Disclaimer: Everything is J.K. Rowling's, yup.
"Oh, she was such a charming young lady. . ." He turned the taps off, as the tub was practically overflowing. "All in the height of her bloom. . ." The water was nice and hot, and he was already beginning to turn the color of a boiled lobster. "And I being a dashing young coachman, I drove her ten times 'round the room." He slumped down so that his aching shoulders were submerged, and water slopped onto the floor.
He had a terrible voice, which sounded even worse as it echoed off the bathroom tiles. Couldn't carry a tune to save his life. No matter, nobody could hear him - Tonks had still been asleep when he'd gotten up.
The bathroom had once been luxurious: clawfoot tub, elaborate tilework, brass fixtures - the faucets were in the shape of dragon's heads. But of course there had been a coat of grime over everything, many of the tiles were missing, and the brass was flaking off the fixtures. Under Molly's supervision, they had scrubbed and polished as best they could, but there was still a permanent ring around the tub and there was nothing they could do about the rust stains or the mildew. The second floor bathroom was the same way.
As in many old houses, there was no shower fixture. But the tub was nearly big enough for him to stretch out in, and he was fairly tall. With a book to read and some wine from the supply in the kitchen (the Blacks had excellent taste), he could happily stay here for hours, and often did.
He was currently lacking in drinking and reading material, however, so when the water began to cool, he figured he might as well get on with the whole personal hygiene thing. He slid down until his head was underwater, amused himself by blowing bubbles until he couldn't hold his breath any longer, and then sat up and began to wash himself. He no longer paid much attention to how thin he'd gotten or the array of new scars he'd acquired since living with the werewolves. The sores were healing at any rate, and Madam Pomfrey had mended his broken toes. Only one injury was still red and raw: the bite on his calf. It had been that way for thirty-three years.
After getting out and drying himself, he wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to "his" room. The bed was empty. He thought she must've gone upstairs to the other bathroom. Or maybe she had gone home - but no, he saw her discarded jeans by the side of the bed. Good. He was just buttoning a pair of moderately clean trousers when the door banged open to reveal Tonks in her T-shirt and knickers (white with multi-colored polka dots), her hair now a rich shade of royal blue.
"Ooh, I thought you were still in the bathroom." She began to back out of the room, but he beckoned her in. She sat on the bed next to him as he rummaged around for a T-shirt. He could sense her staring at him, and was simultaneously embarrassed and rather pleased. He tried not to stare back. "How are you feeling?" she asked.
"Erm. . . tired. Those scratches look better."
"Yeah, I think the whiskey helped."
"I'm surprised it didn't poison you. By the way, I don't think I'm going to be up for much today, so if you're planning on sticking around, I hope you won't be too bored. I'm probably just going to lie on the couch and read."
"Do you mind if I stay? I've got nothing planned this weekend, so. . . "
"Of course I don't mind. I was. . . err, hoping you would, actually." It was hard for him to say things like that. Embarrassing. The words seemed to stick in his throat. She looked pleased, though.
He pulled on one of Sirius' over-large jumpers, and catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the dresser, he realized he looked like a small boy wearing clothes his parents expected him to grow into. He combed his wet hair with his fingers and contemplated arranging it over his bald spot. No, that would look ridiculous. When he turned away from the mirror, he saw that Tonks had pulled her jeans back on. A pity, she had nice legs. She was making blue fur grow on the backs of her hands. "What's the song you were singing in the bathroom?" she asked.
"It's called 'Coachman's Whip.' It's traditional. I like that sort of thing. . . old songs, ballads and what-not. . . although that's not really a ballad. . . "
"Do you like any music made after 1400?"
"I like the Beatles." She rolled her eyes. "And the Kinks, and the Jam, and Elvis Costello. Despite appearances, I'm not quite as uncool as you might think. That fur is very fetching on you."
"You like it?" She sprouted fur all over, and briefly resembled a miniature Hagrid dipped in blue paint. She was showing off, of course. "You know what?" she added, as she made the fur vanish. "I'm starving. And I don't want pot noodle."
"I haven't got any money, you know that."
"But I do. I'm going to buy bacon and eggs and bread and coffee, and we're going to have a lovely cholesterol-filled breakfast. Or lunch, rather," she added, glancing out the window, where the sun was high.
He hated the idea of being the recipient of charity, but the mere thought of bacon and eggs made his stomach rumble. "I hope you can cook, then, because boiling water is about all I can manage."
"Err. . . I can make toast. . . "
"Excellent. Well, if we're lucky, the fire damage should be minimal."
"Your glass is always half-empty, isn't it, Remus?"
"Not always."
She smirked, looking eerily like Sirius. "I'll be back in a little while."
He heard her trotting down the stairs, heard her curse as she tripped over the loose runner rug at the base of the staircase, and then heard the door open and slam behind her. The house suddenly seemed very quiet, and not in a good way. He settled down on the bed to wait for her to return, as his stomach growled again.
"So what's this one from?"
"Paper cut. Horribly painful. Nearly bled to death. That's the real reason I resigned from Hogwarts, I didn't want to risk another one. . ."
"No, really."
"That one is from. . . good lord, what was his name. . . something stupid. The Dark Minion of the Night, or something like that. They all had ridiculous names. I believe Fenrir Greyback's name is actually John Watson, though I've got no proof of that. Anyway, we got in a fight over a leg of lamb that I had stolen from a butcher's shop."
"So who won?"
"Believe it or not, I did. Best meal I've ever had."
"You must be relieved not to be hanging around with that lot anymore."
He shifted position, and pulled a pillow out from under his back, throwing it on the floor along with his T-shirt and jumper. "It had its appeal. Living without conscience, morals, or ethics. . . everything is cut out for you. That's the real reason they do what they do - they're lazy and they use their lycanthropy as an excuse."
"You should talk to Madam Pomfrey about getting your nipple back."
"It's still there, you just can't see it very well. Anyway, what has it ever done for me?"
"Well, for one thing -"
There was a knock on the door. "Oh, bugger!" In trying to get off of him and off the couch, she fell and hit her bruised knees again. "Ow!"
"Oh dear." His rumpled head appeared above the collar of his T-shirt. He worked his arms into the sleeves and offered her a hand up. "I'll get it, if you want."
"No, I can do it. . . ow. . ." She limped to the door, and he followed, pulling his jumper on. "Wotcher, Hermione!"
"Hello, Tonks. Hello, Professor Lupin." Hermione, in a flowered blouse and jeans, shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Her thick hair was pulled back in an untidy ponytail, and she looked tired. Her glance flickered over the scratches on Tonks's cheek, but she blessedly said nothing about them.
"Hello, Hermione. I'm not your professor anymore - you can call me Remus."
". . . Remus. Your jumper's on backwards."
"Oops." He retreated into the drawing room, and Tonks ushered Hermione in. "What's that smell?" she asked Tonks as they walked past Mrs. Black's blessedly silent portrait. "It smells like something's burning."
"We burned breakfast." Actually, it had just been the bacon that burned. Remus ate it anyway, claiming that cinders were his favorite dish.
"So what brings you here, Hermione?" Remus had gotten his clothing sorted and was sitting on the couch. Tonks sat down next to him. Hermione sat in Sirius's old armchair (covered with black dog hairs - Remus said he hadn't the heart to clean it). She still looked uncomfortable.
"Harry wanted me to come," she said. "He's with his aunt and uncle right now. I told him he ought to talk to you himself, but he doesn't want to come back here. He wanted me to talk to you about the stuff that Mundungus Fletcher stole."
"Ah, yes. I hope Harry doesn't blame me - I was with the werewolf pack at the time."
"No, he doesn't. . . but he wanted to know what had been stolen, and if you don't know, he wanted you - us - to try and find out."
"Hmm. I know about the items in this room, but that's all. There isn't exactly an inventory of the Black family heirlooms around here. Maybe Tonks is more familiar with them."
"Because I'm a Black? Come on, I've never been here before last year. My aunt wouldn't let a half-blood set foot in here."
"Sorry, I forgot." How could have he forgotten something like that? Maybe last night had addled his brains. "Well, I'll send an owl to Harry and tell him I'll have a look around. He also might want to tell Kreacher to actually start talking to me instead of shrieking about werewolves every time he sees me. If anyone knows what's been stolen, it'd be him."
"Oh, of course. That's a good idea." Hermione looked down at her hands and shuffled her feet.
"That's not the only reason you're here, is it?" Remus inquired.
"No. . . it's . . ." She looked up. Her eyes were filling with tears. "My parents want to take me out of school."
"Because of Dumbledore?"
"Yeah." She sniffed. "They're Muggles, you know, so they don't know everything that's going on. When I went home, before the wedding, I had to tell them. . . I didn't feel right not telling them that my headmaster was. . . dead." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I didn't tell them that my potions master had done it, though. They don't understand about Vol- about You-Know-Who, but. . . they think it's not safe for me to go back. Even if Hogwarts does re-open next year."
"We're all in danger, anywhere we go. Hogwarts is probably the safest place you could be right now."
"I tried to tell them that, but they don't understand. But I told them about the NEWTs, and how I really want to take them and. . . they said I could have a private tutor." She looked at Remus hopefully.
"You want me to be your tutor."
"You need a job, and they're willing to pay, and you're the best teacher I've ever had, and it would make any difference about you being a werewolf because you wouldn't be staying with us, so my parents wouldn't need to know about that."
"You know, I'm not that well-rounded. I'm not an expert at Potions, or Transfiguration, or Herbology. . . I'm not bad at Charms, but still. . ."
"But you passed your NEWTs in all those things, didn't you?"
"Twenty years ago. And not telling your parents that I'm a werewolf doesn't seem very ethical to me."
"No, it's not." Hermione thought about it. "But. . . maybe you could be my tutor just for Defense Against the Dark Arts? And Charms? I mean, if I can't talk my parents into letting me go back to Hogwarts, or if it doesn't re-open. . ."
"Should that be the case, and if you inform your parents about my condition and they are still willing to hire me, I will be your tutor for those subjects."
"Thank you so much, Profe - Remus."
"You're very welcome." He smiled, and Hermione smiled back, wiping her tears away with her fingers.
"You're still staying with the Weasleys, aren't you?" Tonks asked. "Has everyone recovered from the wedding yet?"
"Mrs. Weasley had a bit of a nervous breakdown after the guests left, but I think she was just relieved that it was over." She dug a tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose. "She said she cried when she saw you kissing at the reception."
Tonks barely remembered it. It had been their first passionate kiss - their first passionate anything - and she'd been drunk as a lord. She did recall that he had tasted like champagne, and that there were bits of wedding cake in his mustache. And a whole lot of people applauded afterwards.
Remus had gone slightly pink, but continued to smile in his genial professor manner. "So we're now a spectator sport for the Weasleys?"
"Well, you shouldn't have been snogging in public. Fred and George were betting on how long you'd be at it."
Remus turned even more pink. He glanced over at Tonks, who once again was struggling to keep from laughing, and raised his eyebrows. "Do you need a drink of water, Nymphadora?"
"No," she managed to sputter. He was so stuffy, she loved it.
Hermione got up. "I should probably go." Her gaze flickered between the two of them, and she looked to be on the verge of laughter as well. "I'll tell Harry what you said. And thank you for offering to help me, sir."
"Remus,."
"Remus. Oh, and Mrs. Weasley says you're both invited to dinner tomorrow night. She's making beef stew."
"Tell her we'll be there," said Remus.
Tonks got up to walk Hermione to the door. Stepping out onto the front steps, Hermione turned around and said, "By the way, Fred won the bet. Six minutes." She grinned and shut the door before Tonks could respond.
to be continued