"You miss him, don't you?" Penelope asked, as she and Remus pieced together the Informer one night in mid-August. "Mr. Black, I mean." And then, without really waiting for a reply, she continued. "I suppose you would. After all, I still miss Percy, and he was just awful to me."

He glanced up at her, eyebrows raised. "I thought you were the one who shagged his best friend."

"Oh, well…" She shrugged. "Can't say I'm completely blameless, I suppose. But this isn't about me, Professor. How are you?"

"I'm…" He paused, coming slowly to the realization that he didn't have a ready answer—because since Sirius had died, he hadn't been asked. "I suppose I'm well enough. I think—well, the distraction's been good for me, at any rate."

She looked up from the clippings strewn about her on the floor, and for a second she looked almost childlike. Then she spoke, and all that changed. "You don't have to pretend, you know. The truth won't make me like you any less, if that's what you're afraid of."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm not afraid," he lied, wondering privately how she could have so accurately pinpointed something he'd barely even noticed. "I have more important things to worry about than whether you like me, Miss Clearwater."

If his words had taken her by surprise, he certainly couldn't tell from her expression. She got to her feet calmly, brushing a few stray clippings from her robes. "I can't say I entirely believe that, Professor."

"Believe what you like. It's not as though your opinion actually matters." What was he saying? And more importantly, could he put a stop to it before he said something he'd regret? "After all, it's your fault Sirius died before we'd ever really made up."

It was one step too far; he knew it, and judging by the complete shock on her face, so did she. "I'm sorry; what was that?"

"It was—well, if you hadn't led Tonks on, and if I hadn't…"

"If you hadn't…what?" Her voice was deadly cold now, and as she stared at him, he had the sinking suspicion that this couldn't possibly end well. "If you hadn't what?" she repeated.

"If I…well, if I hadn't found you so bloody irresistible, it wouldn't have been an issue in the first place," he blurted out, all in a rush.

Penelope regarded him silently for a few seconds. "It seems to me that's your problem," she finally said, her words slow, careful, as if they'd been perfectly weighed. "I can't see how anyone could possibly blame me."

"You wouldn't," he snapped, and his mind screamed that this was exactly the wrong way to behave, that he'd hardly endear her to him by hurling insults at her, but he continued against his better judgment. "You've never had a brilliant idea in your life, have you?"

"I—"

"This isn't yours," he interrupted, gesturing wildly at the pieces of newspaper that still littered the floor. "The book wasn't yours. You didn't even leave the Ministry on your own, did you? Oliver Wood had to help you."

"Well, if you—"

"I don't know what everyone finds so intriguing about you. You're nothing special, are you? Just a common, Muggle-born, nobody."

It was done—he'd done it, against the warning of every rational bone in his body, and now there was no way to take it back. She stared at him for almost a minute, then silently turned on her heel and stalked into her office, closing the door rather forcefully behind her.

He pretended he hadn't seen the tears in her eyes.

"I want to sleep in his room," Harry had said, almost immediately upon his arrival at number twelve, Grimmauld Place in the late summer. Then he'd looked up at Remus. "If—I mean, if that's all right by you."

And it was; Remus only slept there once or twice a week, and even then, he didn't actually sleep. He'd taken to sleeping in his own room, at first alone, and then with Tonks, who'd been at his beck and call since Sirius had died.

If he'd been a different man, he would have found a shattered sort of comfort in the arms of someone new each night. But he wasn't a different man, and even if he had been, he was hardly in the position to bring anyone home, not to number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

But Tonks…Tonks was a new woman each night, at least in appearance. And so he could deceive himself believe he wasn't growing attached to one person in particular, although he knew that was entirely false. He had grown attached to Tonks, as a friend and a lover, because while her appearance continually changed, she remained the same.

"You miss him, Remus," she whispered one night. "Don't you?"

"We all miss him," he murmured, and it was more truth than not; everyone on earth missed Sirius Black, in some way. "I suppose I should miss him most of all because…"

"Because of what he was to you?" she asked quietly. "I have people like that, you know. I think we all do."

"We don't all have people like Sirius. We don't all have people as wonderful and terrible as he is—was," he corrected quickly. "We don't all—"

"Shh," she whispered, pressing her fingers to his lips. "You don't need to—"

"But I do," he said, just a bit louder. "I need to talk about it. And I need to talk to you. You're the only one who cares to hear."

Actually, he could argue that even she didn't care to hear, but she was the only one who would listen. And listen she did, as he poured out his feelings for Sirius, his love for the man and hatred for the things he did, his confusion at the jealousy and bitterness Sirius had shown in those last few months—and then, when he thought he had nothing else left, up came the vitriol he'd thrown at the defenseless Penelope.

Tonks didn't judge him, didn't try to fix him, because he didn't need that. She just sat and listened, wiped away the tears he didn't know he'd cried, and held him when he could no longer support himself. She let him pour out his heart and soul, his troubles and worries, and never once commented on what she heard.

When he finally fell silent, she pushed him down onto the pillows, and then she let him pull her down beside him. It wasn't until he was almost asleep that he realized she'd changed her short pink hair to long dark ringlets.

That night he dreamed of ravens, and books, and a girl with a dazzling smile. He awoke the next morning, after his first full night's sleep in months, with his face pressed into a mass of dark curls. For a second, his heart leapt, but then came the realization that it wasn't sage he smelled, but lavender.

It was the first time since Sirius died that waking up was a disappointment.