A/N: Summary: Lupin's lot in life, assigned to him by a cretin called Greyback, has ensured he will never experience lasting joy. He's been afforded glimpses of it, sometimes fooling him into thinking it will be permanent, but the happiness slips away.

It's fickle and never belonged to him in the first place.

This is an angsty glimpse of Remus Lupin's holidays, set during the Half-Blood Prince.

...

Mix a pinch of spice with a dash of charm

And a sprinkling of romance

They're why my cauldron full of hot, strong love

Is worth it, take the chance

Remus stares at the fire with a glass of firewhisky in his hands. Molly's wireless is playing Celestina Warbleck, taunting him in his loneliness.

He knows he shouldn't be bitter. It was his choice to leave her. It was his choice to continue ignoring her letters and messages.

It is also his choice to stew, restless and wretched in his solitude, knowing fully well that there can be no other way for him.

Nymphadora has a bright future. She deserves someone young, whole, and healthy. She deserves better than an aging, destitute half-breed.

The wireless's volume goes up. His hand twitches, almost dropping the glass to the floor as Warbleck's tune surrounds him.

Oh, come and stir my cauldron

And if you do it right

I'll boil you up some hot, strong love

To keep you warm tonight

He feels Molly's eyes on him from the kitchen. He knows she expects him to ask after the changed Patronus or the feisty Auror's well-being. He does neither of these, instead retreating within himself and ruing the decision to come to the Burrow.

He would've been fine at the encampment. Hungry and cold, but not guilty. Dirty and exhausted, but not brooding. Despairing and ashamed, but not a coward.

Re-entering the world of humans, with their soft comforts and unbridled freedoms, reminds him that they would never understand the sacrifice he has to make.

His lot in life, assigned to him by a cretin called Greyback, has ensured he will never experience lasting joy. He's been afforded glimpses of it, sometimes fooling him into thinking it will be permanent, but the happiness slips away.

It's fickle and never belonged to him in the first place.

Misery and longing belong to him. They are his oldest friends; why abandon them, when they'd always welcomed him with open arms? Everything else passes into nothingness.

Oh, such thrills await

'Cause together, we are ready to proceed

Drink from my cauldron full of hot, strong love

It's all the magic you'll ever need

"Remus," calls Molly, startling him. He turns his head reluctantly. She holds out two lumpy parcels. On her right sits a large brown paper bag: the attached tag indicates it's meant for a mutual acquaintance. "The one on your right is yours."

He takes the parcel and opens it. Unsurprisingly, a burgundy, hand knitted jumper stares back at him.

"Thank you."

"Will you be seeing Tonks before you go back to the camp?"

"No."

Molly's forced smile falters.

"I see."

"When you see her," he replies, with an air of practiced nonchalance, "give her my best."

He dons the jumper, only partly to show his gratitude. He doesn't admit how badly he needed something to keep him warm.

"Thank you for everything, Molly." He grabs his patched, dusty cloak and wraps it around himself. He's run out of firewhisky and the kids have gone upstairs. It's time for him to leave the human realm.

"Until we meet again."

Molly takes one last glance at him, tsking disapprovingly, but pats his arm gently and wishes him a good night.

He strides to the boundary outside the Burrow from which he can Apparate back to the encampment.

The biting, freezing wind whips his cloak around. The new jumper blunts the worst of the cold but he shivers, no longer enjoying the coziness of the fire. It's the kind of cold that he feels in his bones, threatening to settle there permanently. Warbleck's lyrics come back to haunt him.

I'll boil you up some hot, strong love

To keep you warm tonight

Remus regrets refusing Molly's request to bring the jumper and parcel to Tonks. It would've been a perfect excuse to see her - or to be near her, he thinks, correcting himself. He could've dropped the items off at the Hog's Head, where he knew she was staying. He didn't have to see her - he could've tried to take a glimpse of her through a window or inhaled her faint scent somewhere in the vicinity.

The wind whistles around him. He wraps his cloak around his tired body, full of food for the first time in recent memory, and turns on his heel.

The village of Hogsmeade is quiet. The Three Broomsticks is lit and full of patrons. Madam Rosmerta hosts a village Christmas party every year for the locals. Remus sees a few Aurors through the window, judging by their robes. He remembers Tonks isn't alone in patrolling Hogsmeade. There is no pink head of hair inside the pub, but he wonders if she's chosen another color for the festivities.

He feels foolish, squinting into the pub to find the witch whose face, voice, and kindness he can't get out of his head.

He puts his hand in his pockets and glances up at the windows above the pub. Perhaps she's up there with a co-worker or two, enjoying a quieter night in one of the pub's private rooms.

The image of Tonks with a faceless, nameless young Auror sets him on edge. This, he thinks, might be the only way to get her out of his head. She will find another, better wizard. Remus will get his wish and she'll forget all about him.

As he looks through the leftmost window of the upstairs, he sees two figures bent towards each other. They're in a cozy embrace, the lovers' bodies pressed against one another, their faces meeting in a passionate kiss.

He hates them, a little, and his hand twitches to his wand. The urge to curse them and their happiness eats away at his heart. Remus has his wand raised, desperate to inflict his sorrow, but he thinks better of it as the curse rises to the tip of his tongue.

He lowers his wand, his fingers numb from the cold, and suppresses the urge to find her. Nymphadora is nowhere to be found.

She should stay that way.


Days later, Remus is standing around a fire, rotating his body every few minutes to maintain some level of warmth. It's the only source of heat for the underground encampment, and it happens to be closest to Fenrir's sleeping place, a makeshift throne.

Remus carved out a spot in the shadows, where heat never seems to reach. The little blue flames he conjures in the palm of his hands can only do so much against the freezing, damp earth.

He feels as if he's been cold for weeks. Memories of Christmas are long gone, as is the jumper he returned with. It was taken from him; links to the wizards, the humans, are no longer permitted. Werewolves need only each other, says Fenrir, and Remus's new jumper is but a pile of ash, fuel for the fire that keeps Fenrir comfortable.

Tonight is New Year's Eve. Fenrir promised a gift, and to Remus's surprise, he's delivered. He returned from a gathering – the Death Eaters, Remus is certain – with a barrel of unbottled, elf-made wine.

The burgundy liquid sloshes in the tin cup Remus carries with him, and he takes a swig, letting it coat his mouth and tongue. If it were paired with roast beef and perfectly roasted potatoes, he thinks, his mouth watering at the image, it would be a rather nice pairing.

It's instead paired with charred cuts of venison and dense, dry bread. It's a feast by their usual standards, and even Remus admits he ate better tonight than many of his lonely, half-starved days after the first war.

He turns his body to a new angle, letting the fire warm his back. Most of the werewolves, Fenrir included, are inebriated. Remus can see the start of a few fights in one corner and a boisterous party in the other. He is alone, having thus far avoided drunken camaraderie or boozy brawls.

From the corner of his eye, he sees a couple attempting, but failing, to keep their amorous activities out of the others' notice. The sight of them, one thrusting into the other, puts a bitter taste into Remus's mouth.

He washes down his cup of wine and takes another.

And another.

And another.

He drinks enough to forget where he is, what he is, or why he's alive. He drinks to forget a certain pink haired Auror, who won't escape his daydreams or vivid, nighttime fantasies, no matter how hard he tries. He drinks to forget the loss of his last friend, a gaping wound that only seems to fester more with time.

He's only vaguely aware of walking out into the cold, away from the encampment. He feels the cold snow seep through his worn shoes and the sting of something hurting his cheeks. He hears the distant shouts from the camp the further he goes into the forest, away from them all.

He can't find it in himself to give a fuck anymore. He doesn't care if he lives or dies. He doesn't care that he's cursed and brings everyone down with him. He wants to feel, just once, what the others get to feel.

He turns on his heel, focusing harder than he has in years, and appears in Hogsmeade.

Something doesn't quite feel right and he retches violently onto the ground. The burgundy, burnt bile of his body blemishes the brilliant, white snow around him, proof that he's made a mistake in coming.

He staggers to the nearest solid surface, an outer wall of the Hog's Head. He gasps, feeling faint, and realizes he's left a trail of blood from where he Apparated.

The world is spinning. Remus feels hot and wonders if death has finally come for him. He collapses and lets go.


Heaven smells like Nymphadora, sweet, floral, and warm. It feels like a soft, downy bed with thick, wooly blankets. It sounds like a crackling fire, quiet jazz, and gentle murmuring. It tastes like honey and lavender.

Heaven is simply wonderful.

Remus opens his eyes, eager to see what awaits him in the afterlife. He is confused when he sees a small, disorganized room, a pile of bloodied bandages on the floor, and a face framed by limp, mousy brown hair.

"You're awake!" Tonks gasps.

Remus groans. Glimpses of last night return to his mind. The fire. The wine. The woods. Retching in the street.

He thought he was dying. He's almost sorry he didn't die, as the source of his sorrow and joy is staring at him with tenderness in her eyes.

"You Splinched yourself," she explains. "Aberforth found you a few hours ago, half-frozen to death. What were you thinking?"

"What time is it?" he croaks.

"Almost nine in the morning." She reaches to her side and breaks a loaf of bread apart. It's steaming in her hands and she spreads a generous amount of butter on it, handing it to him. "New Year's Day."

The bread is gone in an instant. Tonks gives him more, filling him slowly with its starchy goodness. She's gentle and says nothing as he continues eating, only watching him under her dark, steady gaze.

"Here, drink these. You'll feel better."

She hands him one vial after the other, taking care to wipe his mouth with a towel after the first few, which taste awful. They're specialty, rapid-healing potions: luxuries only available to her as an Auror. He wants to protest and tell her to save them for herself, but he knows his objections will fall on deaf ears.

"Do you mind if I turn on the wireless?"

Remus shakes his head and Tonks taps her wand on the radio.

Oh, come and stir my cauldron

And if you do it right

I'll boil you up some hot, strong love

To keep you warm tonight

"I can change it—"

"It's fine," he says, his voice still raspy. "I don't mind."

"I don't usually listen to this, but the Muggle channels don't work very well here," she mumbles. "Sometimes they'll discuss whatever The Prophet's saying these days."

Remus nods in understanding. He hasn't kept up on the news of the above-ground world.

Oh, such thrills await

'Cause together, we are ready to proceed

Drink from my cauldron full of hot, strong love

It's all the magic you'll ever need

"Speaking of which."

Tonks leaves for a moment to tend to a steaming cauldron. It's when she's on the other side of the room, stirring the cauldron in the kitchenette, that Remus realizes he shouldn't be here.

He's sworn to stay away. Under the influence of wine and self-pity he left the encampment, aching for a moment's comfort.

Tonks scoops out a golden liquid into a goblet and carefully walks it over to him.

"You're malnourished," she tells him. "Mum used to make me drink this when I was a kid and refused to touch anything but ginger biscuits."

He doesn't argue with her and takes the goblet. He's not sure what the potion is and suspects it's another one of the Black family secrets. It tastes like honey and lavender and feels like safety.

"I managed to get one of these down your throat after I patched the worst of your injuries up."

It's no wonder he feels stronger than usual. She makes him feel strong, even when he's lying in her bed, frail and ashamed from his drunken mistake.

He's full of hot liquids and crusty bread. He hasn't had anyone to care for him like this since he was a boy. He doesn't want to be coddled, or seen as any more pathetic than he is, but he knows he's a selfish, weak-willed man and won't go as quickly as he should. His self-hatred can wait another few hours.

"Thank you, Tonks. I don't deserve this."

Her dark eyes gleam with something like fury. The gleam disappears a second later, replaced by pity and sadness.

"I know I should be asking more questions," she replies, her hand finding his. She gives it a gentle squeeze and suddenly he's warmer than he's ever been, all memories of the underground chill dissipating from his mind. "They can wait. I'm just happy you're alive."

Remus makes a noise from the back of his throat. He's not sure if he's happy he's alive. It was better when he thought he'd finally found the afterlife.

He tries not to dwell on the thought that his idea of the afterlife begins with Nymphadora Tonks.

I'll boil you up some hot, strong love

To keep you warm tonight

Tonks lets go of his hand and sighs. "I know nothing's changed for you."

"It hasn't," he confirms, his whole body begging for him to lie and tell her how terribly he needs her. He wants to hold her, never let go, bury his face in her shoulder and give into all his traitorous desires.

"Can you scoot over?"

Remus rolls to his side, his best attempt at opening space on the bed. His heart's in his throat: he'll be sharing a bed with her. His mind quickly sets him to rights: she's sharing her bed with him. He doesn't have a right to be there.

She's behind him now, her small body pressed up against his back, her arm draped over his waist. His shirt's ridden up and her hand grazes his bare skin. It's too intimate. He shouldn't allow this.

"Relax, Remus. We both need rest."

Most of his body relaxes. He feels her face on his back, her fingertips tracing a lazy path across his scarred skin.

"I've missed you," she whispers. He's glad his back is facing her, because those simple words cause his eyes to sting. He feels the wetness slide across his face, staining her pillow. "Please don't leave me again."

He shudders against his will, knowing he must leave her. It's for her own good; she'll find someone else. Someone worthy to be her…something.

"It doesn't have to be like this." Her breath hitches as she speaks. "We can find a way."

He wants to believe her. He wants to turn over, feel her lips on his, her body writhing underneath him as he gives her every inch of himself. He has nothing to offer her but his broken body and she deserves so much more.

"Please," she breathes, almost begging. "Stay."

Remus does what he knows best. He promises to think on it, lying through his teeth, and resolves to leave her as soon as he wakes. Until then, he'll relish the last few, precious moments with her, hoping they'll sustain him for the new year ahead.

The blissful agony of knowing and loving Nymphadora is his to treasure, even if it breaks him completely.

It's something not even the werewolves can take from him.