Many thanks to: Leslie, Queriusole, Maiden of Valinor, prettiest in pink, ncygrl, and ArwenLumos for your lovely reviews of the first part of this story.

Verbena

He enjoys the scents of the kitchen, and smelling the life that went on in it.

Molly's food, spices, soap, tangerines, old wood; the kitchen's scent is like a blanket. Its warmth seeps into him, and when he retreats to his own bedroom, his own miniature flat with no rent, at the end of the evening, he takes off his jumper and crushes it to his face and breathes.

Scents are the most common triggers for memory; something primal pulsates in that one sense out of the five that has not and will not be civilised. In that scent, he remembers not with visions and words; he does not remember the way he thinks. He remembers the sensations of comfort, no particular event in mind; he remembers his mother's cookies and his pillow in the huge fourposter in Griffindor tower and warm soup on cold nights and the embrace of a friend. He soaks himself in memories and remains submerged until he is forced to come up for air.

He does so with a short gasp, not a sob, and folds the jumper carefully and places it on the wooden chair pulled out from his desk. He takes his shoes off, and his feet start to go numb from the cold floor despite his threadbare socks and the threadbare carpet. He unbuttons his shirt, slowly because the buttons are loose and he does not look forward to sewing them back on, and then he folds the garment and lays it on top of his jumper.

He is standing in his undershirt, trousers and socks when he hears the noise downstairs, noise uncharacteristic of the house's resident monsters and creeping things. He snatches his dressing gown and drifts down to the kitchen silently, to make sure he sees what is down there before it sees him.

It's Tonks.

She's scrambling around on her knees, looking under the table, hunting beneath the cabinets, searching for something. He puts a hand on her shoulder, gently, and he feels her warmth pleasantly on his chilled fingers. She starts in surprise and looks up.

"Oh, Remus," she says, shakily, almost in a whisper. "Wotcher."

"What are you doing here?"

"I dropped something. Or left it. Dropped it then left it. I came back. I can't find it."

"What?"

"My glasses. I sometimes need them, sometimes after I do a change. Sometimes I change my eyes and I act like an old lady and I keep my usual sight but when you're an old lady, it seeps into your brain, the way your brain thinks about seeing when you've worn glasses, and I try to morph to counteract it but morphing eyes is rather delicate and sometimes it takes a few days to adjust. I've read all sorts of Muggle medical books to learn about the brain bits, how it's sometimes my r-retina and sometimes it could be my brain adjusting. I need the glasses, just fix the strength with a," she mimics flicking her wand, and examines her toes.

"Accio glasses"

The required item speeds into Remus' open palm and rests there. Tonks looks at them, and it seems as though her eyes have become brighter than they should be.

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It's been a long day. You should go home and get some rest."

"Yes."

Her fingertips brush his palm as she takes the glasses from him, and she realises for the second time how cold his hands are, remembering the touch of his fingertips on her shoulder earlier. She takes one hand in her own and folds it in her fingers gently, and holds it there, and then lets go.

"Good night, Remus."

"Sleep well."

She leaves him standing in the kitchen. He listens to the door close; he feels the prickle of the secrecy charms resettle upon the house like coarse, nubbly blankets. He stands, in a thin haze of her scent, evaporating swiftly.

He is not prone to talking to himself, although he will if only there is a classroom grindylow or a potted plant to listen. However, he has neither of these things at the moment, and so he remains silent as he creeps back up the stairs and burrows his frozen feet under his bedclothes, barely bothering to finish changing first. As he charms out the light and closes his eyes, however, one thought sinks through his mind.

"Good night, Nymphadora."