Author note: This chapter contains dialogue from J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (New York: Scholastic, 2005), pp. 332-337, 340-341.

Chapter 18: Living with People

Christmas at the Burrow was a disappointment. It was nothing like Christmas at Grimmauld Place. After a season of living on the run, the idea of slipping drowsily between soft, clean sheets, of eating Molly's savory food, of keeping company with congenial human beings instead of bitter and aggressive beasts, appealed to Remus potently. But within twenty-four hours of his arrival, Remus was awakened to the fact that human life, even at the Burrow, was not a pastoral idyll. The twins, emboldened by their business success, spent half their time designing defensive weaponry and the other half trying to pick up Muggle girls in village. Molly approved of neither activity and said so at some length. Ginny and Fleur sniped at each other continually, Fleur daintily, Ginny cleverly but nonetheless cuttingly. Ginny even sniped at Bill, whom she usually idolized. Ron was grouchy, Harry distracted. Remus could see the ghost of Sirius flitting through Harry's mind in every conversation, at every meal; he knew that Harry thought of Sirius every time he looked at him. A fresh wave of grief washed over him; he couldn't, he simply couldn't, fill Sirius's shoes. Arthur, who was working very long hours at the Ministry, scarcely appeared until Christmas Eve. Then he seemed absent-minded, even withdrawn. Percy, it emerged, was still not speaking to any of them.

Hermione was mysteriously absent—for the last two years, she had contrived to spend most of her vacations with the Weasleys. Ginny and Harry's whispered explanations, rife with allusions to Quidditch, Viktor Krum, Horace Slughorn, and their goofy Gryffindor housemate Lavender Brown, served only to confuse the matter more.

"Won-won woves Miss Wavender Bwown," cackled Fred. "Sweetheart Brown—about the town—"

Ron threw a boot at him.

"Ron, stop being a git," complained Ginny.

"Both of you, stop being gits," said George. "I, for one, am thrilled that my little brother is finally getting some action. Though I didn't think the girl would be—"

"Hermione can snog whomever she damn well pleases," muttered Ron to the wallpaper.

Harry rolled his eyes. Oh, thought Remus. Oh. He rather missed Hermione.

After dinner on Christmas Eve Molly insisted that everyone gather in the Burrow's living room to listen to a broadcast by Celestina Warbeck, in spite of the fact that she was the only one present who wanted to hear it. Remus, for one, was too tired in mind and body to object. He sat staring into the depths of the fire—Molly thought he looked "peaky" and had given him the best chair—as the cheap, jazzy notes of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love" and "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me" drifted easily through his mind. These songs had already been oldies when he went to Hogwarts. He could remember his mother singing "You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me" in a thin, sweet voice as she ironed robes and he lay in bed, a small and feverish boy, listlessly turning over the pages of a comic book and trying not to pick at the scabs of his wounds. He wondered, now, how much of her childhood Tonks had had to spend in bed. Were Metamorphmagi prone to accidents and injuries? Did her famed clumsiness reflect her genetic condition, or was it simply part of her personality—the product of a too-busy brain that distracted her from the normal minutiae of daily life?

Behind him, Harry and Arthur were speaking, covertly and excitedly, of the Malfoys and Severus Snape. Remus's ears pricked up.

"Has it occurred to you, Harry," Arthur was saying, "that Snape was simply pretending to—"

"Pretending to offer help, so that he could find out what Malfoy's up to? Yeah, I thought you'd say that. But how do we know?"

Remus intervened. "It isn't our business to know," he said firmly. "It's Dumbledore's business. Dumbledore trusts Severus, and that ought to be good enough for all of us."

"But," said Harry, "just say—just say Dumbledore's wrong about Snape—"

"People have said it, many times. It comes down to whether or not you trust Dumbledore's judgment. I do; therefore, I trust Severus."

"But Dumbledore can make mistakes," objected Harry. "He says it himself. And you, do you honestly like Snape?"

"I neither like nor dislike Severus," said Remus. Harry could have no conception of the difficulties, the mind-numbing, soul-destroying difficulties, of being an undercover agent. And please Merlin, he never would. "No, Harry, I am speaking the truth. We shall never be bosom friends, perhaps; after all that happened between James and Sirius and Severus, there is too much bitterness there. But I do not forget that during the year I taught at Hogwarts, Severus made the Wolfsbane Potion for me every month, made it perfectly, so that I did not have to suffer as I usually do at the full moon." As he spoke, he thought how odd it was that his bond to Severus Snape should have outlived his bonds to the Marauders. That he should have lived through an experience that would make him—dimly, partially, slowly—see Severus Snape's point of view. What a topsy-turvy world. How quickly we outgrow the dead, even the dead we have loved.

"But he 'accidentally' let it slip you're a werewolf, so you had to leave!" exclaimed Harry angrily.

Remus shrugged. How little that seemed to matter now. "The news would have leaked out anyway," he said. "We both know he wanted my job, but he could have wreaked much worse damage on me by tampering with the potion. He kept me healthy. I must be grateful."

"Maybe he didn't dare mess with the potion with Dumbledore watching him!" objected Harry.

Remus smiled in spite of himself. "You are determined to hate him, Harry," he said, in a gesture of sympathy. "And I understand; with James as your father, with Sirius as your godfather, you have inherited an old prejudice. By all means tell Dumbledore what you have told Arthur and me, but do not expect him to share your view of the matter; do not even expect him to be surprised by what you tell him. It might have been on Dumbledore's orders that Severus questioned Draco."

Celestina Warbeck's concert ended then, to general relief. Harry, not admitting defeat but recognizing the final word when he heard it, changed the subject. "What have you been up to lately?" he asked. Remus knew what Harry meant. He felt guilty about not writing to him; not that he could have, had he wanted to; but still—the werewolf assignment had seemed, in September, like a convenient excuse to avoid human entanglements for a season. An opportunity to be alone with his grief, or to make himself too tired too care, too tired to feel anymore. It hadn't quite worked out that way.

"Oh, I've been underground," he said quietly. "Almost literally. That's why I haven't been able to write, Harry; sending letters to you would have been something of a giveaway."

"What do you mean?"

"I've been living among my fellows," said Remus, unable to quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "My equals." Harry looked confused. "Werewolves. Nearly all of them are on Voldemort's side. Dumbledore wanted a spy and here I was . . . ready-made." And expendable, he thought suddenly. Not the Dumbledore would use him that way—Dumbledore would not use anyone that way. But the fact remained that he was, as Tonks had once said of Sirius, without parents, without children, without siblings, without wife or girlfriend . . . quite, quite alone . . .

Harry was looking concerned. "I am not complaining," said Remus quickly. He tried to explain. They sipped their eggnog and talked of other things. All the same, it was a mournful Christmas Eve.

The high point of Christmas was the acquisition of his first-ever Weasley jumper, in royal blue with a pattern of red dogs. The jumper was a size too big, and the dogs looked nothing whatsoever like Sirius (who, Remus felt certain, had been the inspiration), but Molly's gesture touched him all the same. It was the sort of thing one couldn't possibly explain to werewolves.

Christmas dinner, though enlivened by Molly's cooking, comprised a steady descent from social awkwardness through sinking embarrassment to startling political intrusions and a sudden eruption of familial chaos. It began with Ginny picking a maggot out of Harry's hair.

"'Ow 'orrible," said Fleur, with an affected little shudder.

"Yes, isn't it?" said Ron cheerfully. "Gravy, Fleur?" He promptly sent the gravy boat flying across the table; Bill cleaned up the mess.

"You are as bad as zat Tonks," said Fleur conversationally to Ron, who appeared to be enjoying the attention. "She is always knocking—"

"I invited dear Tonks to come along today," interrupted Molly quickly, in a tone that indicated that she still had not reconciled herself to her daughter-in-law-elect. "But she wouldn't come. Have you spoken to her lately, Remus?"

Remus had the unpleasant sensation that all eyes were on him. Surely Molly could be more discreet—did the children have to know too?

"No, I haven't been in contact with anybody very much," he said faintly. "But Tonks has got her own family to go to, hasn't she?"

"Hmmm," said Molly. "Maybe. I got the impression she was planning to spend Christmas alone, actually." She glared at him and he stared at the floor. Molly clearly attributed Tonks's absence to his presence. Well, Merlin knew that wasn't what he wanted—and though things had been awkward in July—he certainly would not have been averse to seeing her here tonight—or anywhere, at any time, as long as it was not in proximity to werewolves . . .

Though Remus would gladly have retreated into a silent meditation over his turkey and parsnips, Harry was already tugging at his sleeve. "Professor Lupin? Professor Lupin?"

"Harry?"

"There's a question I've been meaning to ask you."

"Yes?"

"Tonks's Patronus has changed its form. Snape said so anyway. I didn't know that could happen. Why would your Patronus change?"

Tonks's Patronus had changed its form. Tonks's Patronus had changed its form. It was less unusual, perhaps, than Harry realized—but still . . . There was nothing for it. He would have to see her. He would have to go see her. Better to know what had happened, better to know where they stood.

Harry was watching him, puzzled and expectant.

"Sometimes . . ." Remus said slowly, "a great shock . . . an emotional upheaval . . ."

"It looked big," interrupted Harry, "and it had four legs. Hey . . . it couldn't be—?"

"Arthur!" exclaimed Molly. "Arthur—it's Percy!"

So it was, they saw, as the room fell silent and they stared out the window: Percy was striding through the snow drifts to the front door, his horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the sunlight. And . . .

"Arthur, he's—he's with the Minister!"

The scene that followed was not a pleasant one to behold—the more unpleasant because Remus knew well that there was no Christmas gift Molly would have liked better than a reconciliation with Percy. Percy clearly did not want to be there. He spoke stiltedly to his mother and glowered at his father, while Rufus Scrimgeour lured Harry out, smoothly but none too subtly, for a chat in the garden. Remus made to accompany them, but Harry waved him off. He was growing up.

Eight Weasleys stood and sat around the dining table, staring tensely at one another. Fleur smiled indifferently and ran her fingers over the back of Bill's neck.

Splat! The mashed parsnip came flying from the end of the table where Ginny sat between the twins. Remus didn't see who threw it. It darted between the lenses of Percy's horn-rimmed glasses and hit him squarely on the bridge of his nose. Remus took a deep breath and shut his eyes.

Dinner ended with Molly sobbing on his shoulder and Arthur getting sloshed. When Arthur reached the maudlin stage, Remus tactfully disengaged Molly, handed her over to her husband, poured three large glasses of eggnog, and took them up to Ron's bedroom. He knocked at the door.

"Ginny, go away!" snapped Ron.

Harry opened the door. Startled, he explained, "We thought you were Ginny. We thought she was trying to escape."

"Escape?"

"From Phlegm—er—Fleur."

"Ah. Bill and Fleur are cleaning up the kitchen. Well, Bill is cleaning up the kitchen and Fleur is admiring his handiwork. Ardently. I think they'll be occupied for a while. May I come in?"

He set the tray down on Ron's night table and handed each boy a glass of eggnog. "Cheers!" he toasted.

"Cheers!" said Ron.

"Cheers!" said Harry. They both looked at him expectantly.

"I may be leaving tomorrow," said Remus.

"You're supposed to be staying till the weekend!" exclaimed Harry, failing to hide his disappointment.

"I know. I'll come back at some point, if Molly lets me. There's just—something I need to do. I'm sorry I haven't done a better job of staying in touch, Harry. When this assignment is over, you'll see more of me again."

Harry nodded. Remus looked from him to Ron and said, "Remember me to Hermione."

Ron blushed.

"Is there a spot of trouble there?" asked Remus genially.

"No. Well—she's not speaking to me."

"D'you reckon you could fix that?"

"Well, she snogged Viktor Krum, and—"

Remus burst out laughing and so, after a minute, did Harry.

Ron looked hapless and frustrated. "Well, she did—"

"Ron, I didn't say that, and I don't actually know—"

"Well, Ginny said—"

Remus clasped his hands around his glass of eggnog. "Ron, let us suppose— just suppose—that Ginny's supposition was correct. Is this worth ruining your friendship with Hermione over?"

"Well, no, maybe not, but we always get a bit shirty with each other, and then we make up, and it's okay again, so I don't—"

"Ron, one of the last things Sirius said to me, the night he died, was 'Moony, be nice to her.'"

"Nice to whom?" said Harry quickly.

"Never mind," said Remus. "Tonks. Obviously, I'm taking this completely out of context. The point is, Ron, be nice to her. You don't have to break up with Lavender if you don't want to. And for Merlin's sake, don't bring up Viktor Krum. Just—be nice to her. Hermione is your friend. Be nice to her."

On the morning of December 26th, Remus took Molly aside and explained that he had to cut his visit to the Burrow short. Molly heard this news with concern.

"You're not going back to the werewolves already, are you, Remus? I know Dumbledore wants you there, but I think you're still looking a bit peaky. You should take at least a week off."

Remus reassured her. "I just want to visit a couple of old haunts—Diagon Alley, Flourish and Blotts—and look up a friend or two. I'll come back for Sunday night supper, if I may."

"Oh," said Molly, her face clearing, "that sounds like a really good idea. We'll see you on Sunday. And if you happen to run across Tonks," she called after him, "bring her along!"

Remus apparated into Hogsmeade and walked to Tonks's flat. The street was so quiet that he thought the house must be empty, but after a minute, Tonks opened the door.

"Remus!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you. May I come in?"

She stepped aside and let him enter, then shut the door and sealed it with three separate charms. "What's the matter? Has someone been injured? Killed?"

Remus shook his head. "Molly told me you were spending Christmas alone," he explained, with a slight sensation of absurdity.

"Oh. Well, you know I can't cook. I went to the Hog's Head and had dinner there. It wasn't that bad. Lots of congenial misfits."

"I thought you had Muggle relatives who always took you in for the holidays."

"I did. I do. My parents went. But I can't spend Christmas in a Muggle home when there's a war on. Most of them don't know I'm a witch, and they certainly wouldn't understand what an Auror is. If there was an emergency over Christmas, I probably couldn't get back fast enough, and if I did, the Ministry would get stuck doing dozens of memory modifications. Not good for Muggle relations."

"And you couldn't come to the Burrow?"

Tonks smiled wryly.

"Tonks, do you have to avoid me? I know this may sound bizarre, but I've just spent three months looking forward to the off-chance that I might run into you this week. Could you possibly accept me as a friend?"

"I do consider you a friend, Remus. But if I go on seeing you, I'm going to keep doing and saying things you don't like. You told me to respect it when you pushed me away."

"Would it help if I explained why?"

"Probably not."

"Sit down. I'm going to explain anyway." Tonks sat down at the kitchen table, rapping her fingers silently on the rim of a half-finished cup of tea. Remus sat down five feet away, at the other end of the table. "James and Sirius used to talk about my furry little problem. That was nice to hear, but it's not the right way to think about it. Being a werewolf isn't just a physical condition; it affects the brain and the emotions too. Werewolves have an unusual capacity for violence."

He looked at her: silent and uncomprehending.

"Tonks, I should never get too close to a woman," he said bluntly. "If I do, I might attack."

She laughed and shook her head. "Remus, that does not sound anything like you."

"You've never seen me as a wolf."

Tonks jerked her head impatiently. "No, I haven't seen you as a wolf. I probably never will. That's fine. I respect that. I want you the 98 percent of the time that you're a man."

"Tonks, even when I look human, I have dreams about attacking people, scratching, biting, ripping throats out. It spills over."

"I know you're sick, Remus, but those are dreams. They have nothing to do with real life."

"I—my body—the werewolf in me seems to find them exciting. I—" He gestured limply. "Sexually exciting. Even when I look human. There's no saying what I might do—"

"You're not a werewolf all the time, Remus."

"Yes, Tonks, I am." They looked at each other. Her gaze was wary and hurt, yet challenging. He stood up. She stepped forward gingerly and he enfolded her in a gentle hug. She felt slender and warm and fragile. Maybe, he thought, she'll understand now. If I give her time to get used to this. Maybe we can be friends again, the way we were a year ago, the night we went for a drink at the Three Broomsticks. . . Then, suddenly, he realized she was kissing him, passionately, urgently, recklessly. It knocked him off balance as he lost himself in her taste and her touch.

Several minutes later, they broke apart.

"That's all it can be, Tonks," said Remus softly, after a minute.

She was silent. Then— "Half a loaf is better than none."

"I—I'll come see you sometime." He brushed her sleeve and was gone.