Remus had his hands in the soil. He pulled up one onion after the other, his fingers sore from the effort. It was the only useful thing he felt he could do these days, other than memorizing the chapters on birthing in The Magic of Pregnancy. He was trying to prepare himself for the birthing process he'd be forced to witness, despite his deep discomfort with all it entailed.
"You've seen all of this and more," Tonks had said, gesturing at her pelvis. "Many, many times."
"I have no memory of it," he'd replied. "I wouldn't know what to do."
"You look between my legs and watch your son take his first breath. That's what you do."
The conversation ended there and hadn't been revisited. Most conversations with Tonks were like this; they'd agreed to sit down multiple times a day so he could ask questions about their relationship and life together, but the more he learned, the worse the picture became of what the other Remus had done to her.
"How did we meet?"
"We met at the first meeting for the Order of the Phoenix in July '95. I tripped into your arms and you caught me. You turned red, like a tomato. I thought you were adorable."
He doubted that very much, but didn't say so.
"Why did you join the Order?"
"Mad-Eye. He trusted me. I miss him," she'd replied, wiping tears from her eyes. She was always crying at the littlest things. She blamed it on hormones but he wondered how hormones could lead to near-constant tears. "He died in battle last July. If my dad hadn't…maybe our boy would be called Alastor."
Remus was silently thankful that his son wouldn't be called Alastor.
"What was our first date like?"
"We didn't really have one. We sometimes got food before or after our overnight missions or Order meetings. We – you, I suppose – never called those dates."
He saw her smile slightly, perhaps thinking of the memories, before the faint grin disappeared and was replaced by a deep frown.
"How did we get married if we didn't have dates?"
Tonks's expression had never looked so forlorn. She'd replied, "I told you how I felt one night and you pretended not to understand. You wouldn't talk to me for months. We avoided each other. We managed to get back on speaking terms and every time I tried to convince you we could be together, you'd give me some bullshit reason. You were 'too old, too poor, and too dangerous' for me."
"That's all true," he'd agreed stupidly, and she'd stormed off, refusing to talk to him for the rest of the day.
It took the better part of a week for him to piece together a history with Tonks: they'd met, become close friends, and fallen for each other. Remus thought he wasn't worthy of her and went off to be a spy at a werewolf camp. That mission failed miserably, and in the meantime, he and Tonks argued over the impossibility of a relationship. Dumbledore was killed, Remus haphazardly proposed, the two were married, and then the pregnancy happened. Remus ran off, thinking he'd ruined their lives, and returned less than a day later, repentant and ashamed.
Every part of the account left more questions than answers. That early April day, less than two weeks before the due date, Remus pondered why Tonks waited for him – the other him – after all he'd done to her. He couldn't picture anyone who would bother to endure all that for someone like him.
Especially not someone who was as talented, attractive, and young as Nymphadora Tonks.
"How do they look?"
Remus glanced up from the ground to see Tonks looking down at him, her face partially obscured from where he sat, underneath her enormous belly.
"Good," he replied, showing off an onion about the size of his fist. "Magic helped grow these."
"I know. You planted them about four months ago and did some charm work to make them grow out of season. You didn't want us to go without food, in case we ran out of money."
Remus's forehead creased. He hadn't asked after the details of their financial situation, assuming it to be dire if they were living so simply.
"Have we?"
"Have we what?"
"Run out of money?"
"No," she scoffed, easing into a garden chair with a groan. "Mad-Eye left me everything he had. We've got enough to last us a decade, maybe more, if we keep living like this. We barely had to buy anything for the baby. Molly gave us almost everything."
Remus felt a burden he didn't know he had come off his shoulders. If something happened to him—or he was tossed out of the house—Tonks would have enough for the baby. Though still an abstract entity in his head, he didn't like the idea of leaving his child behind with nothing.
He put his hands back in the dirt, finding a stray carrot. The silence made him uncomfortable. He sat back on his heels, seeing Tonks staring absentmindedly at a bird perched on the fence.
"How do you feel today?"
"The usual," Tonks said, her eyebrows lifting slightly and her vision coming back into focus from the sudden question. "Achy. Tired. Uncomfortable. Ready to get this kid out of me. Ready for this bloody war to be over."
Remus nodded, unable to think of a better response. It didn't feel like a war to him. Before, the first time, he lived underground with werewolves, hungry, cold, and desperate for his friends. As they lost more people, his friends felt distant, possibly untrustworthy, and by the end it had all fallen apart.
His situation with Tonks didn't feel like war. He didn't quite know how to manage his unusual situation, but he had food, a warm place to sleep, and two people who talked to him. Tonks, outside the ends of their conversations, liked to talk at him about whatever was on her mind. He found he didn't mind the chatter, but she'd get annoyed if he didn't respond, and when he did respond, she would storm off in a huff over his disagreement or perplexingly unacceptable answer. Andromeda didn't say much—she kept to her room or soothed Tonks—which left Remus to read or navigate the strange dynamic of living with two somewhat strangers.
It was uncomfortable, but not dehumanizing. They didn't seem to trust him fully—he didn't blame them for that anymore, after hearing what the other Remus did—but no one really did trust him. Perhaps it was part of the lycanthropic curse.
Around them, birds chirped and the April breeze brought petals flying through the air. The earth didn't give a damn about its inhabitants' problems, Remus thought, struggling to unearth a stubborn bulb.
Tonks's voice interrupted the chirping. "How are you?"
It was Remus's turn to feel startled. He had an onion in one hand and a spade in the other.
"Er, fine, I suppose."
"You don't have any questions for me today?"
"Should I?"
Tonks scrunched her eyes shut. Her hair flashed from its previous magenta to a softer pink.
"I like it when you ask me things."
Remus bit back his bitter retort. From previous experience, she might have liked him to ask questions, but she certainly didn't like what his responses were to her answers.
"You look like you're thinking hard, Remus. What are you thinking about?"
He brushed dirt off from his trousers and decided to answer truthfully.
"This war feels different than before."
"How so?"
"I'm not in a werewolf camp, for one," he answered, carefully observing her features. Mentions of werewolf camps tended to end poorly for him. "I'm here."
"Would you rather be at a camp?" she asked flatly, scuffing her shoe against the ground.
Remus shook his head and returned to unearthing produce. "I never wanted to go in the first place. It's the only time I felt useful to the Order."
"But you did it anyway. Twice."
Something heavy hung between the two of them that Remus couldn't identify. He was growing weary of being accused of things he couldn't remember and might not ever remember. He'd begun to accept he'd be a father, and he wanted to accept being a husband, but it was getting to be too much, taking responsibility for someone else's mistakes.
If this war didn't kill him, he couldn't fathom a future in which the woman before him would want to remain married to him.
"This is the part I don't understand," Remus blurted, wiping the sweat off of his forehead, his temper increasing by the minute. "Why'd you bother?"
Tonks narrowed her eyes at him, a sure sign her temper had risen too. "You mean why bother with you?"
"With all of it." Remus dug into the earth with his spade and pulled out another onion. He gave up on cleanliness and sat in the dirt, letting a patch of April sun shine on his face. "Why didn't you give—?"
"—because I—"
"—how? How could you possibly love the man who did all those things to you? Have you no self-respect?"
Tonks sputtered, visibly stunned at Remus's words.
"Why would you give up your life and future for a man who treated you so poorly?" Remus demanded, avoiding her gaze so he wouldn't see her cry. "What possessed you to destroy any chance of a normal life? Are you daft? What happened in your life that—"
Remus's tirade was cut off when Tonks's crying went from quiet, angry tears to outright sobs. Her face was scrunched up, her nose wet, and she gasped as the sobs tore through her. This wasn't like the usual tears she had for everything lately. This was unmitigated anguish, and it was his fault, not the other Remus's.
Andromeda came rushing out of the house, wand raised and panic in her eyes. She shot Remus a dirty look upon finding her daughter sobbing alone. She held Tonks's head against her chest, whispering soothing words, while completely ignoring Remus.
Determining he could take no more, he cleaned up what was left of the gardening and left mother and daughter to their own devices. He knew where he wasn't wanted or needed, and it continued to baffle him that they demanded he stay.
He dashed up the stairs and began collecting the few things he had. He didn't care that he had a son on the way, didn't care he had a wife he continued to hurt, and didn't care that a war was going on. He'd find a way to make himself useful or die trying.
He was halfway down the stairs, with his traveling cloak draped sloppily over his shoulders, when he ran into his father.
"Dad?"
Lyall pursed his lips, scanning Remus from head to toe.
"Andromeda was correct, I see."
Lyall's face was hard and set. His jaw was clenched and his arms were crossed over his chest. It was if Remus was a little boy, ready to be scolded over a childish mistake.
"I'm leaving," he challenged, taking another step down. Lyall stood firmly where he was, still as a statue.
"Son, go back upstairs. We need to have a chat."
Remus tried to push his father aside, tired of being treated like a child.
"Get out of my way—"
"—Remus, go upstairs. Now."
Remus's chest heaved. From where he stood he saw Tonks, still crying, her face blotchy and tearstained, with Andromeda at her side, glaring daggers at him. There was no way to leave the house without making another scene and embarrassing himself further.
Feeling his cheeks flush and feeling what shred of pride he had remaining disappear, Remus turned around and trudged back upstairs with his father following closely behind him.
He returned to the room he'd slept in, and tempted as he was to slam the door in his father's face, he held that immature desire in and made room for his father.
They sat in silence for several seconds. Remus fidgeted, wringing his hands anxiously, while his father had his hands clasped together, sitting calmly at his side.
It was Remus who broke the silence.
"Why are you here?"
"Andromeda sent me a Patronus. She saw you through the window, packing your things."
"I thought it was dangerous to send Patronuses."
"It is," Lyall replied, with a sigh. "She thought it was an emergency."
Remus scoffed. "Me packing is an emergency?"
"You leaving your pregnant wife during wartime is an emergency," Lyall said coldly. "How could you?"
At once, all the frustrations, fears, and repeated injustices came pouring out of him.
It's not fair she's furious with me. I can't remember any of this!
I told her she was being daft for wanting me. I know I'm right!
I've got nothing to offer. She knows it; I know it. Why is she making me stay?
Her mother isn't any better!
Lyall listened and nodded, letting Remus talk until he was rasping and exhausted. He fell back against the bed and covered his face with his hands, overwhelmed by his predicament. A different silence fell over the two of them; this one was emptier.
"You ought to apologize to her," said Lyall, glancing back at Remus. "That was no way to talk to your wife, let alone another human being. I'm very disappointed in you, son. Your mother would've been disappointed in you, too."
Remus felt the anger return, furious with his father for trying to guilt trip him.
"I understand you're angry," Lyall continued. "But try to see it from her perspective. She's ready to burst with a baby, she's been cooped up in this house for almost nine months, and suddenly her father dies and it's as if she's lost her husband, all in one fell swoop. The poor girl's been through enough."
"It doesn't give her the right to be an arse," Remus said quietly.
"Nor does it give you the right to do the same."
Remus sat up and looked out the window. He chided himself for keeping the curtains open; how could he have been so stupid as to keep them open so Andromeda could see what he was doing from the garden?
"You have two options," Lyall stated, staring ahead at the wall opposite the bed. "You can either apologize to Tonks and work on the opportunity that life gave you—" He tapped on Remus's wedding ring, his eyes turning slightly downward at it. "—or, you can sulk in this room until your son is born. You and Tonks will learn to raise your boy apart from each other, but if I know you, your son will see more of me than he sees you."
Remus turned back to the window. Any child would be better off without a werewolf for a father.
"Your mother could've left us when you were bitten," Lyall said softly. "I gave her the choice to leave."
Remus turned to face him, astonished at the revelation.
"I told her you wouldn't be the same. You wouldn't be our Remus anymore. You'd be someone else-something else. I told her our little boy wouldn't exist anymore." Lyall closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. "She told me that you would always be her son, no matter what happened. Moon after moon, your mother and I learned you were the same little boy we'd always adored. She didn't let my mistakes ruin our family. Don't let your mistakes ruin yours, Remus."
Remus swallowed the lump in his throat. He let the guilt finally wash over him from all he'd said and done to Tonks. Though it was true she could've been kinder, he'd done nothing to try to understand how she was feeling or how he'd hurt her.
"How?" Remus croaked, as the clouds moved past to reveal the sun.
"Apologize to her. Then, try to get to know her as you would any other person. She's a lovely girl, son," Lyall said, almost tenderly. "She loves you very much. Your mother would've adored her."
Remus nodded, his father's advice seeming pointless. How was he to apologize to her if she wouldn't talk to him, as he suspected that after his attempt to escape, she wouldn't? How would he get to know her like any other person if she was carrying his son?
"She'll calm down." Lyall squeezed Remus's shoulder reassuringly. "Tell her she's beautiful. Don't let a day go by without telling her how beautiful she is."
Remus snorted. "She's not going to believe me."
"She might not, no," Lyall replied pensively. "It doesn't mean you oughtn't try."
"What else?"
"If she's anything like your mother when we were expecting you…she'll be uncomfortable. Offer to rub her feet."
Remus tried not to roll his eyes. He couldn't imagine Tonks forgiving him enough to want him touching her. His other self had done enough to her body.
"Treat her like you would a friend who needs help," Lyall suggested. "Before you were married, I knew she was special to you."
"You did?" Remus asked, surprised he'd mentioned her to his father.
"You wrote me three times between the summer of '95 and '97, when you asked for your mother's ring." Lyall rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You mentioned her in every letter."
"I feel like an absolute knob." Remus fell back against the bed and covered his face with a pillow. "I make everything worse."
"You haven't had it easy." Lyall patted Remus's knee a few times. "Give it a try. Your family comes first now."
Remus quietly agreed to his father's ideas. He had nothing else left to lose, and everything to gain.
If he lost his chance, at least he could tell his son one day that he'd given it his all.