A/N: I don't own the poem, movie, book blah blah blah... Same as last time. Thanks to everyone who read the last, of course I'll keep writing
Loonie Potter - I hope two days is quickly enough ;) But I've been sooo busy... And it's still the holidays, lol. Must be pretty cool living next to a famous school!
FetishFemale - Here's the next instalment on the way to finishdom! Hope you like this one as much. Not as fluffy as the last, quite serious actually.
SeekerGirl17 - Thanks, I'm glad you find it funny. One of an author's worst nightmares is to write a Humour piece which nobody finds funny.
Loz - Wow... I think this story's getting popular, lol. Glad you liked.
Moonbugg - Thanks so much for your comments, I hope you like this instalment. It's actually slightly heavier than the last, but this story starts just a bit after Sirius fell through the veil so they're all a bit gloomy, Tonks included.
I hate your big dumb combat boots,
And the way you read my mind.
I let myself into 12 Grimmauld, after finally getting the hang of the numerous spells that guard the front door. It's almost time for the meeting, and for once I've arrived early rather than late. When the door swings open, I quickly step inside, turn and close it again. The hallway is gloomy, as always. Could I blame the lack of lighting fixtures for tripping again on that bloody umbrella stand? Probably not, since after all those falls I know full well exactly where the stupid thing is.
For a few moments, I lie on the floor, temporarily stunned. Everything was going so great today… I hadn't tripped once at the office, not even once. And I was so sure that this was going to be my record-breaking day with only a single coffee spill. As I let out an aggrieved sigh, a pair of feet step into my field of vision. He's barefoot inside those slippers, and I have an urge to pounce on them. Looking up, I meet his amused almost-gold eyes. He'd stopped worrying about the physical damage I suffer from tripping after he witnessed the 20somethingth time.
Taking his outstretched hand, I pull myself up with as much dignity as I could muster. Which is kind of hard, since my cloak has billowed open to reveal a neon orange tank top and old, ratty, tasseled jeans. Remus doesn't remark on the clothing except for a small twitch in his mouth. I take that for his approval and we wander into the kitchen. Holding onto his hand felt so natural that it was only when we were in the kitchen and Molly looked at us that I realized I hadn't let go. Wishing that my morphing skills could somehow cover up blushes, I drop his hand and dump myself into a chair.
Tutting to herself, Molly turns back to the stove. I think her disapproval was for my dropping his hand rather than holding it. I hope so… Maybe I should… y'know… tell her about this… thing… She would understand. Mmm. Looking up, I see that Remus has sat himself opposite me. He's looking at Molly too, but now he's turning to me again.
"Nice day at work?" The butterflies are here again. I look at him petulantly, and he goes on just as I open my mouth. "Obviously not then. What was it – paperwork or cleaning your cubicle?" Mmm. Does this count as knowing me? Probably not. Anybody who's heard me whining in the last two weeks knows that those are the only two things I get to do.
"Both, as a matter of fact." My voice is, thankfully, normal. Molly pointedly ignores us. I wonder if Remus has noticed this. He nods understandingly, and I have an urge to pounce on him again. "But Kingsley said he'd look around for me, so hopefully…" My voice trails off in a hopeful kind of way.
"That's nice of him. You know, he's very fond of you…" His voice trails off in a suggestive kind of way. It took a moment for it to click. When it does, I lunge across the table, my hands reaching for his shoulders. He obviously anticipated this, as he neatly leaned to the side, letting me tumble over the (luckily empty) table.
Fuming, I stand and prepare to launch a full scale tickle fight against him. There is only one thing that will save his skin now, and… my mouth drops open. It looks like he really does know me… One of his hands is held up in surrender, and the other is holding a large bar of Honeydukes chocolate. I'm about to take the chocolate and return gracefully to my chair again, when my eyes just happen to flick to his face. So, instead…
I take the chocolate. I put it on the table. I throw myself at Remus Lupin, and his yelp of surprise turns my scowl into a grin. His arms are pressed into his sides, and I know he'll keep them there if it's the last thing he does. But I also know happen to know him pretty well…
Our hands reach his knees at the same time. How on earth did he work that one out? Quickly, I reach for his sides. His arms are there first. I vocalize my frustration, and he smirks. All right, he asked for it. Last time, he knew what I was doing and quickly pushed his chair back. This time, he has no warning and I throw my full, considerable considering my size weight onto him, intent on taking the thin, graying professor with a tea addiction onto the floor with me.
It works, and my grin returns. Remus is pinned down beneath me, looking like he's just witnessed Voldemort dancing ballet in a pink tutu. Didn't read my mind that time, did you wolfie? Then we realise, at the same time, that Molly is watching us with an open mouth.
I hate you so much it makes me sick;
It even makes me rhyme.
Nighttime at 12 Grimmauld is a fairly quiet event. We have order meetings, we have dinner, then we just all sit around in the lounge and… well… lounge. No, that's not too accurate a description for everyone. I lounge. That's better. If Mr. and Mrs. Weasley are here (and they are), they're usually sitting together on an old sofa. It faces the couch I sprawl inelegantly on. In between, there are two recliners. Remus sits in one. In some moments of overwhelming nostalgia, I can see the shadow of where Sirius would spend his days, brooding and staring into the fire the recliners face.
Sirius was usually the reason for the uneasy tension in the living room. He is not here now. If he was alive, even hiding out in some cave and living on rats, we would be sharing lighthearted banter in his absence. But he's not here because Padfoot has departed in a way which none of us ever expected. Sirius was just… so… Sirius. It's hard to explain. Because of 12 years in Azkaban, I had never seen him in my teenage years, but after just a year together his persona had imprinted itself firmly into my mind. And now… I realise that I miss him, so much.
Even if my cousin never smiled, he did everything he could to help us. When he was in a good mood, that is. But we had just gotten so accustomed to seeing him around, prowling the hallways or sulking with Buckbeak, that the house seems so empty without him. I had thought it devoid of life before, but now… The silence is so thick, so dense. Maybe that's why I crave Remus' company. He makes me smile, even as I make him smile, and for a moment I can forget that this house belongs to a boy with a destiny like no other, and it belonged to a man who has been torn away from us.
Everyone has been through this so many times with me. Survivor's guilt. Nothing I could have done. But there was. I'm no Seer, but even I understand that if one thing is changed in the past, the future will be so much different. What would have happened if I didn't get hit by that particular spell? What if I had hung on for a second longer? Maybe Kingsley would have taken on Bellatrix instead of Sirius, and maybe he wouldn't have fallen through that arch. Maybe Dumbledore would have appeared right there and then, and saved Sirius. Or maybe if I hadn't been hit, I would have won that fight and maybe that stupid stinking snot Bellatrix would have been the one to fall through.
I only realise that I've been staring at Sirius' chair when the prickle in my eyes floods over and a warm Remus sits down next to me and puts an arm around my shoulders. "For the millionth time, Nymphadora, it wasn't your fault." Resisting the urge to let out a wail, I sniffle. He pats my head in an awkward kind of way. I guess he isn't used to having a 25 year old, clumsy metamorphmagus turn into a human hosepipe in his arms.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, because if my voice had been any louder I would have choked. He holds me a bit closer, and I take this as an invitation to lean my head against his chest. He doesn't object, but stops patting my head and tucks the shoulder length red hair behind my ear. "There's nothing to be sorry for, it's not your fault." His voice is calm, but it sounds tired. I get another urge to wail. Is he tired of me? Is he tired of being the kind, comforting one while I blubber away? Is he tired of this scene which, like a broken record, has come again and again?
I remember the first night this happened. Dinner had finished, and we were all in the lounge. We, meaning Dumbledore, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Kingsley, Emmeline Vance and of course Remus. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley decided to stay at No. 12 so they would be in London and closer to the things happening and keep Remus company. With a jolt, I realized that this meant Remus spent most of his time alone, holed up in this horrible house. And so I offered to stay as well. Surprised and pleased, Remus had smiled at me. I think it was then that I realized I stayed, perhaps, not so much for his sake as… well… mine.
After everybody had left, it was the four of us, sitting around the lounge and trying to make small talk. Actually, it was mostly me talking, with occasional interludes where Molly and I would discuss things, and occasional comments by Remus. He was also holding a book, and I wondered whether he was able to follow a conversation and read simultaneously or whether he was actually listening to my blathering and pretending to read. Arthur had mostly just been listening with a confused face. I think the speed of my sentences may have been a little much for him. Either that or he was just surprised at how much one could say about clothing and kneazles (I'd been considering getting a pet kneazle, FYI).
Eventually, though, my words pattered out into silence as I ran out of stuff to say. The silence was almost comfortable. Really, it was. Except for the pronounced emptiness where a dark, brooding man used to sit. My thoughts ran pretty much as they did above, and ended in the same way too. Remus came to sit with me, and under his reassuring arm the tears went away. He sent me upstairs for "a much needed early night", but I sat on my bed when I got there, fully dressed, for half an hour.
I don't know what made me do what I did, but when I realized there was nothing worth looking at on the wall, I took out my book and flipped through the pages full of photos, clippings and other random things until I reached a blank page. Obviously, the poem was mopey and bad and really pathetic. But it was the first one I'd written for a long time… And it was the first one I'd ever written that actually rhymed properly.
Every few nights I would remember Sirius, and they always happened this way. Every time it happened and he sent me up to bed, I would add a new verse to my poem. It always happens the same way, which brings me to where I was before. Is Remus sick of these repeating episodes? My eyes darken noticeably, but I resist the unconscious urge to frown.
Remus takes his arm off my shoulders and pats me on the back. "Go on, time for bed. You could use some sleep now." His voice still caries that tired streak… A streak of gray in his voice reflected by the ones in his hair. I suddenly know what tonight's verse is going to be. "Night, Remus." I reply, my voice warbling slightly but ok to use now. Reluctantly separating myself from his warm body, I stand up.
"Good night, Nymphadora." That's my cue. I start for the door with slumped shoulders. Molly and Arthur are watching me with sympathetic faces. "Night, Molly, Arthur." I nod to them, hoping they'll take it as a sign that I'm all right. "Have a good sleep, Tonks. Remus is right, you look like you need it." Do I? Maybe. With a strained smile, I force my hair to turn from the black it automatically reverted to during my thoughts of Sirius into a more cheerful violet.
In my room, I take out the book labeled "Tonks' Private Book – do not read or I will hex you" and open it to the poem. Sucking the end of my quill, I wait for the words to come and then add them.
I know that I should move on, stop this guilt,
But I dream of him under these covers of silk;
All I hope is that you don't tire of me,
Before I am free of these memories.