A/N: This fic is set in early 1998. I felt like trying something a bit darker and less fluffy with regards to her and Remus' relationship. And I DO NOT own these people, or the lyrics at the top, or the poem referenced (The title of which I cannot recall, but it is by one of the lyricists of the English version of the musical Les Miserables. I believe it goes 'Nothing I say, nothing I do/Nothing I am can make you love me more.'). And that was most likely much more information than was needed.

Let Her Be

Let her cry
Let the tears fall down like rain
Let her sing
If it eases all her pain –
Let her go...
And if the sun comes up tomorrow
Let her be.

--Hootie and the Blowfish

Nymphadora ought to have known this was coming.

She'd never really believed in fairy tales, and an almost-fairytale romance in the middle of a war was more than a little strange. But she had thought, never the less, that if she somehow made Remus understand, well, everything else would somehow be all right too.

She was the young idealistic one, anyway.

Some ideals have been shattered; you don't reach twenty-five as an Auror without seeing horrors most of the population prefers not to think about. You don't reach twenty-five as a Metamorphmagus without learning some of the nastier sides of human nature. You don't reach twenty-five watching your unbalanced, innocent, tragic, unfinished cousin die without a trace or fall in love with his quiet friend the werewolf without understanding that life is horribly, horribly unfair.

You don't watch your great-aunt's portrait screaming at her dead son, you don't watch your own aunt fighting and killing her own family for the Dark Lord – lord of what? – without seeing that blood, blood binds everyone, and they may die for it.

Sometimes it's not personal. Muggle-born, half-blood, those are labels. But this part wasn't about blood, but family.

Dear Aunt Bellatrix had finally made it clear just how much a traitor she thought her sister was.

And the Dark Mark shone above the modest middle-class home where Ted Tonks had brought his pure-blood, rebelling, family-less bride when they'd been married a few years and didn't think there was anything more to fear.

She hears the report sent by a panicked neighbor while at work, and doesn't say a word.

"Tonks, Smythby, you two look into this, not that it sounds like there's much to do..."

She takes her orders and is gone.

The house is empty, she knows, and Nymphadora walks straight through the open door while Smythby is obliterating the Mark. He doesn't notice she has left.

They aren't in the hall. Nymphadora Tonks walks up the stairs to her old bedroom, and stands in the doorway. Aunt Bellatrix has taken time to destroy every sign that she existed in this house.

So Nymphadora turns – she's so very tired – and walks to her parents' room.

Andromeda was wearing a blue blouse and grey skirt; Ted had already changed into pajamas. The walls are scarred and burned; they fought. There is blood everywhere.

She'll remember this until her dying day.

And Nymphadora Tonks wakes up crying.

There's a slight noise, and the door opens a crack. It's Remus, of course. Just Remus, who for the past week and a half has been sleeping on her fold-out couch because company is painful and being alone is even worse.

"Nymphadora?"

She sits up, wiping her face with the sleeve of her nightshirt. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry. Dreaming, that's all."

Remus knows about dreams, and he comes and seats himself beside her. It's quiet; there's nothing to say. She knows he too lost everyone, once, but just now talking is beyond her.

It hurts too much to speak, and neither of them falls back asleep that night. They sit and wait for the dawn so they can start their days again.

Days pass, weeks. It's still quiet. Nymphadora understands Remus more then ever, now, but she simply cannot say it. It's easier to help than be helped, she finds. He didn't want to be, either. Now she knows.

And Remus hates to see her this way. He'd hoped that there had been enough pain in his life – that he would not have to see her go through this too. They both know all of this, but neither can speak. There is nothing he can say, nothing he can do. He can only watch, and let her be. A line from a Muggle poem he read years ago runs through his head. Nothing that I am...

They are caught like flies in amber, they are preserved exquisitely in ice that looks like crystal.

They wait – times are dark, dark – and the quiet goes on. Silence is painful; but they are together, and this does not hurt so much as speech.

He can only let her be.

Fin

Must I really elaborate upon the utter spiffiness of reviews? (Speaking of which, responses to then will now be in the review system, since I have a vague notion this site's banned them in the body of a story.)