Chapter 4: The Boggart in the Attic
The autumn wore on, frosty and relentless. The Death Eaters flitted about, talking much but—apparently—doing little. Remus endured bitter conferences with Severus Snape, only to learn that he had discovered nothing either. The Order's round-the-clock guard in the bowels of the Ministry continued; as the months crept by without event, Remus grew uneasy. Being a werewolf had always made Remus peculiarly sensitive to the passage of time.
Sirius felt like a shut-in. He said so, loudly and frequently, to anyone he could catch. When there was no one, he drank fire-whiskey and fumed at the portraits on the walls. Molly and Arthur had gone home to the Burrow. The Hogwarts faculty members were immersed in their classes and their silent campaign against Dolores Umbridge. Kingsley Shacklebolt was immersed in complex and troubling machinations within the Auror Office. Bill Weasley was immersed in the internal politics of Gringotts ("Wish we could freeze the Death Eaters' bank accounts, that's what Muggles do, but gold passes everywhere and tells no tale.") and the alluring charms of Fleur Delacour. Mad-Eye Moody appeared at odd hours, ate odd meals (rum-soaked bananas, haggis, and waffles) that he conjured himself from thin air, and disappeared as abruptly as he came. At Hogwarts, the children were organizing an illegal Defense against the Dark Arts class under Dolores Umbridge's pudgy pink nose. Remus welcomed this news, not least because it gave him a neutral topic of conversation with Sirius. It was practically the only thing that Sirius could speak cheerfully about.
Tonks dropped in often. She made toast, burnt it ("Just a little too much wand action, I guess—I never had a light enough touch for household spells!"), and flicked it at Sirius, who was growling moodily at the unstickable charms that kept his ancestors' portraits fastened to the living room walls. Sirius pulled his wand and flicked toast back at her until the portraits of Phineas Nigellus Black and Aunt Elladora were dripping butter on the doxy-infested sofa.
"Nasty little blood traitor babies, ruining my mistress's handsome portraits of the handsome, handsome scions of the House of Black," complained Kreacher, drifting through.
"Clean 'em up, Kreacher," ordered Sirius. "I don't want my great-great-grandpa Phineas popping up in Dumbledore's office looking like he just stepped out of a micro-wand oven!"
"How is the cleaning going?" asked Tonks.
Sirius made a face.
"Sirius has done a lot," said Remus diplomatically. "The portraits and the family tree won't come off the walls, of course, and there's still the box room in the attic. That's all."
"I'll come over on Sunday and do the box room," offered Tonks.
"Thanks! You can keep Sirius company while I'm away."
"Oh, is it full moon again? Already?"
Remus nodded ruefully. No matter how much reason persuaded him that the full moon came at regular, predictable intervals, he felt it had been coming much too often this year. Scarcely was one transformation over but he was on the potion again. It was always "already."
Sirius tossed off his fire-whiskey and hiccupped. "I am not a baby, you two. No one needs to keep me company when Moony is away. And there's no reason why Tonks should get stuck cleaning the attic. She's got a real job, and guard duty, and I'm a bloody useless housekeeper—"
"—who after nearly six months in Grimmauld Place hasn't got around to cleaning out the attic. I will see you on Sunday, and I will be expecting you to make me brunch."
"Don't bother, Tonks," said Sirius. Remus fidgeted uncomfortably. He recognized this mood of Sirius's, and he did not like it, but so far, he believed, he had gotten the worst of it. He did not like seeing Sirius take out his frustrations on Tonks.
"What, you two like living in a pig-sty?"
"Well, I spent a winter living in a cave and eating rats. And Remus has lived in the Shrieking Shack."
"If you like living in caves and eating rats, that's your business. I don't think Remus should have to live in a shack any more than necessary."
"Damn right I shouldn't," said Remus.
Sirius raised his eyebrows. "Moony, Moony! I've never heard a prefect swear."
Remus smiled. "Wait till Ron comes back from Hogwarts."
Sirius grimaced. "Ron isn't coming here. None of them are coming. Even Harry—"
"—looked like he had won the lottery when we rescued him from the Dursleys last summer and told him we were bringing him here. Stop complaining, Sirius, you're lucky to have him for a godson. Take care of yourself, Remus, and you'll come back to a clean attic on Sunday."
When Remus returned from his transformation, the house was still—so still, he feared for a moment that Sirius had taken advantage of his absence to flee on some bold and reckless mission. Feverish and sore, he made himself a sandwich and ate it absent-mindedly, staring at an outdated copy of the Daily Prophet. As he crept past the living room, he saw—with mixed anger and relief—that Sirius was asleep on a sofa, snoring lightly and clutching an empty whiskey bottle. Remus climbed the stairs to bed.
The door to the rambling attic box room was ajar. Remus peaked inside, thinking to surprise Tonks—for there she was, her slender back and spiky pink hair-do turned to the door—when a bizarre sight arrested him. Hovering in mid-air, writhing and fidgeting, he saw a baby, perhaps three months old, with pale skin and mousy brown hair. Even as he watched, the baby's hair turned red, then blonde; its limbs seemed to expand and contract uncontrollably. Tonks stood transfixed, watching the baby, and Remus, three yards behind her, was likewise captivated. The baby turned black, and then it turned red, and then it turned green. Its bloated limbs grew and writhed even as its face remained crunched and infantile.
"Riddikulus!" shouted Tonks. Suddenly, the green, troll-like baby reined in its frantic contortions and began to dance the Charleston. A minute later, the figure had resumed its original face and form. It continued to dance the Charleston as Tonks stepped forward, wand in hand, and forced it back into the dilapidated filing cabinet from which, Remus presumed, it had emerged. Slamming the door shut, she leaned against it, half-giggling, half-sobbing, brushing her hair out of her eyes with her wand.
Remus stood helplessly, half hidden by the door. He remembered Molly's boggart last summer, remembered rushing into the living room and taking charge as Molly sobbed over the phantom dead bodies on the floor. Now he felt something of the same impulse to comfort Tonks. But she had not asked for him; she had not needed him; she had conquered the boggart herself. And what was this boggart anyway? Remus had no idea. He felt as if he had just witnessed something profoundly intimate and secret—something, perhaps, that Tonks would not have wanted him to see. Softly, as if on stocking-feet, he backed away from the door.
In his dim attic bedroom, Remus undressed and climbed into bed. He stared at the ceiling and thought about Tonks. Funny, he thought, she talks and banters with Sirius all the time, and I sit and listen, and she probably knows me better than I know her. Funny how one man's meat is another man's poison. Tonks is so good with children—Ginny, Hermione— Harry—why would she be afraid of babies? Why?
Remus had known since childhood, since before he could remember, that he was unlikely ever to have children of his own. He had grown up facing this knowledge as mutely and as consciously as adolescent girls face the fact of their own impending fertility. Ironically, inevitably—for the nature of life seemed to be that it sprang one cruel joke after another—children and indeed babies had become objects of longing for him. Brunette, blonde, red-haired . . . white, black, even, he supposed sheepishly, green . . . Of course, he was also a little afraid of babies, but for him that made sense. He was a sick man, afraid of abandoning a baby, afraid of biting it, afraid of savaging it. Tonks could have no such fears.
Maybe, he thought sagely, slightly appalled at his own intrusiveness, maybe there is some sexual anxiety at issue here. Maybe she fears babies because she fears her childbearing capacity, which would disrupt her career . . . chasten her high spirits and taint the thrills of danger . . . cause her to lose control over the body over which she has hitherto exercised such an unusual degree of control. Maybe her rejection of babies is a rejection of her femininity, maybe she has developed a mental block against babies for the same reason she has developed that amusing mental block against cooking and household spells. Maybe her rejection of babies is a rejection of her mother, whose very name seems to make her uncomfortable. Funny, though, the things that people fear. Tonks would make such a good mother, if she only knew it. Tonks is so good with children . . .
As the now waning moon moved slowly across the horizon, Remus fell into a heavy, numbing slumber, thinking, "but Tonks is so good with children . . ."