Remus and I have become intimate.

I know it sounds daft, as we've been having sex for weeks. But in the beginning, there was still an invisible barrier between us, thin as gauze, so unnoticeable that sometimes I was able to ignore it. But an obstruction nonetheless.

I worried that I was pushing him into something.

He worried that he was overstepping his bounds.

But when he told me that he loved me, something seemed to change in him. That is, aside from the usual bunk that happens after a couple passes that hurdle in a relationship.

He just seems much less guarded with me.

I know he's not ready to talk, or even think about anything beyond right now. Truth be told, neither am I. And certainly, there has been no discussion about buying a thatched cottage and a big lazy dog, producing a brood of happy offspring, and baking bickies all day.

Thankfully, I'm not really a wash and dry kind of girl anyway.

But I'd be lying if I didn't admit to savouring every occasion of his lowered inhibition. Like when he allows himself to use the word need when we make love. And when he absent-mindedly strokes my hair in front of Sirius, or takes the seat next to me at dinner or a meeting, without the hesitation of someone who cares if anyone sees him do it. The other night at dinner, he absentmindedly ate something off my plate and I thought Molly was going to burst.

I've been careful not to speak of it, to call attention to his openness. Merlin knows if I make him think on it too much, he might start second-guessing himself.

And for his part, Sirius has done the same. There was much ribbing in the beginning, but he seems to have gotten used to the idea of Remus and me by now.

"Tonks, are you with us?" Remus asks, startling me out of my thoughts. Speak of the devil…

"Sorry," I mutter, as he returns his attention to the large pot boiling on the stove. "I was just thinking about how much I have to do for work."

Sirius snorts, as he most always does, when he suspects I am - as he puts it - having a Remus Lupin flight of fancy. I stick my tongue out at him, and return to my assigned task of setting the dinner table for the three of us.

Remus and I are staying the night here at number twelve, a habit that is becoming more and more frequent of late. When I have to work the late shift for the Department, I often just go back to my flat, as it is so much closer to the Ministry. And there have been a few really wonderful nights that Remus and I have spent alone together there.

But mainly, we stay here.

With Sirius.

Although he denies it, I think Remus is afraid to leave him alone for long. Since the hols, Sirius has been far more brooding than he ever has been, and outside of Order meetings, he divides his time equally between drinking and sleeping.

Everyone's noticed and everyone's concerned. Even those in the group who are less than patient with Sirius's …eccentricities. It's the only thing on everyone's mind, and so naturally, it's the only thing nobody mentions.

Tonight it's just the three of us, so instead of the charade of pretending there's no problem, we opt for the charade of pretending the problem is more humorous than it actually is. This is our usual routine. And it begins with Sirius asking if I've been to market.

What this actually means is, have you picked up more firewhisky, as I'm almost out?

"Not today, Sirius. Remus said he had dinner covered, so I didn't stop."

"Covered, my arse," he grumbles, and proceeds to rummage out a bottle of wine from the pantry and hunt for a corkscrew.

Remus shoots me a look over his shoulder. He's going for amused, but his concern in thinly veiled. It doesn't change the way we are, though. The usual banter among the three of us.

Over the same delicious beef stew Remus made me a few weeks ago, Sirius asks me, "You getting tired of him yet? You know, between the sheets? Cause I'm thinkin' it can't be long before the older man thing plays itself out…"

I smile in spite of myself, at the rather vivid memories that spring to mind. Tired of him? Not so much.

"Sirius, if I didn't know better I'd think you were jealous. But I'm not so sure of whom. You seem terribly interested in what Remus is like in bed." Sirius chokes on his wine.

Remus chimes in, "Always did have a thing for me, come to think."

"Egad, Tonks. Now that's disgusting. I'm sure he'd love to get his hands on me, but you forget I've seen this man at his worst, and let me tell you, it's not a pretty sight."

Remus's expression sombers at the double meaning of at his worst. We all catch it in the same beat.

"Aw shite, Remus. Not what I meant, mate." It's not either. But it kills the mood anyway. Nothing like the inadvertent mention of lycanthropy to take the fun out of a perfectly good homophobic teasing session.

The rest of the meal is spent in empty chitchat, teasing each other without the heart or energy to actually take the piss.

Some time later, after Sirius has finally gone off the bed, Remus and I make our way up to his room. It's the larger of our two small rooms. The bath, however, is still not roomy enough for two, so we take turns washing up and cleaning our teeth before sliding into the smallish bed together.

His long frame takes up a good deal of the bed, but I don't mind, because it's an excuse to wedge myself into the crook of his arm. As if I need an excuse.

"Does it bother you that we never go out?" Remus asks me out of nowhere.

"Out?"

"You know: dinner, theater, parties - things normal couples do?" I'm not sure what he's expecting me to say, so I just blink at him. Like some blinking thing.

He clarifies. "All we do is stay in and have sex."

I can't help but smile at his earnestness. "Isn't that my line?"

He chuckles softly into my neck, which tickles a bit.

"I could morph. We could go out." I offer.

I feel him nod gently. "If you want," he says. "Although it's not the same if I can't look at you across a table." Sigh.

"Remus, I'm perfectly content with what we've got going on. Please don't worry that I'll tire of it."

He doesn't answer me, just looks contemplative. I decide to ask him something I haven't brought up in a while.

"Remus?"

"Mmm?"

"It's nine days until the next moon."

I can feel him stiffen ever so slightly behind me. "Tonks, I can't…"

"Why not?" I ask, trying hard not to get my back up. Which is met only by a heavy sigh.

"I just can't. I can't have you involved."

I turn now, to face him. "Remus, seriously, why not? What are you afraid of?"

He can't meet my eyes. "Tonks, if anything ever happened to you at my hand, I couldn't bear it." I actually snort at this, which may be the result of too much time with Sirius. He quirks a brow; doesn't see the humour.

"Remus, I don't know if I've mentioned, but, er – I'm an Auror. I've faced transformed werewolves before, and without the benefit of Wolfsbane."

He shakes his head, unable to find the words for his continued resistance.

I sigh, too, resigned. "Alright, then. I trust your judgment Remus, and I refuse to become a nag, so I won't raise the issue again."

"Thank you-"

"But."

"Tonks-"

"Just let me say this, please?

"I just hope you'll think about this some more. You say you trust me and yet you won't let me into this part of your life. I'm a hell of a lot more capable of handling a crisis – should one present itself - than Sirius, especially the way he is lately…"

Remus is looking at me differently now, as he takes it in.

"Remus, I think maybe my safety's not the only thing you worry on. Is it because you're ashamed of my seeing you that way?"

For a second I'm scared to death he's going to be angry at the assertion, but he only says quietly, "I'm quite sure you don't know all my fears yet, love."

"Maybe not, but I know that you always get like this after Sirius says something fucking stupid. He didn't mean anything by it."

Remus turns to me again and says evenly, "There's always a reason for what people say, Tonks. But usually it's not the reason they think."

He still seems distant, but it doesn't stop him from gathering me to him and turning us into the pillows to finally sleep. And for that, I'm grateful.

0o0o0

Kingsley and I are working together again today. We can't exactly abide by Dumbledore's request when the Department assigns us to work together; it'd look too suspicious to object to working together.

So we've developed a new sort of technique today, maintaining as much distance as we can manage while still staying in each other's line of vision. It's quite effortless to pull this off here, in Billingsgate Market, amidst the crowd and within the narrow aisles.

And, easy or not, it's sort of our only option; I couldn't have morphed or I'd have forfeited my contacts down here, what few I have.

Three separate fish sellers, wizards who work among the Muggles, have filed complaints to the Department in the last month. Seems that some DEs have been lurking about, putting the press on the vendors, helping themselves to cashboxes, using scare tactics to induce fealty to their cause. It's the typical 'coorperation in exchange for protection' arrangement. They're nothing if not conventional, Voldemort's cronies.

So I weave through the throng, pretending to be browsing the goods, while waiting to confirm the identity of one of the complainants. Over the din of the hawking and haggling, I hear a buyer say, "Oi, Tom, what's good today?"

Taking care not to snap my head up too quickly, I raise my eyes to survey this Tom, and see that he matches the decsription in my case file: tall, dark-haired, looks to be in his early forties. He's the one I need to speak to all right - Thomas Hogan, reportedly the most vocal of the three vendors who have requested Ministry intervention.

I make my way closer to the counter and ask under my breath, "Mr. Hogan?" And then, quickly,"Try not to look startled, I'm an Auror."

He doesn't miss a trick, the wily bugger. "Hallo, there, young lady. Whaddya fancy today? Carp? Cod? Halibut?"

"Can we have a word outside?" I ask, and he nods, indicating the large door to my right. I leave him to finish his negotiation, and take the scenic route to said entrance.

The prawns at the first counter I pass from look amazingly fresh, and I consider briefly picking something up before we leave. Remus promised to cook again. I can't decide if it's because he fears my cooking, or if he's still wooing me. Either way, I'm not complaining.

I wander out onto the loading dock, and pretend to be looking for a fag in my jacket. I spot Kingsley at the far end of the landing, chatting with another fish seller. He nods impercetibly to me to acknowledge my presence.

"Gotta make this quick if ya don't mind, my assistant gets a bit overwhelmed by the morning rush," Tom says, as he comes up behind me, wiping his hands on his apron.

"Of course, Mr. Hogan," I offer, "I know it's a bad time to chat, but it's better cover when it's busy." He inclines his head in agreement, and casts a quick glance to either side. It's clear he's been watching his back lately.

"So, we've received complaints from three merchants, yourself included. Are you the only three to be approached?"

"Oh, no! Only three that's being noisy about it. There are others, but I ain't finking on no one. They wanna hide, that's their concern."

He assumes a defiant stance at my indication to continue.

"But I don't care what happens to me. I ain't living in fear no more. My wife died in the last war, she did. We stayed out of it, kept our noses clean, still they came for her. She was a Muggle, ya see."

"I'm sorry for your loss. How did it happen?"

He looks past me, remembering. "One day, one of them comes in here, nosing around, makes a comment to her and me, about blood traitors, and well, she got tired of it. Had a proud streak in her. She asked them to leave…"

He turns his eyes to me again and continues. "She went to the bank to deposit the day's take, and she never came back. Ministry said she was probably mugged for the money.

But I know what really happened… I know."

Damn, what do you say in response to that?

I place a hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Hogan, I know you don't have long to talk. Can you tell me about your recent encounters with dark wizards?"

He sighs heavily, looking so much older than his years, and begins to describe the recent events at Billingsgate.

0o0o0

Back at the Ministry, sitting at my desk, I can't help thinking about Thomas Hogan and his wife. He's a fairly young bloke to be cast in the role of a widower. If he lost his wife in the first war, they can't have been more than newlyweds when she was murdered. There were so many things running through my head during my interview that I wanted to ask, but couldn't.

Did they have any children? Did he remarry? I hope against hope that maybe he pieced together some sort of happiness and moved on. That he's not just another example of a life completely stolen by Voldemort. Lately I'm beginning to feel like the best way to stick it to him is to keep starting over. Refusing to be defeated.

"Tonks?" Kingsley has approached my desk without my seeing him. I must have really been lost in thought. I give my face a little scrub with my hands to wake myself up.

"Yeah, Kingsley, what's up?"

"You alright?"

"Just tired, I suppose. And maybe feeling like we're backpedaling a bit. The Department, and…you know… everyone…"

"Yeah, I know." He looks around to see if anyone's within earshot. The floor's fairly deserted. "Listen, I haven't really had a chance to talk to you since you and Remus started, er..."

It's really endearing how he's searching for the right word, and so I tease him a bit, feigning offense. "What are you suggesting, Shacklebolt?"

"Tonks…" he says exasperatedly. I can't keep up the charade, and I laugh at his awkwardness.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Kingsley…it's obvious."

"Fairly so, yes. Anyway, I just wanted to say that, well…people can be difficult to take sometimes. When they think they know who you should care about and who you shouldn't."

Oh. This is a race thing, apparently. It suddenly occurs to me, even though I've met her about eighty times, that his wife is not black. I never thought on it before. Funny that.

"And if you ever need to talk. I know a thing or two about it." Now that's he's gotten it all out, he looks a bit embarrassed.

"Thanks, Kingsley. I appreciate that."

"He's a good man, Tonks, and there's a real difference in him, since you've been…you know…"

"Shagging?" He shakes his head at me, like he can't believe I said it. Since when has my being blunt been a shock?

"TONKS!" comes Scrimgeour's voice from across the floor, killing the levity. He's approaching my desk in a rage. Kingsley scurries away. Cheers, mate.

"I just heard from the office that you are three weeks behind on your Incident Reports!"

Oh, shite. "Sir, I-"

"Stop right there. I don't even want to hear it. Don't think that just because I gave you a pass after your injury, you can take your sweet time from now on. Your well check was almost a month ago. I want all your reports on my desk in the morning. No excuses."

"Yes, sir."

"Up through today's assignment." What!

"But, sir, we usually have a week to file."

"Tough shite. Get them done." And he storms out, leaving me in a right stew. Grrr.

God, I can't stand that man. Aside from being a hard ass without reason or consistency, he's astonishingly dim for someone who's running a Ministry department. Which is disturbing, in the sense that it probably indicates he'll go far.

0o0o0

Before I even reach the door of my flat, I can smell dinner. Garlic, maybe…I can't really tell…but it smells marvelous.

In contrast, I fear I may still smell of fish guts, and I warn him as such as he comes to greet me. He pays no mind, though, kissing me as if I haven't seen him in a week.

"Remus," I say, squirming out of his arms, and yet incapable of concealing my smile. "I need to get a shower and then I'm all yours."

"Go on, then," he says. "We won't be ready to eat for an hour, at least."

"Perfect," I call over my shoulder from the bedroom, "Scrimgeour's on my arse to catch up on some reports. I'm going to get that started before we eat."

Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at the small table in my bedroom, that functions as both desk and dressing table, trying to motivate myself to bang out the reports and be done with it. The smell of dinner, accompanied by Remus's gentle humming from the other room, conspire to make me think of a million things other than the shifty character I apprehended last week.

Bored, I look down at my quill, lazily dribbling ink on the parchment.

Saturday, 18 January, 11:46 p.m. — A distressed witch firecalled the Department to report that a Wizard (or possibly a Muggle) was trying to break into her home at 36 Fishpool Street, St. Albans, Herefordshire. Upon my arrival at the scene, I discovered a male Muggle, unconscious, in the complainant's alley beneath her window. The suspect was aged approximately 35 years, of medium height and build, with dark brown hair. Upon Ennervating, he was uncooperative with this Auror, and had to be restrained using standard Incarcerous . He was taken to St. Mungo's for detoxification spells and processing, including Obliviation…

What more is there to be said? Boring assignment, boring report. It'll have to suffice. Problem is, I've got six more just like it to churn out.

"How's it coming, then?" Remus pokes his head around the doorframe.

"Meh," I grumble. "I hate this part of the job. I've got to get some of these done tonight, though. I'll catch fresh hell if I turn up tomorrow without them." Resolutely, I pull out a fresh piece of parchment and open up the file of the next case I need to document.

"I'll just deliver this then, and leave you to it," he says, placing a large glass of red wine on the table next to me. I take note of the large bowl and long stem of the glass and turn my face up to him in the mirror in front of me.

"These aren't mine."

"Are now. I appropriated them from Sirius. He's got service for forty people in that bloody house. No one will miss these few."

He's flashing me such a mischievous smile, you'd think he'd gotten up to real trouble. Of course, for Remus, nicking some wine glasses is quite a naughty endeavor.

"Remus Lupin, you are a petty thief. I should be writing one of these reports about you."

"Speaking of which, you'd better get back to it," he reminds me, turning to leave. Which elicits a groan and a pout from me.

He chuckles and pauses to give my shoulders a quick squeeze, presumably to restore my motivation. But it has quite the opposite effect. His hands are large and warm through my damp dressing gown, and my eyes automatically flutter shut at the heavenly kneading of my neck muscles.

And I keep them closed, because for some reason I feel like if open them I'll been giving him permission to stop. Which I most certainly do not endorse.

He doesn't stop, though, just continues to apply yummy pressure to my sore shoulders, and push his thumbs firmly down either side of my neck.

An "oh…" escapes me, and I feel him lower himself to his knees behind, to more easily attend to the task.

"You're all in knots. What did you do today?" he asks quietly. "Never mind, maybe I don't want to know." And he continues to rub away any remaining thoughts of Auror incident reports, Scrimgeour, and the like.

Soon, he pulls my dressing gown back slightly to bare my shoulders, making his job a bit easier. Just as I feel my body begin to wilt, relaxing into his touch, I feel his lips against the nape of my neck and straighten back up again slightly.

"Sorry," I feel him say against my skin. "I'm distracting you from your work."

"What work?" I murmur.

His forehead gently resting against the back of my head, he chuckles a bit. "I couldn't help myself. You smell wonderful, and you're still wet…"

With torturous slowness, he slides the dressing gown further down, off of my shoulders, and lets it drop in a heap around my waist where it's tied.

I place my palms flat on the table in front of me in anticipation of what will happen next. But I don't have to wait long to find out. He slides both hands down my back, and then to my sides, and finally finds a perfect fit for his fingers within the grooves of my ribs, just below my breasts. He might be supporting some of my weight by now, which is convenient, because when he starts to pepper little wet kisses down my bare spine, it gets tough not to crumble into a heap.

My body responds instantaneously, arching to encourage his ministrations.

"Remus, you do realize that I'm not the most patient of witches."

"Yes, I'm aware of that," I hear him say, from where he is kissing the very base of my spine. I feel the bold flick of his tongue darting out to tease the tender flesh just where it begins to part on my arse. Oh God, is it warm...

With a bit of a whimper, I continue, "And you're driving me mad."

He straightens up then, places his head on my shoulder, and looks at me in the mirror.

"Actually, love, my intention is to drive you mad."

His hands are still just under my breasts, fingers gently tickling the soft flesh over my ribs and belly. I watch in the mirror as he slowly raises his just his thumbs to brush across my hardened nipples.

With a moan, I let out the breath I'd been holding, and I struggle to meet his eyes in the mirror again. His chin is tucked into my neck, and his voice is low and hoarse.

Without breaking our gaze, he says, "And when I'm done with that, I'm going to make you scream. Preferably my name, but I'm open to other ideas…"

And then the sudden sensation of him firmly kneading my nipples, and his tongue behind my ear sends a rush of heat to my very core, rendering me virtually incoherent.

Fuck the reports.

I reach up and weave my hands into his hair, transfixed by the sight in the mirror in front of us. The way he's looking at me, touching me…

"God, I love you," he whispers into my ear. And he pulls me, all of me, off of the stool, and down into his lap on the floor, where he assaults my mouth with his. It's desperate, the way he's kissing me, and it's so hot I'm lost immediately.

I kiss back with equal fervor, gripping his face with my hands, but he pulls away and gently lays me down on the floor. Next he removes the dressing gown, which is still gathered about my waist, and tosses it aside. The hard wood against my back is cool, and I am still wet, and it makes me shiver.

But it's nothing compared to the sensation of his mouth on my tummy, and his long warm fingers gently parting my thighs as he lowers himself further down, down, kissing and nipping along the way. When he reaches his destination, I call out into the room.

I realize dimly that my hands are probably holding onto his hair a bit too tightly, and I should be worried about hurting him, but right now I couldn't be arsed. The things he's doing with lips, tongue and fingers are all I can feel and think about. When he lowers his head a bit further and gives one long stroke with his tongue, all the way from my arse back up, I can't stand it any more and I wriggle out of his path.

"Wha-"

I cut him off with a kiss. Tackle him, actually, to the floor. And when I start relieving him of his clothing at a frantic pace, he laughs out loud at my impatience.

In fact, he's only gotten his trousers as far as his ankles when I decide I'm finished waiting, and I push him onto his back and straddle him, taking his full length into me in one thrust. The low groan this elicits from him is a nice reward for my effort.

Watching him settle himself back on the floor as he catches his breath, the way his hair is all over the place, I think he's dead sexy. Pride already an afterthought, and aching so badly with need that I feel like I might die, I seek out his hands from where they are resting on my hips and pull them up to my breasts.

He immediately obliges and begins to tease them, gentle strokes at first, but soon harder and more forcefully. My body rocks against his roughly and I can hear the physical contact being made between us.

Soon I'm lost in the rhythm we're setting, but I hear him murmur something, and so I open my eyes. "Sorry?"

"Touch yourself," he repeats, looking up me with darkened eyes. This is the part I love most – that he doesn't hold back anymore. He tells me what he wants, what he needs to see and feel to get off. It's brilliant. Coyly, I take my time sliding both of my hands down between my thighs and touch myself, feeling a rush of excitement when my fingertips graze the base of his cock where it enters me.

He moans in appreciation, and watches me eagerly as I show him what he wants to see.

It's all too much, and I allow my head to roll back as I continue to grind against him, my own fingers working feverishly against my clit, while his hands find my breasts, my mouth. I can hear him coming, and I feel the urgency of his thrusts as he lifts himself clear off the hardwood to drive into me. I try to take my time, holding my own climax off as long as I can so I can watch him, but really it's pointless. Ultimately, it's the sight of him coming undone that sends me right along with him. I come apart just as he's sitting up to catch me in his arms as I shudder and curse into his neck.

When I catch my breath, I raise my head and meet his eyes, and we both start laughing.

"What?" I ask, touching his cheek, putting my lips to his smiling ones.

"Bloody hell, Tonks, if a Death Eater doesn't kill me, you just might."