Chapter Two

Winter Garment of Repentance

I resolve daily that at dusk I shall repent

For a night with a cup full of wine spent.

In the presence of flowers, my resolve simply went

In such company, I only regret that I ever resolved to repent.

—Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

Tonks always feels as if time has moved apace without her. The years before, during and after the war were bitter and long, and she expects to one day blink and find herself ensconced in another century with people and objects unfamiliar to her. It is clear, though, as she stands on the well worn steps of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, that time has done little to change the landscape of the surrounding neighborhood.

There is the pungent smell of rotting garbage emanating from the pile of bulging bin-bags inside the broken grate, and there are the sagging houses, whose yards are decorated with heaps of rubbish, lining the street.

Everything is the same, and yet...not.

Tonks stares at the door in front of her. Its black paint is shabby and scratched. The silver door knocker, twisted in the form of a serpent seems to glare mockingly at her, and for a moment she is saddened by the miserable state and obvious decline of her ancestral home—the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black; albeit she had never been welcomed in it when her relatives were alive.

Tonks thinks about the irony of a house, which quartered generations of a family that was vehemently against Muggle-Wizard relations of any sort, being used to front a campaign against a wizard who espoused those beliefs.

A grim smile tugs at her lips, as she pulls out her wand, and determinedly taps the door, once.

After a series of metallic clicks the door swings open, and for all that Mrs. Weasley is an ardent housekeeper, she is greeted by a damp, musty smell, as if the house had been locked up for some time.

She walks down the long Entrance Hall, past age-blackened portraits; as she does so, she hears the hissing of old-fashioned gas lamps sputtering into life in her wake. They cast a dim light on the peeling wallpaper and the gaping hole in the wall, on the right, where Mrs. Black's portrait once hung; Harry had blown it off in a spectacular fit of rage, displaying immense power.

The usual din of organized chaos assaults her ears as she walks further into the house, and Mrs. Weasley emerges from a door at the far end the hall with a smile on her face.

"Nymphadora, dear. How are you? You've been making yourself quite scarce around here lately." Tonks winces inwardly. She has reminded Mrs. Weasley, repeatedly, not to use her hated given name, but she has long since given it up as a lost cause.

She swallows her irritation, and answers, politely, "I'm well, thanks. I've had loads of paperwork to catch up on, so I've been a bit busy at the Ministry. How've you been getting on?"

Mrs. Weasley's hand flutters to her hair in an absent-minded fashion. "I'm quite well, thank you for asking." The woman opens her mouth to speak further, but she is interrupted by a deep voice coming from the front door where Tonks had just walked through.

They both look up. Bill Weasley, the oldest Weasley child, is striding down the hall with measured steps. His red hair, gathered behind him in a ponytail, is bouncing along the nape of his pale neck, and his fanged earring is glinting brightly in the dim light. He is smiling brightly, and one has to look very closely to see the faint smudges under his eyes and detect a slight limp in his step.

"Hello, Mum." He brushes a kiss on his mother's cheek and then turns to greet Tonks with an exuberant hug, which she returns in kind. He releases her. "Tonks! It's been a while, hasn't it? How've you been keeping?" He looks her over as though he is inspecting her for some grievous wound that has befallen her since they last met.

Tonks feels her mood lifting, and she returns his smile, warmly. The nature of their duties during the war effort had required regular and close contact between the two of them, and, because of their easygoing personalities, they had quickly struck up a friendship. They had remained good friends since.

"I've been all right, thanks, just busy with paperwork, as I was telling your Mum."

"It's the same at Gringotts. You can't make a move unless someone else knows about it."

Tonks laughs, ironically. "Yeah, gone are the days when we did as we pleased."

Bill shrugs, "Better this than before."

"True. Still, it's got to where I feel as though a report of every time I wipe my arse—begging you pardon, Mrs. Weasley—turns up on Head Chief Kshatriya's desk, somehow."

Bill laughs. "If it's on Ministry time, it probably does. Anyway, he's got to be an improvement on that arse-licker, Fudge."

"Bill!" Mrs. Weasley admonishes.

"Sorry, Mum."

Tonks snorts. "Anyone's an improvement after Fudge."

"Good point," Bill says.

"Well, I hate to cut our conversation short, but I'm really here to talk to Ron and Hermione," Tonks says. "Are they here?"

"Oh, yes, of course, dear. They're upstairs, in the library," says Mrs. Weasley.

Tonks leans over and gives the plump woman a quick hug. "Give my best to the others, will you."

"Certainly," says Mrs. Weasley.

Tonks looks at Bill. "I'll catch up with you, later, all right?"

Bill envelops her in a warm embrace. "Sounds good."

Mrs. Weasley observes Bill and Tonks for a moment, and abruptly says, "Bill, dear, why don't you invite Tonks to your little outing?"

"Outing?" says Tonks.

"Yes. Bill's going out with some friends, tomorrow."

"Mum," Bill says exasperatedly. "I'm going out with my girlfriend. Not friends or friend, girlfriend."

Tonks hurriedly speaks before Mrs. Weasley can. "It's all right. I've already made plans for tomorrow, anyway." She is keenly aware that Mrs. Weasley has been trying to match her up with her son, for some time, conveniently forgetting that Bill is in a happy relationship with Fleur Delacour, and has been for four years.

"Perhaps another time then," says Mrs. Weasley.

"Er...thanks, Mrs. Weasley. I'll certainly keep that in mind."

Tonks walks up the staircase and enters the drawing room, which functions as a library and an ad hoc room where strategy is discussed. Shelves, containing books on hexes and spells and curses of tactical warfare, line two walls, floor to ceiling. Stuck to the third wall, which faces the open doorway, are notes and maps and bits of scrolls with scribbled writing on them.

On the far right wall, two large windows overlook the backyard, next to which is a large writing desk overflowing with books and scrolls, at which Ron and Hermione are sitting.

Tonks softly pulls the door shut behind her, which melts into the wall as if it had never been. Another shelf of books glides down the wall.

"Ron, Hermione," she greets, walking over to them.

Hermione looks up, distractedly, while Ron smiles warmly at her. "Hullo, Tonks. I haven't seen you for a while."

"Yeah, I know. That seems to be the refrain for the day. What're you two up to?" she asks, with a strained smile. She is reluctant to state her order of business.

Ron points his chin at Hermione. "Ask her. Frankly, I'd thought we'd dispensed with this nonsense once we left school. It feels as I've never left Hogwarts."

"It is not nonsense. We're conducting important research for the Order, and we'd get through it more quickly if you'd sit still and focus," Hermione admonishes.

"Yeah, well, I could be putting my time to better use than chasing after dull bits of paper."

"Chasing after skirts, more like," Hermione says scornfully.

Tonks interjects before an argument can fully develop between the two. "Listen...can you spare some time? I really need to talk to you."

Harry wakes up for the second time that morning, and he lies quietly under the warm covers, listening to the rustling trees outside.

He savors the warm quiet for a moment longer before he throws the covers back and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a soft moan. A throbbing pain, beating in time to his heart, takes up residence in the back of his head, reminding him of his overindulgence the night before.

As he gets up, he is aware of a general ache in his body, and he promises to swear off drinking for the foreseeable future.

He pads sleepily out of the bedroom and into Tonks's tiny bathroom. He climbs into the tub, luxuriating under the warm spray of water gurgling out from the shower-head above him. He lathers his body with a handful of soap crafted from hand-made goat's milk, speckled with linen seeds—for purposes of exfoliation—and lightly fragranced with a hint of almond oil. Harry doesn't like to think that he has this bit of information floating around in his head, and thinks, instead, that for all of Tonks's unconventional sensibilities, she really is quite refined in her tastes.

He shuts the water off with a sharp twist of the taps, and climbs out, dripping and clean, onto the bathroom mat. He reaches for a towel in the cupboard and rubs it briskly down his body before wrapping it around his waist.

He pads back into the bedroom, and pulls on a set of clean clothes—loose jeans and a T-shirt.

And just as he promises to swear off drinking, he promises not to visit Tonks just to fuck as he did last night.

It's true they have a mutual arrangement, but he can't help feeling, as he always does, that he's using her somehow; emptying himself into her body as he does faceless others, to take the edge off of an urgent desperation that's been building in him for months. He knows, with certain despair, that the feeling will return, more insistent than before.

Harry shakes his head, not wanting to think any of these thoughts, and he abruptly Apparates to the dead-end alley behind The Leakey Cauldron pub.

He enters the pub, and exits just as quickly pretending he doesn't hear his named being spoken in conversation.

Harry taps the bricks, in sequence, on the back wall and he is immediately assaulted by the many sights and sounds of Diagon Alley. Funny little witches up from the country for a day's shopping, wild-looking warlocks, and raucous dwarves rush by in an eddying flow down the busy streets. A hag stands in front of the cauldron shop eating what looks to be raw liver, and wizards, dining at an outdoor eatery, snap newspapers importantly in front of them.

Harry sees none of this. As he goes by, conversations stop, and start again behind him. The sound is like the muffled jabber of parakeets. A few people hail him, but he ignores them, lengthening his stride. His expression is closed off and none dare approach him.

He walks past Flourish and Blotts, Gringotts's Wizarding Bank, and Gambol & Japes, and he doesn't stop until he's in front of a distinct looking storefront. Over the door is a navy blue awning inscribed with a bright, orange stylized 'W' overlaid by a numerical '3.'

What had been a junk shop across from Ollivander's wand shop is now the proud home of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes of whom Fred and George Weasley were the proud owners.

The door jangles as he opens it and George looks up at him and extricates himself from a cluster of excited youngsters to come and greet him.

"Looks like you had a bit of excitement last night," George says grinningly.

Harry raises his eyebrows questioningly.

"That bit 'o fluff you were cozying up with looked a mite eager." George says, giving Harry a brief but thorough once-over. "And you do look a bit rough."

"Well, I didn't," Harry says shortly.

George raises his hands defensively. "Just calling it like I see it, mate. Don't get shirty."

Harry shrugs. "Sorry."

"'S'all right," George says, rubbing his neck. "I've been going through a bit of a dry spell myself."

"I wouldn't know anything about that," Harry says with a smirk.

"Oh, that's right, you tosser. Rub it in my face. Anyway there're some pastries over there in that basket," George says pointing to a table off a back wall. "And there's a new shipment in the back that needs sorting out."

Harry, followed by George, walks over to the table, and examines the pastries, carefully, before selecting one. "You expect me to believe I'll not turn into some molting bird if I eat this," he says.

"Would that be anyway for me treat a valued employee?" George laughs at the look on Harry's face. "It's not been tampered with. I promise you."

Harry raises a skeptical eyebrow, but shrugs and bites into the fluffy treat, anyway. Strawberry jam fills his mouth, and for several moments, nothing happens.

"I'm sorry I doubted you—" The words barely leave Harry mouth before a loud pop! reaches his ears and he turns into a squawking chicken.

This, of course, captures the attention of the browsing customers, and loud, screaming laughter fills the store.

Before long, there is a clamoring rush for the pastries. The sounds of an indignant chicken squawking are loud in the background.

Not long after, Harry is restored to his body and he gets to work cataloguing merchandise. He soon falls into a rhythm and the heavy monotony of his work soothes him; he has nothing to think on but his tasks, which prevent his mind from slipping into the well-grooved rut of past mistakes and failures.

Three Years and Eleven Months Ago

When Harry and his friends stepped off the Hogwarts Express on their arrival at Hogsmeade Station for the beginning of their sixth year at school, they were immediately greeted by the brisk Scottish night air, which was unusually cold and sharp for early September.

Everyone hastily pulled their cloaks securely around their bodies, and while Ron and Hermione attended to their Prefect duties, Luna, Neville and Harry set about finding the nearest unoccupied stagecoach to deposit their belongings in.

Harry was jostled by the hundreds of moving bodies, and he briefly lost sight of Neville and Luna, but they quickly reemerged from the crowd and they soon found a coach and secured their luggage in it.

They were joined shortly by Ron and Hermione. Ginny smiled at them as she walked past them with Dean Thomas, his arm around her shoulder, and a few of her fifth-year friends.

Ron's face tightened and he muttered dark things about Dean under his breath. Silence reigned, until Ron perked up and nudged Harry, saying as if he'd been continuing a conversation from before, "What'd you think, mate? I know she's kind of fickle, but she's my sister. It'd be worth a shot."

Harry, who'd been determinedly trying not to take notice of the frightening specter of the thestrals, asked distractedly, "Worth a shot?"

Ron rolled his eyes as if it was obvious. "Yeah, you know...to ask Ginny out. Come on, mate. Don't tell me you've never thought about it."

"Yeah, especially with the not-so-subtle hints you've been dropping about it, the past few weeks," Harry said wryly.

"It's the perfect the setup. Mum and Dad love you—you know they do, our whole family does. That's not counting Percy, of course, but he's a git, anyway," said Ron, warming to his topic. "And you're much better boyfriend material than any of those other blokes, especially that Corner fellow." Ron said the last with scorn in his voice. "C'mon. What's to think about?"

"Well, when you put it like that..." Harry said.

"You know, Ronald," Hermione said, stressing his whole name, knowing how much he hated it. "Ginny might not appreciate your attempts at matchmaking on her behalf."

"Oh, I don't know," Luna said in dreamy fashion. "I think it's quite old-fashioned and courtly. Ronald is protecting his sister's virtue."

Ron sputtered, turning bright red.

"Yes, well, I think it's antiquated and demeaning," Hermione said waspishly. "Ginny is fifteen-years old and fully capable of choosing her own boyfriends. She doesn't need you sticking your nose in where it's not wanted."

Ron got over his embarrassment, though his face was still red. "I'm a bloke, Hermione. I know the kind of urges blokes get. And I don't like the idea of them getting any of those urges around my baby sister," Ron said vehemently.

"Well! Really..." Hermione said, clearly at a loss for words.

"Harry's a bloke, too, Ron. Are you saying that Harry doesn't get any of the urges blokes get?" Neville asked incredulously. Then he blushed and stammered. "I—I mean...uh..."

"Neville!" Harry cried out.

"Ha!" Hermione exclaimed, although she wasn't exactly sure what she was exclaiming about.

"Well. I—uh..." Ron had clearly never thought of his friend in that light, before.

And their conversation continued in that fashion as the coaches began rolling in convoy to Hogwarts Castle, until they passed between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars on either side of the gate to the school grounds, all of them contemplating what lay in store for them in the coming year.

The carriages were pulled to a jingled halt near the base of the stone steps leading to the oak front doors. They emerged from the musty interior of the coach, and they paused to look at the gleaming turrets of the castle, which seemed to be leaning against the pitch black sky, before they joined the crowd hurrying up the stone steps.

Harry hadn't noticed they'd passed through the brightly lit entrance hall and entered the Great Hall, until he was startled out the reverie he'd fallen into by a loud exclamation from Ron.

"Hey, what's Tonks doing here?"

Harry's head snapped up. "What! Where?" he asked, swinging his head about, wildly.

"There," Ron pointed, "sitting at the staff table."

"Ron, don't point," Hermione said, exasperatedly. "It's horribly rude."

The chatter of the other students and his friends' bickering faded into the background as a loud ringing noise filled his ears. His heart began thudding loudly against his ribs and he thought, for a moment, he was going to faint, as he stared, horrified, at the High Table.

Tonks sat ensconced in an earthen-colored, high-back chair between Professor Binns, the History of Magic instructor, and a sour-faced Snape. She was smiling and waving excitedly at them.

Her bright pink robes set to match her spiked hair, was a sharp contrast to the more sober robes worn by the more traditional teaching staff.

Harry didn't have time to observe more as he was swept along with the tide of students hurrying to their seats.

His friends didn't notice his distracted air as they were busily catching up on their summer holidays, and a hush soon fell over the school as the first year students were led into the Hall.

After the new students were sorted into their respective houses, Dumbledore made his usual welcoming remarks and opened up the feast.

Everyone tucked in heartily, while Harry kept sneaking glances at the Head Table. When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the hall had started to creep upward again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more.

"Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices," said Dumbledore. "First years ought to know that the Forbidden Forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students.

"Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you all that magic is not permitted in the corridors between classes, nor are a number of things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch's office door.

"Finally, we have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Trelawney, who will be returning to her Divination post; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Tonks, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."

A small cheer went up at the Gryffindor table, while everyone else applauded politely. Harry's reaction was notably restrained.

Tonks smiled broadly and raised her hand to wave at the students. As she lowered her arm, her sleeve caught the rim of Snape's goblet, and it teetered precariously on the edge of the table before it fell, splashing its contents into his lap.

Snape's face took on a tight expression as a hush fell over the Great Hall into which Tonks's voice, murmuring profuse apologies, was heard quite audibly. She fumbled for her wand and pointed it at his lap, to which there was heard a swift inhalation of breath from every male person in the hall.

Snape clamped his hand around her arm, and said, "I'll thank you not to perform any magic on my person, Professor Tonks." Assured that his manhood wasn't in immediate danger, he released her arm, saying, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Snape rose stiffly from his chair, shooting Tonks a dark look, and swept from the room with a swirl of his cloak behind him.

Ron snorted, saying under the sudden flurry of noise, "He always looks like a giant bat when he does that. A giant, greasy bat."

Hogwarts students soon settled into the routine of going to classes. They reacquainted themselves with the routine of studying and mingling and partaking in recreational sports and activities. Most of the students took their respite outdoors, taking advantage of the pleasant, albeit brisk, weather; black dots against the landscape of Hogwarts Castle grounds in their black school robes.

And if Harry seemed a bit subdued, no one spoke about it. He brushed off concerned queries about his welfare from his friends, and they let him be, assuming, of course, that he was still grieving for Sirius.

Which he was.

Regarding Tonks, he saw little of her except in the classroom. She was a good teacher—the best they'd had since Remus Lupin. She was always cheerful, praised her students accordingly, and in the matter of House points, she gave them out fairly.

To Harry she was unfailingly polite, but she rarely called on him, and she seemed to have trouble meeting his eyes.

One day, after a meeting with the Headmaster, Harry encountered Tonks a few corridors away from Dumbledore's office. She seemed intent to speak to him.

"Harry," she called out.

He stopped to let her catch up, not bothering with a reply. "Harry," she said, breathlessly, coming within a few feet of him. She looked closely at his face.

"Are you all right?" she asks concernedly.

"What do you care?"

"Harry, I do care. Far more than I should."

"Yeah?" Harry said glaring down at her, grateful for the few inches of height that he had on her. "Why've you been avoiding me then?"

Tonks was at a loss for a reply.

"Didn't think I noticed, did you? What'd you think? That I was some stupid kid? That you could just shag me and leave, without so much as a by your leave, and not even give me the courtesy of warning me that you'd be coming to Hogwarts? Huh?" Harry's voice cracked at the last bit, and he was breathing heavily by the time he finished his tirade, his hands clenched at his sides. His whole body was tautly strung, quivering with unspent emotion, and he blinked rapidly against the tears filling his eyes.

"Harry," Tonks entreated. She gently touched his arm, but he flung her hand off, violently. "Harry, please," she said, curling her fingers into her hand. "Don't be this way. Just listen to me."

"Why the fuck should I?"

"Harry—"

"In fact," he said, cutting her off, viciously, "who's to stop me from going to Dumbledore, right now, and telling him about the whole sordid affair? I'm sure the school governors and your employers at the DMLE would love a good listen."

"Harry," Tonks tried again. "Dumbledore does know."

"What?" Harry breathed. His features were frozen in a startled expression.

"I'm not sure how he found out, but the fact remains...that he did." Tonks cleared her throat. She was only marginally calmer than he was, and she was not a woman normally given to hysterical impulses. "I was in a rather untenable position. Here I was...a grown woman and a fully trained Auror. I was at a loss to explain how I'd come to have a fling with an adolescent boy...the Savior-of-the-Bloody-Wizarding-World, no less."

Harry laughed bitterly. "Well, there, that makes it better, then. Doesn't it?"

"Harry, please believe that I never set out to hurt you."

"Well, you needn't worry on that front. I have no feelings to speak of. Didn't you hear?"

"Harry, don't be this way."

"What way? Upset? Furious? Enraged, that once again Dumbledore holds sway over the dictates of my life? That once again I've got no say? Hmm? What way are you talking about, Tonks?"

"Harry—"

"You know, I didn't think we swore undying love to each other, but you ought to have had the decency to break it off properly instead of—" Harry cut himself off, shaking his head. The look on his face grew ugly. "You know, I don't even know why I'm telling you this. The lot of you deserve each other. You and Dumbledore can both go to hell as far as I'm concerned. I'm sure he makes a far better fuck than I do."

Tonks drew in a sharp breath at Harry's cruelty. She felt the first stirrings of anger kindling within her. "Harry, you're mistaken if you think I've whored myself out to Dumbledore in some way."

"Yeah? Then explain to me how you got the DADA professorship when I know for a fact the position wasn't even filled two weeks before school started."

"Harry...I—" Tonks was at a loss for words.

"I thought as much," Harry said sounding weary beyond measure. The fight seemed to have drained out of him. "Look, just tell me what this is about."

"I—" Tonks seemed reluctant to speak.

"Spit it out. You're free to carry on ignoring me when you're done here."

"That's just the thing," Tonks said looking at Harry with troubled eyes. "Dumbledore didn't just hire me to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He hired me to train you. Secretly…"

Tonks is in the library with Ron and Hermione.

Hermione, predictably, is the first to break the silence.

"Are you sure?" she asks, looking at Tonks intently.

"I wouldn't have said anything if I wasn't," Tonks replies.

"But—but..." Ron stammers. "Harry wouldn't...I mean...it can't be. Harry's the strongest bloke I know. He'd never...no. I don't believe you."

"Ron—"

"Don't 'Ron' me, Hermione." Ron looks at Tonks. "No offense, Tonks. I think the world of you. You know I do, but Harry...how can you say...? No." He shakes his head. "No. I would know. Harry's my best friend, my brother. I would know. I would. That's all there is to it."

"That's the point, Ron. Friends and family are often the last to know," says Hermione.

"Ron. I saw the marks on his arm," Tonks says quietly.

"And since when did you two start sleeping together again? Explain that to me."

"Ron, that's none of your business," Hermione scolds, "and entirely beside the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is," Hermione begins with exaggerated patience. She stops. She glances at Tonks, and then looks at Ron. "The point is," she says quietly, "Harry needs help."

Ron rises from his chair, and walks to the window overlooking the backyard. He swings his arm agitatedly. He blinks rapidly, pressing his lips together. He takes a deep breath, and looks at Tonks. "Really?" he asks, quietly.

She understands his question. "Really." She pauses. "I'm sorry."

Later that evening, Harry finishes up his work. When Fred and George ask him if he'll be joining them at the pub for drinks, he begs off, stating a need for rest.

He retraces his steps back to the Leaky Cauldron, and once in the alley, he Apparates back to his flat. He walks through the dimly lit living room and into his bedroom. He crouches down to the floor, and shimmies under the bed.

Guided by the light of his wand, he taps a sequence of coded numbers onto the floor, loosening the floorboard. He pries one of the boards apart, and reaches into the dark well.

Flushed now with anticipation, he emerges with his tools; a vial, a syringe and a rubber strap.

Sometime later, after a shower, and a change of clothes, Harry leaves his flat and Apparates to a Muggle club, becoming lost in the pulsing throb of people.

Thanks to abigail89, my beta, for her assistance and understanding. Any and all mistakes are mine.

Definitions:

Kshatriya – The second-highest rank in the Indian caste system, meaning warrior.

DMLE - Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which employs Hit Wizards and Aurors.

References:

The title of the chapter is from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.

I used some of the physical description for Grimmauld's Place and Hogwarts Castle, from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, verbatim.

The sound is like the muffled jabber of parakeets—The Stranger by Albert Camus.

The resources of the Harry Potter Lexicon, and effingpot (because I don't speak British) were invaluable to me.

See chapter one for disclaimer.