar!
"Oh?" And then I head up the stairs, determined not to trip this time, when someone is watching.
His light steps follow mine, and I head straight into his room, and flop head-first onto his bed, in the furthest corner.
"Right. Would you like to join me in my bedroom?" he asks with mock formality, although I can only tell this from his voice, as my head is buried deep into his feather pillow.
"Mmm. . . Sure," I mumble, although he cannot hear this. Its smells good, actually, I note. His pillow, that is, although I can't decide what the smell actually is. So I move my head, so it faces him, as he sits in the desk across the room. "You're pillow smells good," I tell him. "Have you washed it recently?"
And he glances back at me. "My pillow?"
"Yes."
"Right. No, I have not washed it recently."
"Maybe its your hair, then." So I hop off the bed and make my way over towards Remus, who is still sitting in his chair, and I bend my head towards his, and begin to sniff at his hair. "It is your hair!" I exclaim. "What kind of shampoo do you use? Any gels? Or perhaps--" But then I'm not talking, because my eye caught a bunch of pieces of parchment scattered across the face of the desk. "What are those?" I ask, nodding towards the desk.
"Not much," he answers, not looking particularly interested. But his flaring nostrils tell me that he is lying and forcing his face to stay emotionless. And I focus my eyes on the parchments. They are letters, I decide, letters to Harry, written in messy scrawl and signed by Remus Lupin.
"That's not your handwriting," I say automatically, because it's not.
"It's nothing, Nymphadora," he says sharply, and stands up from his seat, briskly gathering the papers into a pile, and striding towards the bookshelf near the end of his bed. As he shuffles to shove the papers into a box on a higher shelf, I kneel on his bed, and tug at his arm slightly.
When I catch his attentions, I say, "Tonks, Remus. Its Tonks. Now. Come sit with me."
Obliging, he takes a seat at the end of the bed, and I sit, cross-legged, pulling the edge of my skirt past my knees, with my back resting against the wall.
"So," he says.
"So," I return, and then look at him.
And there are a lot of things about Remus Lupin that people don't usually catch. First of all, people think he's very stoic, taking everything in stride, and I suppose that's externally true, as he often acts calm. But, if you look at him, and know what to search for, you can tell it is one of the most untrue things in this world. There's a constant throbbing at his neck and flaring of his nostrils, and I know he's forcing himself to stay cool and passive, as emotions fire through his body. Next, he is not as old as he looks. While wrinkles by his eyes and his taught skin suggest he is nearing, maybe over, forty, Remus is but thirty-three. And then, finally, he is lonely. One wouldn't think this originally, though, because he is one of the most friendly and accepting men that many others know. Yet Remus Lupin has walls build high around him, and there are few breaks in the hard stone of which they are made.
But he is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. What was it I want to talk to him about? So I reach for his pillow and hold it to my nose, taking in deep breaths, as he watches me, with raised eyebrows.
Then he is leaning in, and for a moment, I think he is going to kiss me, until his face is buried in my hair, which is just past my shoulders, and Gryffindor red.
When he pulls himself back, he looks a bit odd, like he's trying to figure something out. "Your hair smells good, too," he says.
Happy he has realized, I smile brightly at him. "Of course it does," I exclaim cheerfully. "I use scented hair products and all."
"You know, I've wondered something for while."
"What's that?"
"What is the real color is your hair?"
And I'm a bit floored, not expecting the question at all. But I gather myself quickly, and wave a hand at him, brushing the question aside. "A very common brown, actually."
"Oh, all right, then. I'm sure it's very lovely."
"Right," I say, as I get off the bed. "Now, let's talk about this." I reach for the box he shoved the parchments in early and have a hard time getting it down from the high shelf, although it slips off eventually.
Sitting next to Remus, I have the box in my lap, as I look at him expectantly. "May I?"
With Remus nodding a bit reluctantly, I pull off the brown lid and set it next to me. Above newspaper clippings and pictures, I see a stack of letters, all addressed to Harry. I read one over, and then look questioningly at Remus. "This isn't your handwriting," I say, and he sighs a bit.
"No, it's not." With a look from my direction, he continues. "Well, I've been sending Harry letters regularly over the summer, but he doesn't write back. You see, he only copies, word for word, always, what I have written him."
"Are you sure it's him doing this?"
Nodding, he pulls the box from my lap, and digs to the bottom, pulling out a few scrolls. "These are a few of his essays that I saved when I taught him." And holding a letter against one of the unraveled scrolls, I see the handwriting is identical.
"Never any altercations?"
"No. Always exactly what I have written."
"That's. . . That's very odd."
"Yes, I know."
"Maybe you should go talk to him. . . ."
"If he wanted to talk to me, he would've properly responded. I don't want to push him or make him uncomfortable."
"Remus, sometimes you need to push. Maybe its not what he wants, but its what he needs. He's just lost his--"
"I know full well what he's lost, Nymphadora Tonks," he says steely, with a piercing voice, angry and sad and hopeless all at once. When I look at him, his eyes blazing, he is rising to his feet, hands clenched firmly at his side. "I push him, and I lose him. Do you understand?" And he slams his fist onto his wooden desk, and the kerosene lamp flickers, rattling with the vibrations. "I CANNOT LOSE HIM!" His breaths are coming in ragged now, irregular and harsh, and I wonder if he has a slight case of asthma.
"Remus, I--"
"NO. I Do NOT want to hear you say you're sorry, or that I need to move on. I lost him once! And I've lost him again!" I know he's talking about Sirius now, but I wonder if he knows he is, and dashing towards him, I reach for his hand, but he rips it from my grasp.
"I've lost him too, Remus! I miss him too!" I cry.
And then, as his eyes flicker, fearful now, and he takes a step back, pauses, and then launches towards me. He throws his arms around my neck, and lets his weight fall upon my shoulders. "I can't DO it!" he insists. "I CAN'T DO IT!"
And I stumble under his weight a bit, my ears ringing from his shout, but I regain my balance, and throw my own arms around his chest, tugging him closely. And he slumps more now, and warm droplets burn my shoulder, as my own eyes begin to water.
"I miss him," I mumble now, as he rambles quietly, desperately, about Sirius and Harry, and his inability to do it, to do it all.
I think you've finally realized, Remus Lupin. I'm a Metamorphmagus, and there is no way you can conceal emotion from me. And I can smell your hair when your head is buried in my neck, Remus, and I'm happy its your genuine, light brown. I am crying and you are crying, and your tears fall in my hair, as my own fall in yours, and I think I'm going to let my hair be natural tomorrow morning, and I won't change me eyes either; I'll proudly wear those freckles I've always despised. Just know I'm doing it for you.
Then, as I hold you close, you muttering insecurities and fears, the door bursts open, and that overly-sweet voice stings the air. "Remus!" it calls. "Its time for--" I pull my blotchy, tear-strained face from Remus and my eyes narrow automatically.
"Molly," I begin, upset with her for interrupting Remus and I, angry with her for acting so false and cheerful, and still a bit miffed with her for kicking me out of the kitchen. "Remus and I won't be attending dinner tonight." And he is silent now, but I hold tighter, and his hands pull at my hair.
"Oh," she says, surprised with my hard tone. "All right."
And she leaves.
And Remus lets out an anguished cry.
And I hug him tighter.
Gently backing him towards the bed, I pry his hands from my hair, although he still clutches at my neck. Climbing onto the bed, I sit against the wall, and he sits by me, lost in my hair and shoulders, sitting, too, but leaning hard against me.
Once his tears and howls fade, although my own eyes are still glossy, I pull away, and move him about until he lies down, with his head in my lap.
His eyes are shut tight, but I know he is still awake. "You know," I begin, knowing that he will agree, "you should go see Harry tomorrow."
His eyes flutter open slightly, and he murmurs, "I should."
"It will. . . . It will help you both," I continue as I stroke his cheek, and reach for one of his hands, warm and slightly sweaty.
"I will."
I'll be okay, I know. Remus knows it, too. I've mourned for Sirius Black already, long ago, when I was but ten years old, and trying to tell my parents he was innocent. He was dead to me, then, and he is dead to me now. But still, still it hurts.
Yet holding Remus closely, and gently running my fingertips through his graying hair, and tracing light circles across his chest, I know his pain is greater. Is this what he looks likes after a transformation? So tired, curled tightly, knees raised high to his chest. . . Is this how he looks after he returns? His own hands move, now, at his sides, until they reach my own, which is still at his chest, and one laces its fingers with mine, as the other cups my knuckles.
His grip is tight, now, but soon his fingers twitch, and the grasp begins to fade. . . . Lighter and lighter. . . .
And he falls asleep. Eventually, I do also, still sitting, with my back propped against the wall, and I dream lightly, of cool mountains, and deep streams, and large oak trees. Light eyelashes flutter about my mind all night, and even sleeping, I feel him.
But when I wake up, I am lying, wrapped tightly under the worn blankets of Remus's bed, with my face buried deeply in his white pillow.
He has already left, I know, to spend the day with Harry. But he shifted me so I was comfortable under the blankets, so I smile.
With my head still deep in the pillow, still in the fragrance of Remus's light hair, I shut my eyes tightly, and then my hair is that common brown, and my eyes are that unnatural shade of a sunburned gray. I even have those tiny, tiny auburn freckles speckled about my nose and cheeks.
And I wonder if Molly will let me help her with breakfast. . . .
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A/N: I trying to decide if I should continue with this. . . . Not as a Remus/Nymphadora piece, but as a Harry and Remus bonding sort of piece. Originally, that is what I intended to do, although I was swept away by the plot. If I do, the next chapter will be a Molly Weasley POV, then a Vernon Dursley, followed by a Remus Lupin, and finally a Harry Potter POV. Most of them will still have R/N elements, though, especially the Remus POV, although it will not be the main part of the story.
Should I continue with this? Any feedback? Review! Thanks! :)
--Scarlet Writer//Scarlet11
The morning after death
Is the solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth,--"
Emily Dickinson
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Story Title: The Mourning After
-- chapter one: HIS NATURAL HAIR --
Molly's thrown me out of the kitchen again.
Really, I may be clumsy, but I can certainly chop some carrots or wash potatoes.
And well, I wasn't really honest before, because she doesn't even throw me out, which would have been much more comforting. When I offer to help, she acts patronizingly gentle, and spews out some reason that I shouldn't have to help. "You've had a long day, dear. Go and relax," she'll say. Or: "I'm sure Remus could use your company and comfort, rather than me." And tonight, she smiled too sweetly at me, and patted my shoulder too soothingly when she gave her excuse. And then she told me to send Ginny in.
I'd be much happier if she just told me I'd ruin her perfect dinner, or butcher the kitchen. Or she could just tell me she doesn't like my new-age, non-house-wife attitude.
But passing by the Library, I see Ginny talking with Ron, and quickly tell her to see her mother down in the kitchen, before heading down the hallway.
But maybe I will go find Remus. . . . I haven't seen him about in a few hours, and you can only take Weasleys for so long. So I take the stairs to the third level of the house, and briefly wonder if he's actually talked to anyone about Sirius's death. Probably not, I decide, but he's always seemed like a person who enjoys his own company.
And then, then I think that maybe I shouldn't burst in on him. If he wanted my company, he would have sought it, and do I really want to spend time being called Nymphadora?
But nonetheless, climbing the stairs, I decide that, no, I won't go searching for Remus, but will maybe head up to the attic and play with Buckbeak for a bit, who is surely missing Sirius just as much as Remus is. . . . Just as much as I am.
Would anyone would have guessed I adored Sirius when I was younger? Even though he was ten years older than me, he was always my favorite relative. When he was at Hogwarts and I was only four or five, whenever our families got together over the summer holidays, he would slip chocolate bars in my pockets, or pull me aside and narrate the most wonderful stories to me. Of course, once he was incarcerated, my mum wouldn't let me associate myself with him, because, after all, the only reason she had let Sirius visit us before was because he had apparently rebelled against his parents and what it meant to be a Black. Yet at ten or eleven, trying to convince my parents that Sirius had to be innocent, I was so sure he could not have killed anyone. I suppose it was only my innocent, un-polluted mind that could see the truth. . . . And then Sirius returned! My favorite relative! But he never really had a chance to slip chocolate into my pocket or pull me aside and tell me great stories. . . . Still, it was nice to talk with Sirius, and sometimes--
But then I feel my foot slip, missing the next stair, and I am tumbling through air, groping for nonexistent supports. I hit the stairs again, and continue to topple, hitting my back and then leg, and twisting my arm a bit. And with a hard thud, I've landed at the base of the stairs, with a rather large pain shooting up my backside.
Groaning slightly, I flip over, so I am lying flat on my stomach, and attempt to rub the pain from my buttocks. But hearing footsteps from above, I pull my self to my knees and sit on my heels, still rubbing at my bottom with one hand, while the other massages a shoulder.
"Nymphadora? Is that you?"
And I groan again. I really don't feel like talking to him right now. "It's Tonks," I grit, hissing as my fingers reach a particularly sore spot on my shoulder.
"Right. Tonks. Did you fall? I heard a thump," he goes on.
Attempting to bring myself to my feet, I wobble, bending slowly up, with that odd feeling at the bottom of my back -- the one where you feel too inflexible, and it's like your bones won't move, so when you're fully upright, it feels tight in your stomach. And my shoulder feels like it's burning, and my head is pounding a bit, so I put my arm out to the wall to support myself, but I misjudged the distance and stumble again. Then Remus, who was still at a few steps above, is now gliding down the last couple steps, and then grasping my upper arm firmly, steadying me. "What happened?" he asks, gently.
But it's not the Molly gentle, where it is just attempts to cover other feelings, but I think he's genuinely worried, so I answer. "I fell down the stairs," I mumble.
His lips smile gently, and he rubs my shoulder a bit. "Are you all right?"
"No," I grumble lowly, so he can't hear me. "Could you do a few healing charms for me?" I ask louder. "I was never very good at them, and I don't feel like loosing a bone. . . Or a spine."
He smiles lightly again, and I know he's good at basic healing, because he has to be; because he's a Werewolf, and most of the time, there was no one to mend his cuts or bruises after transformations. "Of course," he replies, and slides an arm under my shoulders, helping me support my weight.
That tight feeling in my stomach, and the ache in my bottom still hurts, although the pain in my shoulder has faded slightly. With ease, he helps me take a seat on one of the stairs, and then squats next to me. "So," he begins, "what first?" But his eyes, surveying me, catch a bit of blood trickling at my feet. "Where are you bleeding?" he asks.
But I blink, because I didn't even realize I was bleeding. Pulling at the hem of my robes, I find a huge gash on my right knee, and oh! There's that pain. . . . Flinching at the sting as he probes the cut a bit, I continue to rub my shoulder, and attempt to ignore the fact the sitting is making the pain in my lower back and bottom hurt more. As Remus flutters his wand about, and mutters a few incantations, I glance up the carpeted stairs, and see a bit of blood smeared on the wall, and then see a crimson nail protruding from the side of a step.
Glimpsing at my knee when the pain leaves, I now see a thin discoloration sliding across the cap.
"Shoulder?" he asks, as he slips the hem of my robes back to my feet. With my affirmative nod, he leans forward and casts a few spells.
"So," I say filling the silence, as he is pressing his fingers to my collar bone, probably checking for any irregularities. Then he glances up towards my eyes, so I go on. "How have you been?" But he is silent and his fingers have stopped moving at my shoulder. Have I upset him? "Oh, Remus, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. You don't have to answer it, I'll just leave, and finish this up myself. Thanks for--"
"Nymphadora," he cuts in softly, "it's okay."
But I am half-standing now, and rambling. "Sorry to bother you, I'll be -- Oh."
"I've been all right," he answers. But I'm considering him, with his pale, gaunt features, and the obviously tense shoulder muscles. His eyes sag slightly also, and I wonder if he remembers I'm a Metamorphmagus. There's no use lying to a Metamorphmagus about emotions, really. I've learned to pay so much attention to them, adding wrinkles here or tense muscle there when I'm trying to create a certain effect; undercover jobs for both the Ministry and the Order have sharpened these skills greatly. So I know that even the slightest adjustments in the most obscure of body parts tells a secret. And he tries to let a sickly face, tense shoulders, and drooping eyes pass as "all right?" But he must notice my scrutiny, and redirects the conversation. "What about you?"
But I just shrug, and say, "I've been okay."
And there's silence again, until he swallows. "Where else?" he asks
And we're both standing now, and although that tight feeling in my stomach--that one where you feel inflexible and unable to move--is gone, the sharp pains are still firing up my lower back and buttocks. And I'm blushing when I continue. "Err, well, you see. . . The stairs are quite high, and, really, the ground is very hard, so, when, err, when I landed, you see, flat on my arse. . . ." And even though my eyes are flitting about the room, avoiding his face, I can tell he's smiling a bit, and his eyes are dancing. But I gather all my Gryffindor courage, and look up. Seeing him attempting to conceal laughter, I indignantly cry, "Its hurts," and stamp my foot slightly to make my point. Oh, but I regret that because that only makes it worse. And wincing, I turn away from him slightly.
"Oh," he begins lightly, "Nymphadora, stop that. I was only joking."
"Fine," I let out, huffily.
"All right. Well, I can't do it through your robes, you see. So. . ."
"Oh, I have some muggle clothes under this, and besides, these are a bit bloody from that cut. Once second. . ." So I slip my robes over my head, being sure that my skirt or short doesn't cling to it, and even though I'm facing the other way, I can feel Remus's gaze traveling up my body. Yes, all that Auror training does have its physical benefits. . . . But still, he laughs at me and then thinks he can just check me out? Men. . . . Although, I must admit, Remus certainly isn't the worst of them. . . .
But turning back to face him, I smooth out my skirt and blouse and then bite my lip slightly. "Well, what now?"
"Err. . . You'll have to pull your shirt up a few inches. I need access to your lower back." I nod and then turn around, reaching to my sides, and lifting the hem of my blouse a few inches. "Actually, could you just, well, your skirt. . . " And I sigh, but bunch the extra cloth from my shirt to one side, and use the other hand pull the upper hem of my skirt down a small inch with my thumb. Shifting my weight from side to side, I flinch when I feel his wand tap my lower back a bit. "Stop moving," he commands gently, with a hand steadying my hip. So I do, but bite my lip furiously. . . . This is awfully embarrassing, not to mention uncomfortable. And when I feel that familiar tingle up my spine, which I know means my bottom is healed, I let my shirt and skirt fall back to their regular positions along my body, and turn around. "Feel better?" he asks.
And I nod. "Yes, thanks. And sorry about that, but a bruise on my arse is not the most comfortable of things. . . ."
"Yeah, probably not," he answers obviously.
"Dinner should be ready in a little while," I state, moving the conversation away from my butt.
"Oh? Not helping prepare it?" he asks, although it sounds like he knows it is a pointless question.
So I snort obnoxiously, and cross my arms. "Molly Weasley will not let my touch a thing in this kitchen. I'm clumsy, yes," I continue, "but I can cast simple spells to wash dishes or heat water. I'm not incompetent!"
He smiles a little, but it really doesn't seem real. I'm still a metamorphmagus, and he still can't fool me. I even my breathing, though, and continue. "What have you been up too all afternoon, then?"
He shrugs. "Not much." Such a liar!
"Oh?" And then I head up the stairs, determined not to trip this time, when someone is watching.
His light steps follow mine, and I head straight into his room, and flop head-first onto his bed, in the furthest corner.
"Right. Would you like to join me in my bedroom?" he asks with mock formality, although I can only tell this from his voice, as my head is buried deep into his feather pillow.
"Mmm. . . Sure," I mumble, although he cannot hear this. Its smells good, actually, I note. His pillow, that is, although I can't decide what the smell actually is. So I move my head, so it faces him, as he sits in the desk across the room. "You're pillow smells good," I tell him. "Have you washed it recently?"
And he glances back at me. "My pillow?"
"Yes."
"Right. No, I have not washed it recently."
"Maybe its your hair, then." So I hop off the bed and make my way over towards Remus, who is still sitting in his chair, and I bend my head towards his, and begin to sniff at his hair. "It is your hair!" I exclaim. "What kind of shampoo do you use? Any gels? Or perhaps--" But then I'm not talking, because my eye caught a bunch of pieces of parchment scattered across the face of the desk. "What are those?" I ask, nodding towards the desk.
"Not much," he answers, not looking particularly interested. But his flaring nostrils tell me that he is lying and forcing his face to stay emotionless. And I focus my eyes on the parchments. They are letters, I decide, letters to Harry, written in messy scrawl and signed by Remus Lupin.
"That's not your handwriting," I say automatically, because it's not.
"It's nothing, Nymphadora," he says sharply, and stands up from his seat, briskly gathering the papers into a pile, and striding towards the bookshelf near the end of his bed. As he shuffles to shove the papers into a box on a higher shelf, I kneel on his bed, and tug at his arm slightly.
When I catch his attentions, I say, "Tonks, Remus. Its Tonks. Now. Come sit with me."
Obliging, he takes a seat at the end of the bed, and I sit, cross-legged, pulling the edge of my skirt past my knees, with my back resting against the wall.
"So," he says.
"So," I return, and then look at him.
And there are a lot of things about Remus Lupin that people don't usually catch. First of all, people think he's very stoic, taking everything in stride, and I suppose that's externally true, as he often acts calm. But, if you look at him, and know what to search for, you can tell it is one of the most untrue things in this world. There's a constant throbbing at his neck and flaring of his nostrils, and I know he's forcing himself to stay cool and passive, as emotions fire through his body. Next, he is not as old as he looks. While wrinkles by his eyes and his taught skin suggest he is nearing, maybe over, forty, Remus is but thirty-three. And then, finally, he is lonely. One wouldn't think this originally, though, because he is one of the most friendly and accepting men that many others know. Yet Remus Lupin has walls build high around him, and there are few breaks in the hard stone of which they are made.
But he is looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to speak. What was it I want to talk to him about? So I reach for his pillow and hold it to my nose, taking in deep breaths, as he watches me, with raised eyebrows.
Then he is leaning in, and for a moment, I think he is going to kiss me, until his face is buried in my hair, which is just past my shoulders, and Gryffindor red.
When he pulls himself back, he looks a bit odd, like he's trying to figure something out. "Your hair smells good, too," he says.
Happy he has realized, I smile brightly at him. "Of course it does," I exclaim cheerfully. "I use scented hair products and all."
"You know, I've wondered something for while."
"What's that?"
"What is the real color is your hair?"
And I'm a bit floored, not expecting the question at all. But I gather myself quickly, and wave a hand at him, brushing the question aside. "A very common brown, actually."
"Oh, all right, then. I'm sure it's very lovely."
"Right," I say, as I get off the bed. "Now, let's talk about this." I reach for the box he shoved the parchments in early and have a hard time getting it down from the high shelf, although it slips off eventually.
Sitting next to Remus, I have the box in my lap, as I look at him expectantly. "May I?"
With Remus nodding a bit reluctantly, I pull off the brown lid and set it next to me. Above newspaper clippings and pictures, I see a stack of letters, all addressed to Harry. I read one over, and then look questioningly at Remus. "This isn't your handwriting," I say, and he sighs a bit.
"No, it's not." With a look from my direction, he continues. "Well, I've been sending Harry letters regularly over the summer, but he doesn't write back. You see, he only copies, word for word, always, what I have written him."
"Are you sure it's him doing this?"
Nodding, he pulls the box from my lap, and digs to the bottom, pulling out a few scrolls. "These are a few of his essays that I saved when I taught him." And holding a letter against one of the unraveled scrolls, I see the handwriting is identical.
"Never any altercations?"
"No. Always exactly what I have written."
"That's. . . That's very odd."
"Yes, I know."
"Maybe you should go talk to him. . . ."
"If he wanted to talk to me, he would've properly responded. I don't want to push him or make him uncomfortable."
"Remus, sometimes you need to push. Maybe its not what he wants, but its what he needs. He's just lost his--"
"I know full well what he's lost, Nymphadora Tonks," he says steely, with a piercing voice, angry and sad and hopeless all at once. When I look at him, his eyes blazing, he is rising to his feet, hands clenched firmly at his side. "I push him, and I lose him. Do you understand?" And he slams his fist onto his wooden desk, and the kerosene lamp flickers, rattling with the vibrations. "I CANNOT LOSE HIM!" His breaths are coming in ragged now, irregular and harsh, and I wonder if he has a slight case of asthma.
"Remus, I--"
"NO. I Do NOT want to hear you say you're sorry, or that I need to move on. I lost him once! And I've lost him again!" I know he's talking about Sirius now, but I wonder if he knows he is, and dashing towards him, I reach for his hand, but he rips it from my grasp.
"I've lost him too, Remus! I miss him too!" I cry.
And then, as his eyes flicker, fearful now, and he takes a step back, pauses, and then launches towards me. He throws his arms around my neck, and lets his weight fall upon my shoulders. "I can't DO it!" he insists. "I CAN'T DO IT!"
And I stumble under his weight a bit, my ears ringing from his shout, but I regain my balance, and throw my own arms around his chest, tugging him closely. And he slumps more now, and warm droplets burn my shoulder, as my own eyes begin to water.
"I miss him," I mumble now, as he rambles quietly, desperately, about Sirius and Harry, and his inability to do it, to do it all.
I think you've finally realized, Remus Lupin. I'm a Metamorphmagus, and there is no way you can conceal emotion from me. And I can smell your hair when your head is buried in my neck, Remus, and I'm happy its your genuine, light brown. I am crying and you are crying, and your tears fall in my hair, as my own fall in yours, and I think I'm going to let my hair be natural tomorrow morning, and I won't change me eyes either; I'll proudly wear those freckles I've always despised. Just know I'm doing it for you.
Then, as I hold you close, you muttering insecurities and fears, the door bursts open, and that overly-sweet voice stings the air. "Remus!" it calls. "Its time for--" I pull my blotchy, tear-strained face from Remus and my eyes narrow automatically.
"Molly," I begin, upset with her for interrupting Remus and I, angry with her for acting so false and cheerful, and still a bit miffed with her for kicking me out of the kitchen. "Remus and I won't be attending dinner tonight." And he is silent now, but I hold tighter, and his hands pull at my hair.
"Oh," she says, surprised with my hard tone. "All right."
And she leaves.
And Remus lets out an anguished cry.
And I hug him tighter.
Gently backing him towards the bed, I pry his hands from my hair, although he still clutches at my neck. Climbing onto the bed, I sit against the wall, and he sits by me, lost in my hair and shoulders, sitting, too, but leaning hard against me.
Once his tears and howls fade, although my own eyes are still glossy, I pull away, and move him about until he lies down, with his head in my lap.
His eyes are shut tight, but I know he is still awake. "You know," I begin, knowing that he will agree, "you should go see Harry tomorrow."
His eyes flutter open slightly, and he murmurs, "I should."
"It will. . . . It will help you both," I continue as I stroke his cheek, and reach for one of his hands, warm and slightly sweaty.
"I will."
I'll be okay, I know. Remus knows it, too. I've mourned for Sirius Black already, long ago, when I was but ten years old, and trying to tell my parents he was innocent. He was dead to me, then, and he is dead to me now. But still, still it hurts.
Yet holding Remus closely, and gently running my fingertips through his graying hair, and tracing light circles across his chest, I know his pain is greater. Is this what he looks likes after a transformation? So tired, curled tightly, knees raised high to his chest. . . Is this how he looks after he returns? His own hands move, now, at his sides, until they reach my own, which is still at his chest, and one laces its fingers with mine, as the other cups my knuckles.
His grip is tight, now, but soon his fingers twitch, and the grasp begins to fade. . . . Lighter and lighter. . . .
And he falls asleep. Eventually, I do also, still sitting, with my back propped against the wall, and I dream lightly, of cool mountains, and deep streams, and large oak trees. Light eyelashes flutter about my mind all night, and even sleeping, I feel him.
But when I wake up, I am lying, wrapped tightly under the worn blankets of Remus's bed, with my face buried deeply in his white pillow.
He has already left, I know, to spend the day with Harry. But he shifted me so I was comfortable under the blankets, so I smile.
With my head still deep in the pillow, still in the fragrance of Remus's light hair, I shut my eyes tightly, and then my hair is that common brown, and my eyes are that unnatural shade of a sunburned gray. I even have those tiny, tiny auburn freckles speckled about my nose and cheeks.
And I wonder if Molly will let me help her with breakfast. . . .
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A/N: I trying to decide if I should continue with this. . . . Not as a Remus/Nymphadora piece, but as a Harry and Remus bonding sort of piece. Originally, that is what I intended to do, although I was swept away by the plot. If I do, the next chapter will be a Molly Weasley POV, then a Vernon Dursley, followed by a Remus Lupin, and finally a Harry Potter POV. Most of them will still have R/N elements, though, especially the Remus POV, although it will not be the main part of the story.
Should I continue with this? Any feedback? Review! Thanks! :)
--Scarlet Writer//Scarlet11