Disclaimer -- I do not have: a nice, reliable pair of khakis, a high vertical, the rights to Harry Potter or knowledge of how to play Poker. I do, however, have a lazy pet rabbit named Captain, whom you may pet all you wish. (His fur is quite soft.)
There isn't much time to spend waiting before another assignment comes, just enough to breathe air not riddled with the smell of death and come to a house where nothing green glows above it. It is only the eye of the storm; no one can tarry as long as they would wish to. The fire is far from cheery, but it keeps the living room warm. When she comes in, there are no others to welcome her with a tired nod of acknowledgment.
Her face tells the story of her experience and her eyes explain that her mouth will not be filling in any holes. She has all ready begun to cry, even before a single word is spoken, but her tears keep getting quieter that there may come a time where she could cry unnoticed. But it has not come yet.
She sits on the floor, where she can avoid seeming hostile while still being alone. She hugs her knees to her and her face hides in the tender crook of her arm.
She is too young for this. When she speaks, her voice is low. "Remus, who was the first . . ." but she can't finish the question. Many dark memories appear but are cast aside, because nothing could possibly be as important as the young woman falling apart at this very moment while she stares into the fire. It is better not to speak yet, to let her work it out on her own for just a few more seconds. ". . . his . . . face," she whimpers to the flames. "He was so scared, so mindlessly scared . . . Remus, can you imagine? He didn't even know who they were. He didn't even know . . ."
From a closer viewpoint, the new lines in her face are much clearer, the circles even darker. No one sleeps in this place anymore; all there is to do is to wait. She is cold to the touch, but does not shy away from it or move any closer. She might have turned to stone. "And you found them?"
"Yes," she answers, as embittered as any no. "Moody did."
Her train of thought is easy to follow and frightening. A story must be told. "Tonks, when I heard about James and Lily –" the voice still cracks after all this time, and she unlocks her hands so that they can search out another. "I wanted to kill Sirius Black with my bare hands."
"I understand, Remus," she says solemnly. Her face turns and she is still crying when she murmurs, "It's okay." And no one remarks of the absurdity of this reassurance, hands just clutch each other even tighter and she moves a little closer, urgent to make her point clear. ". . . it's only that . . . that it never seems to balance out – a life for a life for a life . . ."
And she cries a little harder, perhaps for the unsuspecting man and perhaps in utter hopelessness, and lets herself fall forward, the warmth of her face pressed into the roughness of old robes surprisingly sudden. Her eyes should be all out of tears by now; she shouldn't have the energy left to have a hard cry. Then the thought rings clear as a bell: she doesn't. Arms pull her even closer, tight enough so she knows . . .
The words are almost lost in her gasping sobs. "Don't . . . let . . . go." A hand threads itself through her mousy hair that sometimes is as enticing as when it was vibrantly pink. It must be said, even though two more eyes are crying, it must be said now.
"I love you." And it would have been all right had she not quite heard. But she moves even closer and lets out a small sigh and almost stops crying. It is her turn to be the comforter now, letting two broken hearts beat together, at least until it is time to return to the storm.
I do so love Remus/Tonks. Really and truly. I hope I didn't marr it too much with my clumsy interpretations. Keep a look out for the third, but as of now untitled, installment, which will hopefully make you joyful instead of mournful.
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