Disclaimer: I do not own them, I never will. The world of HP is the intellectual property of Ms. Rowling. Alas.

A/N: Hello again! This ficlet has no specific setting, other than occurring in the winter of 1996/7. Surprisingly, it was written entirely within a 24-hour period. Hope you enjoy it.

Bled Dry

Nymphadora Tonks was exhausted; completely, unutterably, mind-numbingly exhausted. She'd taken a double shift, which stretched to two and a half. And the Dementors were growing hungry – it could be felt all too clearly. Any scraps of hope or cheer she might've possessed had been gently, inexorably taken, leaving her bleached, bone-dry and fragile. It would take time before she could gather any of her protective airiness and unquenchable clumsiness about her again.

Nymphadora Tonks was exhausted; so exhausted that she fell onto her bed before she remembered to take off her boots. She blearily tugged at them, and then pulled a blanket around herself. She didn't drift off to sleep – she plunged the way people might off a tipping ship at sea.

It was only a few hours later that she woke, too tired and too worn to sleep soundly. Nymphadora Tonks got up and made herself a cup of tea, then sat on her bed again and looked out the window. It was cold and clear out, and the stars startlingly visible. And because it was dark, and because she was tired enough to give in, she decided to open her bureau drawer and read the letter. It was the only one she had.

Dearest Nymphadora,

I do not want to continue fighting. Please understand me – I am doing my stupid chauvinistic best to protect you. I love you so.

Remus

That wasn't what it said, of course. It was polite and formal and despairing – it was the way Remus always sounded when he was hurt and trying to keep everything from rushing out of control. It was Remus as he rarely sounded around her, but she knew him well enough to read what he really meant, even if he didn't know it himself.

And because it was dark out, because she was too heartsick not too, she pulled out her incongruous lime-green parchment and purple ink, and slowly began to fill the page with words that seemed to her better written in black.

Remus-

I am never going to send this. It is going to sit in my drawer, and get faded and worn and dusty. Or perhaps I'll add to it until I see you again, and then keep writing anyway. Or maybe I'll burn it.

I rather like that idea.

But Remus – dearest Remus – I don't think I actually will. It's as if you're almost here, now. And another thing: I never thought I'd call someone, or think of someone, as 'dearest'. It sounded fusty. But it's true – you are, to me.

Hah. I never thought I was the sentimental love-letter-writing type, either. I always laughed my head off at the drippy rubbish all my Hogwarts roommates read. But then, that was when my idea of complete happiness was marrying the Weird Sisters drummer.

You know, I can see your expression right now. Amused and a little bit consternated. Mostly amused, though.

Stop it. I was a teenager.

Oh, damn. You know you're lying to yourself. This isn't an infatuation, and I – well, I'm not going anywhere. Not if I can help it.

And because I'll never send this, and because it's late at night, and I miss you like hell, and my hands are already covered in ink, I can be sentimental. I can remember the times when you laughed, and Sirius was alive and happy. Or maybe not happy – I don't know that he ever really was. Merlin knows he got little enough practice at it in life. I hope death's kinder to him.

So, perhaps they weren't the good times. We haven't had any. I was just glad to take what we did. Even you aren't a good enough liar to make yourself believe that what went on was only born of boredom and frustration and stress. Or if you are, I'm frankly quite impressed.

No, I'm not. I want to cry, and scream, or hit something, or hold you until you admit the truth. You know I love you – you know two heads are better than one. I might knock you flat doing it, but I could watch your back and never let anyone harm you – that's happened too much before. More than anything I want you safe, the same as you want me. You are too thick to see we'd both be all right together.

And because I am never going to send this letter, I can say that things are falling apart.

It was a full moon last week. You know that, of course. And I was so worried about you – so damn worried – that I did several very stupid things on the job. It's a wonder I haven't been fired – I can't morph, I can't concentrate. I'm hardly good for anything.

You want me to be happy, without you. Well, Remus, I can't do it. Tomorrow I'll think about you, and the day after, and the day after that, and…I don't know. I just don't know, these days – I've been bleeding myself dry for you. Maybe once it seems like everything is gone I'll be able to pretend I'm fine. But, Remus, even if I try to be happy as things are, the way you wanted, it isn't going to work.

I need you back.

Nymphadora Tonks, more exhausted than she could ever remember being, put down her quill. She blinked, hard – her eyes felt gritty. Without thinking of the ink stains she was leaving on the bedclothes she curled up and slowly, achingly fell asleep.

This time she didn't wake until Puffskein-shaped alarm clock began its morning routine.

She didn't read the letter again – just put it in the drawer, which she closed. She washed the tea mug from last night and made herself another cup. She went about her day and tried not to think. The hours and weeks sped on, alternating stillness and blurring speed. But she'd stopped crying; Nymphadora Tonks was too exhausted. There was nothing left for tears, because she had been bled dry.

Finis

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