March 11, 2:58 p.m.
He walked through Bermondsey Square today and saw a rose-colored parasol, decorated with elegant brushstrokes and leaning against a stack of worn-out hatboxes.
(Tonks would like that.)
It was quite simple, really, the thought that entered his head. It came and went as easily as reading the morning headlines or stepping out to see that the weather is fair, no need for an umbrella. Of all the oddities he'd passed, the clocks and silver spoons, strange statues of the grinning Buddha calling om shanti om shanti, plug-in paintings of the Last Supper that lit up Christ's head like a happy little Christmas light, he'd neither cared nor stopped to examine any of them. London was full of antique markets, each with an assortment of treasure that more often than not proved to be rubbish. The American couple he'd seen earlier would regret purchasing the "authentic" Persian rug a dealer was pushing on them, he was sure. And then there was the parasol.
That something so feminine would seem appropriate for a woman who traipsed about in combat boots and got pissed with him regularly on weekends was almost laughable. But there it was, swaying a bit when the wind picked up and taunting him.
He did not go near it, however, and instead continued walking, turning his thoughts to far less innocuous territory--the stack of papers on his desk at Number Twelve, the dog-eared Tolstoy on his dresser. Paper things, he found, were far easier to contemplate than people and parasols.
March 11, 6:43 p.m.
Tonks stood before her basin, an ancient green thing with a broken hot water knob, and quirked an eyebrow at her reflection. Putting effort into this was insanity.
"Fuck it," she muttered.
March 11, 7:00 p.m.
Remus considered, for the third time, beating Mundungus Fletcher over the head with a nearby wooden spoon, but controlled the urge again and took a long drink from his glass, letting the ice clink about. Dung, who had insisted that take-out was a shit idea when he himself was a culinary expert, was now puttering around the overly warm kitchen, looking amazingly out of place in the apron Molly Weasley regularly left at Number Twelve for dinnertime meetings. When he turned to check on the roast, Remus could see pink needlepoint lettering that read across the front, "Devon Annual Witches' Cookoff 1983". For the last half-hour, he'd listened to Dung's off-key humming--granted, he had switched from The Small Faces to the Kinks for a while, but had reverted back--and put out cigarette after cigarette into the glass ashtray in front of him, fiddling absently with a loose thread on one sleeve.
"Girlie's on time," Dung noted, casting a surprised glance at his wristwatch. Remus had to admit the man had excellent hearing; it took him several seconds longer before he heard the rustling of Tonks hanging up her coat in the entrance hall. Dung gave him a toothy grin.
"When did yeh tell 'er to be 'ere by?"
"Six."
"Ah, that'd explain it."
The door swung open, revealing a slightly rosy-cheeked Tonks in its wake. "Right, sorry, I-" she started, and then, upon seeing Dung, abruptly switched to a "never mind, then." She looked rather pretty, Remus thought, with her hair curled like that, but then she was looking at him with an expression of irritated realization.
"You said six."
"Indeed. And here you are."
"Remus, you've no faith in me. Wotcher, Dung." Dung gave a muffled "'Lo" from the stove as he hunched over to remove his roast.
"You know that you're supposed to cook food in that thing, and not your head, right?" Tonks asked him casually, and Remus turned to see that the wizard's head was, in fact, perilously close to the warm oven. Dung gave a low grunt and retrieved his "crowning glory" before straightening and saying, "Look at 'er, will ya?" He tottered over to Tonks, arms out to present the roast.
"What am I looking at, exactly," Tonks asked curiously, eyeing the meat with hesitancy. It held its stance, wobbling slightly, and she took a step back, apparently not ready to challenge the roast any further. Remus laughed aloud and Mundungus feigned insult, jerking back the platter and plonking it down on the table with a loud "hmphf." He bent over to inhale deeply, and came away with a frown.
"Fine---yeh get take-away then, but bring back a lot of samosas, eh?" he relented grudgingly to Remus. Tonks, however, had moved on to other things, eyes bright.
"Is that bourbon?"
"Ah, yeah--was savin' it but Remus got into it." Dung waggled his eyebrows in Remus's direction, saying only half discreetly, "S'a good thing you're 'ere, too. Edgy one, 'e is."
"Only when you're singing, Dung," Remus said, snuffing out a final cigarette. "Have a glass, Tonks?" He poured her one without waiting for a reply, holding it out to her absently and rising from his chair. When she met his hand to take it he lifted a finger to one bouncy brown curl beside her cheek, comfortably out of view from Dung, who was continuing to lament over the roast.
"You're looking quite disarming tonight."
She grinned, drawing away from him and saying in tones of mock surprise, "Oh, a compliment?"
"I am capable of them, yes."
"Want to pop out with me, grab some food? There's a pretty good Ind-"
"Get your coat."
March 11, 7:16 p.m.
He kissed her almost instantly after walking out of Grimmauld Place, beneath the dusty streetlamp, and the game they played, he knew, would continue for longer than he'd thought initially. He wasn't kissing to simply feel someone else's mouth against his own---he was kissing her. And again, he thought of parasols.