Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns (just about) everything.

I forgot to mention this earlier, but concrit and Britpicking are most welcome. Thanks in advance.

The landlord looked up from where he was smoking on the front steps as the girl from 21-A swept out the door, clutching a newspaper in one hand. "Hello, Nina," he called after her. "You all right?"

She turned around. She was wearing her usual T-shirt and patched jeans, and her hair was blue today. He had no idea how she managed to change hair colors so often, but several of his other tenants were nearly as frequent, so he supposed there must be some way. Maybe they wore wigs. "Wotcher, Amir. Rent's due tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Tomorrow is July 1st, so indeed it is. What's that on your cheek?"

"Oh. . . my friend's cat scratched me." She smiled, although it looked a bit forced. She was gripping the newspaper like a weapon.

"Are your classes over for the summer?"

She looked blank. "Yes - yes, they're over. How's Naureen? Is she getting big?"

"Oh, yes." He mimed a swelling belly. "Three more months."

"Nice. Well, I've got to go. . . I'll see you later."

"Good-bye." She clomped off down the street in her big black fuck-off boots. An odd girl. Nice, but odd. She had told him when she moved in last year that she was in her first year at King's College London, although he had never seen her with any books and she had never mentioned what she was studying. The only other thing he knew about her was that she'd been in hospital for a long time last year, just before she moved in here. She seemed to be away a lot of the time, although she was generally good about paying the rent - and she always paid in cash.

Once he'd gone into her flat, with her permission, to replace the batteries in the fire alarm. It was a perfectly ordinary student flat - or rather, a bedsit, one of the smallest in the building - with music posters all over the walls, a brightly-colored knitted bedspread, the usual amount of clutter, socks and papers and that sort of thing, and a small fishtank on the windowsill. The only strange thing was the photo tacked to her refrigerator. It depicted two thin, shabby-looking men, one with long black hair and an agreeable grin, the other with a prissy mustache and thinning grey-brown hair. He glanced at it idly, wondered which of them was her boyfriend (he guessed the bloke with the long hair), and climbed up the stepladder. When he got back down and glanced at the photo again, it had changed. The long-haired man had crossed his arms, and the man with the mustache was pursing his mouth as if trying not to laugh. As he watched, the long-haired man cocked his head and smirked, and he grabbed the stepladder and left as quickly as possible.

It was his tenants that kept his life interesting, but it was that photo, more than any of the other odd things about the girl in 21-A, that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew rationally that it had to be some weird new technology - holograms or suchlike - but it had looked so real. His granny had told him about the djinn, the spirits that Allah had made from smokeless fire; being a superstitious old bint, she probably would have said the girl was a witch who kept the spirits trapped in that photograph. He told Naureen about it and she just laughed and told him he was imagining things.

Ah, well. He had other things to concern him. He'd just found out that the girl in 17-B was actually not a girl at all, and he was strongly suspecting that the man in 10-A was selling something nasty and illegal out of his flat, judging by the dodgy characters who came to visit him. But his mundane worries never prevented him from treating the girl in 21-A with a bit of extra respect. You never could be too careful, these days.

"Goddammit, bloody fucking hell!" Tonks slammed the door behind her and stormed downstairs into the kitchen. "Remus, look at this! Remus? Remus, wake up, you're drooling."

Remus looked exactly the same as he had an hour ago. He had been sitting at the kitchen table counting silverware, and had fallen asleep with his head in his arms, a forlorn soup spoon still clutched in one hand. When Tonks shouted, he looked up and blinked blearily. "Harry, I told you, do the Patronus Charm."

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm not Harry. I've got much bigger tits, for one thing."

"Yes, so you do. Sorry." Remus yawned, exposing his still-elongated canine teeth, and rubbed his eyes like a small child. "So what's all the shouting about?" Tonks tossed today's issue of The Daily Prophet in front of him. "'Ministry of Magic calls for renewed ban on unauthorized cauldron imports'?"

"No, down at the bottom of the page."

He looked down and raised his eyebrows. There was a long pause. "The life and achievements of Albus Dumbledore, first in a 16 part series. By Rita Skeeter. Oh, for fuck's sake. 'Greatest wizard of the century.' 'Beloved headmaster'. . . 'Foremost in the wizarding world's battle against You-Know-Who'. . . "

"They spend years calling him a senile delusional old fart and now that he's dead, they're falling all over themselves to kiss his arse. If The Daily Prophet was any more full of shit, they'd have turds coming out of their eyes."

"That's a fairly accurate assessment, I'd say. But if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure Albus would find this highly amusing."

"Remus, let's move to Paris. We can get a flat on the Left Bank, and I can work for the French Ministry of Magic and you can teach at Beauxbatons. We can eat fois gras and crepes and drink champagne. And we'll never have to deal with Rita Skeeter or the bloody Ministry here ever again."

"That sounds like an excellent idea. Unfortunately, Beauxbatons isn't in Paris and the French are no more likely to give a werewolf a job than the British. They call us loup-garou in France. It sounds much more romantic than 'werewolf,' don't you think?"

"Oh, go ahead and piss on my parade." She sat down next to him and leaned her chin in her hands.

He yawned again (remembering to cover his mouth this time), checked his watch, and gave her a curious look. "You've been here all afternoon?"

"I was going through the cupboards upstairs and then I remembered I needed to go home and feed my fish and pay some bills. So I've been gone for a little while."

"Do you still live in that place near the Ministry?"

"Nah, couldn't afford it anymore. I moved last year, after. . . well. It's a nice place, you should come over some time."

"I'd like that."

She hesitated. "You could come over now, if you like. I've tidied it up a little. And you haven't been outside all day. It was actually sunny today, can you believe it?"

"I would like to, honestly. But I'm afraid I'm in no shape to Apparate."

"We could take the Tube."

He looked wistful. "I haven't taken the Tube in ages."

"You enjoy taking the Tube?"

"I like people-watching." He shrugged. "And the names of the stations. And the noise the train makes when it arrives. When I was small, it was the most exciting thing in the world to go up to London with my mum and take the Tube. She couldn't Apparate, you know, because she was a Muggle, but I didn't mind."

"Well, let's go, then."

"Let me get my shoes."

Soon he was locking the front door with a large intricate iron key, and they were walking off towards King's Cross. He walked slowly, with a hint of a limp, and she had to slow down her usual brisk pace so he could keep up with her. He stooped a little and she felt his hand fumbling at hers. She took it.

The day was fading, but the sky was still clear and the air was mild. Everyone seemed a little dazed by the nice weather - people were walking aimlessly, looking up at the sky as if expecting it to cloud over at any minute, and cars cruised past with their windows open, blaring Top 40 radio or dancehall or classic rock. Remus's hand was cool and dry in hers, and he lifted his face to take in the breeze which blew his hair back and ruffled his over-large clothes. In the daylight, he looked a little less peaky, and the fresh air brought some color to his pale cheeks.

People were looking at them. An old lady selling flowers clucked and smiled, and a punk girl with green hair who could've been Tonks' little sister gave them a knowing glance as they walked by. She felt giddy, like she was walking several feet off the ground. Remus smiled down at her and squeezed her hand, and she smiled back. "Nice day for it, eh?" croaked a decrepit homeless bloke sitting on a bench nearby. "Yes, it is," replied Remus serenely.

She had to "loan" Remus some money for the Tube. He promised he would find some way to pay her back. "It's only a pound," she said as they went down the escalator. "Anyway, you're going to have a job soon, remember?"

"You don't really think that's going to happen, do you?"

"You never know."

The train was crowded with end-of-the-day commuters, and they had to sit across the aisle from each other. There were so many passengers standing up that she could only get occasional glimpses of him. When the crowd shifted at Leicester Square station, she saw that he was doing the crossword in a Muggle newspaper which had been on the seat next to him, a charming furrow of concentration between his greying eyebrows. Unfortunately a large woman's arse blocked her view after only a minute or two.

Her landlord was still sitting out on the front steps of the building, a big textbook spread across his lap. He was about thirty or so, with thick black chin-length hair and lovely black doe-eyes. "Oi, Amir - you still out here?" she called.

"Yeah, I thought I'd take advantage of the nice weather while it lasts." He looked up at Remus and his eyes widened slightly. "Who's this?"

"Oh, this is Remus - he's my - err - my -"

"I'm her boyfriend," said Remus. They shook hands. Tonks noticed that Amir seemed to want as little physical contact with Remus as possible. Remus paid no attention - she figured he was probably used to it.

"So you're my boyfriend now?" she said when they were upstairs in her flat.

Remus had cast himself into her overstuffed armchair as if he had been hiking across the Sahara for three days. "Is that the wrong term? I suppose it ought to be something like 'partner' or 'significant other' or something like that, right? We used to say 'going steady' back in school."

"No - I mean, I don't know. I was just wondering if that means it's official."

"It's been 'official' for a while now, don't you think?"

"I don't know. We've never really said anything about it."

"Do we have to make a speech or break a bottle of champagne or something? I don't know how it works these days. I'm a bit out of practice, you see."

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. "You piss me off sometimes, you know that?"

"I wouldn't be a proper boyfriend if I didn't piss you off once in a while." She said nothing, and he leaned forward in the chair. "Let's make it official, then. I, Remus John Lupin, am your boyfriend. And you, Nymphadora Tonks, are my girlfriend. We can either shake on it or sign a document in our own blood, whichever you prefer."

"I'd rather go for the champagne, personally."

"You're never satisfied, are you?"

"Never. Is there room for one more in that chair?"

"I think so." He shifted to one side, and she squeezed herself into the small gap between his hip and the arm of the chair. She put her arms around him and leaned her head against his chest, his jumper scratchy against her face and smelling of ashes. He stroked her hair, and they were both silent.

The gibbous moon stood up in the clear sky like a giant's eye looking down on the city. London shifted in its sleep, the sound of passing cars, sirens and running feet disturbing its peace. The dome of St. Paul's looked like a ghost castle in the distance, silvery-gray against a sky tinged orange with city lights.

He wasn't in much of a position to appreciate the moon's beauty. The small sliver off the side of the moon's face merely meant that he had another 27 days until the monster came into him again. But he had to admire the way the pale light illumined the curve of her back and the hollow of her spine as she lay sleeping, the blanket slipped down to her waist. She was still here - after watching him screaming and howling on the full moon, after seeing his scars, after watching him fall asleep and drool on the kitchen table, after his clumsiness tonight (he was, after all, out of practice). He didn't understand it, but he had finally accepted it.

They'd left the window ajar, but the flat still smelled incongruously of kebabs. He was losing track of how much money he owed her. They'd gotten a bottle of crap champagne (or "sparkling wine," rather) as well, more like wine-flavored soda than anything else, and he'd forgotten to ask how much it cost. They could talk about it in the morning.

It hadn't really been all that bad tonight. She didn't seem to have high expectations, and took what he had to give with more grace than he thought she possessed. It would get easier with time and trust. He hoped so, anyway.

He had to go to the loo. She stirred a little when he got out of bed, then rolled over and was still again. He looked down at himself while he used the toilet, and rubbed his ruined right nipple absent-mindedly. He was thirsty too, but there were no cups in the bathroom, and only an animal would drink from the tap. Feeling a little odd walking naked around someone's flat, he padded into the kitchen and turned on the light.

The cups were above the sink. They were all made of plastic, due to her penchant for breaking things. He filled one at the sink and then noticed the photograph on the refrigerator. He reckoned it had been taken at his birthday party last March, since they both looked drunk and he was wearing the Weasley jumper he'd been given for the occasion. (A nice sober shade of charcoal gray, and no bloody letters on the front, thank goodness. Molly knew him well.) "Hello, Padfoot," he whispered. "How's tricks?" The Sirius in the photo smiled and waved, but of course there was no reply, and never would be.

He drank his water, turned off the light and got back into bed. "Remus?" she murmured. "Where are you?"

"I'm right here."

"Oh. . . good." She seemed to fall asleep again. He saw gooseflesh on her skin, and with a bit of selfish reluctance, pulled the blanket up over the moonlit landscape of her body.

It was a Weasley blanket of course, a Christmas gift. That woman never stopped knitting. He made a mental note to ask her for a lesson or two - it would pass the time at Grimmauld Place quite nicely, and the acquisition of a feminine skill certainly wouldn't harm anyone's impression of his manhood, which was no doubt already rather poor. He liked the idea of handmade things, care and love and attention going into every detail. All that work and time for the sake of keeping a person you cared about warm - a lofty goal.

It was three in the morning, according to Tonks's little digital alarm clock. Somewhere out there, Harry was no doubt lying awake and thinking of the tasks to come. Hermione was having one of those anxiety dreams where you find yourself naked in class, taking an exam you never studied for. The Weasleys huddled together for shelter. You-Know-Who was making plans. Severus Snape dreamed of death and punishment, choking on his own guilt. Bellatrix Lestrange - whom he scarcely regarded as human - was staring at her lost beauty in a scratched mirror. And although he'd never been one to believe in an afterlife (unless you became a ghost, of course), he liked to think that his lost friend and lost mentor were sharing a bottle of imaginary wine and laughing at the follies of the living.

And here in this bed, protected by love, their own little ship sailed on through the night. He didn't know what Tonks dreamed about, but he would have plenty of time to find out. He himself rarely recalled his dreams except for the occasional outstandingly weird one, though he knew that sometimes he dreamed as a human, sometimes as a wolf. He remembered telling Sirius about a dream which involved wristwatches from the future and interdimensional gurus who walked around with parasols. "What do you think it means?" he asked, and got precisely the answer he expected: "It means you're barmy, Moony."

Well, all right, then, maybe he was. But then, he suspected that some of his favorite people were also a bit mad - in a good way, of course. Anyone who fell in love with a werewolf would have to be a bit off their nut.

Earlier tonight, as they lay awake together, he had asked her if it hurt when she changed. "You always make a face, like this," he said, wrinkling his nose. "It looks rather painful."

"It's not," she said. "I just need to concentrate, that's all."

"Really? It never hurts?"

"No, not at all. It feels a bit odd sometimes, but it never hurts."

The idea of change without pain was a new one for him. Change of any kind, in his experience, was never pleasant. The inconstant moon wrote out that truth in the sky every month. It was written on his body and in his heart, and in the empty halls of Number 12, Grimmauld Place where his best friend had once walked like a ghost. But the change that had brought him here, in this bed beside this woman, though it had been long and slow and arduous, ultimately hadn't hurt at all. Though it felt a bit odd sometimes. He had some lessons to re-learn. He hoped Tonks would help him with that.

The moon was setting. It cast its light through the fishtank and created rippling reflections on the wall above the bed. The shadows of the tank's two inhabitants, a pair of goldfish named Zig and Zag, moved through the reflections with spectral grace. Watching them, he finally fell asleep.

to be concluded