People talk a lot about love

by ririnaa

Tonks about her life after meeting Lupin.

People say that love throws you into meeting the one person who will change everything when you least expect it.

But no one warns you that this person might be waiting for you in the shabby house of your cousin—a man whose name is spoken in hushed whispers across magical Britain, like a curse that sends chills down your spine. No one tells you that you'll end up there not by choice, but because the world is splitting at the seams, teetering on the edge of war—a war where you are destined to become a soldier, even if your heart clenches with terror at the mere thought of it.

I can still remember the smell—the thick, suffocating air of Grimmauld Place, heavy with the damp rot of decaying walls and the acrid tang of mould that clung to my throat like an invisible hand. The peeling plaster crumbled beneath my fingers, scattering into fine dust on the worn floorboards, exposing the grey, cold stone beneath, as if the house itself was baring its bones. The faded wallpaper hung in tattered strips, as though someone, in a fit of despair, had tried to tear away its memories, leaving behind nothing but ragged shadows of former grandeur. Dim light filtered through the gaps in the curtains, casting long, ominous streaks across the floor, where dust swirled in the air like ghosts of forgotten days. And in the middle of this desolation stood Sirius.

His face, gaunt, with sunken cheeks and sharp cheekbones, looked as if it had been carved from cold stone—worn, but still defiant. He tried to smile, but his lips trembled, stretching into a crooked, pained grimace, as if life had drained all the light from his eyes, leaving behind only coal-dark shadows and the bitter glint of past recklessness. He swayed slightly towards me, unsteady—whether from exhaustion or drink, I couldn't tell—and with a hoarse, rasping chuckle, he threw out, "And this, my dear little cousin, is my best friend—Remus Lupin."

I glanced at him—fleetingly, almost indifferently—but he pulled my attention like a magnet draws steel. Tall, yet slightly hunched, as if some invisible weight pressed down on his shoulders—years, loneliness, or something else, something without a name. His fair hair, once perhaps golden, was now streaked with silver far too thick for his age, as though time had burned the youth out of him too soon. His eyes—deep, grey-green, with a soft, warm glimmer of gold—held grief, restrained joy, and an endless, bone-deep exhaustion. Dark shadows lay beneath them, almost bruises, carved by sleepless nights, worry, or thoughts he couldn't escape.

But his lips—chapped, yet gentle—curved into a kind, sincere smile, one that deepened the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, like the faint echo of long-forgotten laughter. Just below the frayed collar of his shirt, a scar ran white against his skin—thin, jagged, like the mark of a claw. He kept tugging absently at the fabric, as if trying to hide it. Another scar, broader, cut across the back of his right hand—the hand he now extended towards me in greeting. It trembled, barely perceptibly, but enough to betray a weakness or unease that he was trying to mask with composure.

His clothes were a strange mix of order and disarray. His shirt, though neatly pressed, bunched in creases at his elbows, as if he had been fidgeting with the fabric, sitting, standing, unable to keep still. His trousers, by contrast, were impeccable—sharp creases down the legs, as if he clung to this tiny fragment of control in a chaotic, unpredictable world. His shoes gleamed, polished to a mirror shine, yet a discreet patch marred his sleeve, and the jacket draped carelessly over the back of a rickety chair was worn to threads at the elbows. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Nothing bold, nothing eye-catching, nothing that would make him stand out. A perfect disguise for a man who had learned to melt into the background—I would have chosen the same if I were tracking someone in Knockturn Alley, where the wrong movement could cost you your life.

I studied his face for too long, taking in every detail—the taut line of his lips, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the barely-there tremor in his fingers as he lowered his hand. It was professional curiosity—analysing the unnoticed, breaking apart their concealment piece by piece, so I could use it later, in surveillance, in missions where a single mistake could be my last. But not everyone saw it that way.

Sirius, for example, would never believe that I had gone still for minutes only to memorise someone's features for future disguise work. His rasping chuckle—sharp-edged, laced with bitterness—shattered the thick silence in the room. He leaned towards Remus, muttering something with a glint of mischief in his voice, and I caught only a fragment: "Look, Moony, seems you've got an admirer." Sirius's eyes gleamed—whether with amusement or weary sarcasm, I couldn't tell—but Remus only smiled, a soft, embarrassed curve of his lips.

A warm, rosy flush crept up his pale cheeks, and he lowered his gaze, hiding behind his lashes, as if that small gesture could mask his discomfort.

Maybe Sirius had always known. Known that this meeting would carve itself into me deeper than I could have ever imagined. That it would leave a mark—unseen, but searing, like the scars he carried on his skin.

People say that meeting your true love is like finding a long-lost piece of yourself—a moment when every sound, every colour, and every shadow take on new meaning, as if the whole world has suddenly shifted into something entirely different.

But no one warns you that this person might be the one to shatter your world into splinters. The one who, with tired eyes and a quiet, slightly frayed voice, will tell you that Voldemort has returned—not a bedtime story, not a nightmare, but a living, breathing darkness. That the Ministry is wrapping the truth in silken lies. That Sirius is not a traitor, but a wounded soul. That Harry is a fragile, almost ghostly hope—the only flicker of salvation for a world already cracking apart like an old parchment.

That night, in Grimmauld Place, I sat frozen, wide-eyed, catching every word, every bitter fragment of truth that fell from his lips. The air in the room was thick, stale, steeped in the damp of ancient walls and the acrid scent of rotting wood that scraped against my throat. The dim light, filtering through the heavy, drawn curtains, stretched across the dusty floor in trembling slivers, as if afraid to linger here too long. My fingers clutched the edge of a worn armchair—nails digging into the faded fabric, leaving faint indentations—as I listened to Remus.

His voice, low and steady, wavered at the edges—not from weakness, but from a grief so deeply ingrained that it had become part of his breath. He sat opposite me, slightly hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees, fingers absently pulling at the edge of his sleeve, as if trying to keep himself tethered to this moment. His eyes—grey-green, flecked with gold—were gazing through me, into some distant space where, perhaps, his memories lived. And with every word he spoke, my world fell apart.

It became ugly. Dirty. False.

Reality hit me like an icy wind, tearing from my hands the fragile illusions I had wrapped around myself. My bubble burst with a barely audible pop, and the shattered fragments of my rose-coloured glasses lodged deep in my chest, leaving behind nothing but a raw, ringing emptiness.

I wasn't sure whether I welcomed the awakening.

A part of me—the part that still clung to a childlike belief in goodness—mourned the lost innocence, quietly sobbing somewhere deep inside. But another part of me trembled—small, uncontrollably—with fear for what lay ahead: darkness, war, choices I didn't want to make.

But one thing I knew for certain: I could never be the person I was before.

When I stepped out of Grimmauld Place into the cold evening air, thick with the scent of damp stone and withered leaves, my legs felt unsteady, as if I had left more than just time inside that house—like I had left behind a piece of my soul.

I Apparated to my tiny rented flat—cramped, with peeling paint on the walls and creaking floorboards—and headed straight for the shower. The water was hot, almost scalding, and I stood beneath it until the mirror was clouded with a thick, milky veil of steam, concealing my reflection. Drops ran down my face, mixing with something salty—tears? I wasn't sure. My fingers trembled as I brushed them over my cheeks, trying to understand whether I was crying or if it was just the water. My thoughts whirled like autumn leaves caught in a storm, colliding and tangling together, but gradually, through the chaos, clarity emerged.

I felt older—not by years, but by an entire era, as if someone had placed a heavy book of knowledge into my hands, one I had never asked for but could no longer put down. Wiser, as though I had seen the world for what it truly was—cruel, fragile, full of shadows. And more understanding—not just of the world, but of Remus.

His grey-green eyes, filled with quiet, unspoken pain, still burned in my mind like a beacon in the night. His face—tired, lined with fine traces of the years, with that soft, slightly guilty smile—was imprinted in my memory, so vivid that I could almost reach out and touch it.

Maybe it was this change within me that became the invisible bridge between us. Perhaps, in breaking me down to my very core, the world had, without meaning to, given me something in return—the quiet, aching thread that would one day bind us together.

People say that love often begins where two hearts collide by chance, like sparks flaring to life in the pitch-black darkness—only to weave a story together, one full of magic, warmth, and dazzling light.

But no one ever specifies that by story, they don't mean something grand or romantic, like in old fairytales. No, he and I were writing a story in the truest sense—inked in blood and ash, on pages soaked with war and pain. It was a chronicle of the fight between light and merciless darkness, where every step echoed with espionage, surveillance, and the cold, metallic taste of death that settled on the tongue and refused to let go.

I still remember our first mission together as clearly as if time had frozen that rainy evening, trapping it forever in my memory.

The rain was relentless, lashing down on the narrow street outside Harry's house, turning the ground into a murky, sucking swamp where every step came with the squelch of sinking boots. We were on watch, hidden behind a low, crooked fence, only days before the Dementors would descend on this place like icy phantoms from hell. Water pounded against my shoulders, pouring off my soaked cloak in heavy rivulets, while the wind—sharp and merciless—sank its teeth into my skin, making my teeth chatter in time with its howling gusts. I hunched my shoulders, shielding my face from the stinging drops, when he—tall, his tousled fair hair slicked to his forehead by the rain, now dark and glistening—casually flicked his wand.

A thin, almost invisible shield shimmered into place above us, cutting off the downpour in an instant. The air warmed slightly, turning almost comfortable, and I could hear the raindrops drumming against the invisible barrier, like impatient hands knocking at a door that would never open.

"You're out of your mind!" I snapped, spinning to face him. My violet hair, tangled and dripping wet, clung to my cheeks like seaweed, and my voice shook—whether from the cold or the frustration boiling inside me, I wasn't sure. "Muggles might notice something!"

He turned his head then, and for the first time, I caught that mischievous glint in his eyes—deep grey-green, flecked with gold that gleamed even through the curtain of rain and dusk. His lips curved into a slow, slightly teasing smile, and a tiny dimple surfaced on his left cheek—so small, but so full of life.

How had I never noticed it before?

It softened his face, made it almost boyish, despite the sharp cheekbones carved by exhaustion and the dark shadows beneath his eyes, etched deep by sleepless nights.

"Well then, I suppose you'll have to stand there and get drenched, Nymphadora," he said with mock seriousness, turning back to watch the house. His voice—low, a little rough—trembled slightly with suppressed laughter, which only infuriated me more.

Before I could snap back, the shield above me vanished, dissolving as if it had never been there.

The rain crashed down with renewed force—cold, merciless, instantly soaking my cloak down to the very last thread. Water streamed down my face, my boots squelched in the mud, and I must have looked like a bedraggled, furious cat, ready to pounce claws-first. I opened my mouth to let loose every curse I could think of but stopped.

Without a word, without even looking at me, he had transfigured a broken branch lying nearby into an umbrella—simple, black, with a curved wooden handle, darkened by age. He held it out to me with effortless, almost old-fashioned gallantry, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

His fingers—long, trembling slightly from the cold—brushed against mine, and I felt warmth where I least expected it on that freezing, rain-drenched evening.

"Shall I cast a Drying Charm on you as well, or would that be too suspicious, Nymphadora?" he murmured, his gaze never leaving Harry's house. His tone was smooth, almost indifferent, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch, that damned dimple flickering into sight again, betraying him completely.

The flickering streetlight reflected in his eyes, making them gleam—whether from the rain or the quiet amusement he was hiding behind his careful mask, I couldn't tell.

I stood there, gripping the umbrella, feeling cold raindrops trickling down my spine while something warm and unfamiliar curled in my chest. My heart stumbled—louder than it should, faster than I wanted to admit—and I caught myself staring at him.

His profile—sharp, yet unexpectedly soft in the dim, muted light—his rain-dampened hair falling against the frayed collar of his cloak, and that damned dimple, teasing me with its simplicity.

He was so ordinary, so unremarkable—and yet impossibly magnetic, like a puzzle I suddenly wanted to solve.

I laughed—loudly, far too loudly for a mission that required stealth, and the sound of it carried through the rain-soaked street, mingling with the steady patter of water on cobblestones.

I expected him to shush me, to scold me like Moody would have, but instead, he only smiled—quietly, almost gently. With a single flick of his wand, he dried my clothes, and warmth seeped through my limbs, chasing away the lingering chill.

He kept his eyes on the house, as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just made me stare at him like an idiot because of this ridiculous, absurd situation.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a battered old thermos, offering it to me without a word.

Hot tea—scented with mint and something darkly rich—curled its steam into the cool night air, warming my fingers and something far deeper inside me.

Maybe that was the first time I truly noticed him. The first time I felt that behind his teasing, behind those simple charms and careless kindness, there was something more—something I couldn't yet name, but had already begun to feel.

People say that love is a light bright enough to chase away even the deepest, most impenetrable darkness.

But no one warns you that this light can blind you, pull you in so completely that you stop noticing the shadows creeping behind you or the cracks spreading through the world around you.

Remus, Sirius, and I often stayed up late in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. The old wooden table, darkened with age and scarred with knife marks and spell burns, was always cluttered with parchment scrolls, worn-out maps, and half-empty teacups, their rims stained with dark rings. The dim glow of the hanging lamp above—old, with a cracked lampshade—cast long, eerie shadows across the peeling walls, where patches of exposed brick peeked through. The air was thick with dampness, mixed with the faint scent of dried herbs—lavender and rosemary, slightly bitter but comforting—that Molly had hung above the stove. Sometimes, we had company. Bill, his ginger hair always slightly dishevelled, a silver earring glinting in the light, and his easy smirk. Or Kingsley, whose deep, velvety voice was as steady as an anchor in a storm, even when the news was grim. But more often than not, it was just the three of us—idealists clinging to the dream of a swift victory, soldiers weaving conspiracies against the darkness pressing in from outside, thick as a brewing storm.

And then Sirius would slip out—his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor as he made his way upstairs to Buckbeak, a slab of raw meat in hand, leaving a sharp, iron scent trailing behind him. Or Bill and Kingsley would head off on another mission, vanishing into the night. And that was when Remus and I were left alone. The sharp, clipped words of war—their rhythm like gunfire—would slowly dissolve into the air, giving way to something quieter, something warmer, something almost tangible, like breath.

Remus would stand without a word and take the old teapot—white enamel, cracked in places, like a web of fine fractures. He would make my favourite tea—strong, with a delicate floral aftertaste that lingered on the tongue like the promise of spring. He never asked how I liked it. He just knew. Two spoonfuls of sugar, no milk, a thin slice of lemon, which he would lower into my cup with long, slightly trembling fingers, calloused from time and scars. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic, and in that simplicity lay a kind of care—quiet, unobtrusive, but so deep that I felt it against my skin. No one before him had ever noticed these small details about me. No one had ever woven them so effortlessly into their habits, as if they had always belonged there.

Then he would place a plate of cinnamon buns in front of me—warm, soft, with golden, crisp edges that filled the air with the sweet, spicy scent of comfort. I knew he hid them. From Sirius, who could devour them in an instant. From the twins, whose hands reached for anything edible the moment it appeared. He saved them for me. And every time he did, the corners of his lips would lift just slightly, a barely-there smile, and in his eyes—tired, but flecked with gold—there was something soft, something almost boyish, something I had never seen in him before.

"How are you, Nymphadora?" he would ask, settling into the chair opposite me. His voice—low, rough at the edges, like the crackling of a fire—wrapped around me like warmth. He never asked about work, about the dreary, soul-crushing missions in the Department of Mysteries that made my jaw ache with frustration.

He asked about me.

The books I stayed up reading until dawn. The melodies that got stuck in my head. The things that made me laugh. And I asked about him, because I genuinely wanted to know everything. The battered novels he read over and over until the pages started falling out. His thoughts on the ridiculous Muggle songs I hummed under my breath, tripping over the lyrics. His favourite colour. When he said pink, I laughed—loud, unrestrained—and a faint flush crept up his cheeks, soft as rose petals. I never found out whether he had been joking or if he had meant it, but somehow, that only made me want to know him more.

We talked for hours, never noticing how the day melted into dusk and the evening wrapped the house in thick, velvet silence. Grimmauld Place, with all its dark corners, its creaking floorboards and its scent of dust and age, no longer felt quite so cold, quite so bleak. Every shadow seemed softer, touched by something unseen—not the glow of the lamp above us, but something quieter, warmer. Something in the way he nudged my cup closer, so I wouldn't burn myself. Something in the way his fingers brushed mine when he passed me a bun.

For a little while, war, death, the screams beyond these walls—they all faded into the distance, becoming something distant, something unreal. For a little while, we were just us. Remus, with his rumpled fair hair falling over his forehead and that faint crease between his brows. And me, my feet casually propped up on the chair beside me, my hair shifting from bright violet to soft pink with every quiet joke he made.

This light blinded us. We forgot that we were soldiers. That the world was crumbling around us. That tomorrow might never come. For those moments, there was only this. And it was the most important thing in the world.

Maybe that was the first time I had ever felt so at ease with someone—that the whole world outside simply disappeared, leaving just the two of us in this small, warm cocoon, where there was no room for fear.

People say that love is eternal, though sometimes it is as fleeting as morning dew, dissolving under the first rays of the sun.

But no one will tell you the truth: real love is never fleeting. It clings to you like a shadow you can't shake—lurking in the glances that last a fraction too long, in the accidental touches that leave warmth on your skin, as if your souls are bound by an invisible thread, pulling you back to each other again and again.

We spent hours together—at Grimmauld Place, among creaking floorboards and the smell of damp; at Order meetings, where tension hung in the air like the charge before a storm; on small missions, where every rustle made our hearts beat faster. We drank pints in dingy Muggle pubs, wandered through empty streets under the stars, spoke of everything and nothing. We had so much in common that it felt almost like fate—we read the same books, worn-out paperbacks with dog-eared pages that he lent me with an easy smile; we tolerated each other's music—or rather, he tolerated it when I sang Muggle ballads, wrinkling his nose at their sentimentality but still humming along in his rough voice; we loved the same food—Molly's Sunday meat pie—and both despised desserts that were too sweet. And we shared a mutual distaste for Severus Snape—too theatrical, with his performative gloom and his poisonous stare that made you want to roll your eyes.

At Order meetings, in the cramped room with the low ceiling, where the air smelled of old parchment and spilled ink, I would catch myself glancing his way—only to find that he was already looking at me. His gaze—warm, golden flecks flickering in the grey-green depths—lingered just a little longer than necessary, as if he was trying to figure something out in me, something I had yet to understand myself. And when I cracked ridiculous jokes after two sleepless nights—nonsensical, caffeine-fuelled ramblings—he would laugh, throwing his head back. His laughter was loud, bright, almost boyish, edged with that slight rasp, and every time I heard it, something inside me turned over, like the first sip of hot tea on a freezing day.

He was there when I faltered, when the weight of war pressed down on my shoulders like a slab of stone—always knowing exactly what to say, simple words, but sharp and precise, lifting me up like a whispered spell.

What we had grew slowly, so gradually it was almost imperceptible—like a flower pushing through the cracks in stone.

At first, it was the little things—how he passed me a cup of tea, his fingers brushing mine for just a second too long, and I noticed how warm they were, despite the eternal chill of Grimmauld Place. How he adjusted my scarf before a mission, frowning like I was a child who might forget to button their coat, but with a softness in his eyes that he quickly hid behind a teasing smile.

Then there were the silences—not awkward, but comfortable, the kind that settled over us when we sat shoulder to shoulder by the fire, watching the flames dance, where words weren't necessary because his presence alone was enough.

I began to notice the way he looked away when I stared at him for too long, the faint flush that crept up his cheeks—barely there, but just enough to make my heart stutter.

Our friendship was turning into something more—into warmth, that familiar pull in my chest every time he was near; into trust, the certainty that I could lean on him and he would never let me fall; into love, growing quietly, unnoticed, but so steady that I could no longer imagine my life without him.

His laughter, his glances, the way he made my tea exactly how I liked it—all of it had become part of me, as natural as breathing.

Maybe that was the first time I realised he wasn't just a friend, but someone without whom the world lost its colour. The first time I understood that his presence wasn't just a habit—it was a necessity, like air.

People say that when you find the one, the world bursts into colour, and your heart fills with a quiet, joyful thrill.

But no one warns you that these colours might be the blinding flashes of curses slicing through the air with a sharp, piercing whistle, leaving behind the acrid stench of burning and searing your skin raw. That the quiet thrill might be an icy, clawing weight in your chest, squeezing your lungs tight as you wait, breath held, to see if he will open his eyes after an explosive spell has hurled him to the ground like a broken marionette whose strings have been cut by a merciless hand.

"Tonks, he's not a child. He'll be fine," Sirius muttered, crouched by the old, tattered sofa. His voice was hoarse, cracked with exhaustion, and dark strands of hair fell across his face, hiding the deep shadows beneath his eyes—marks of sleepless nights and endless worries. He was fidgeting with a Muggle lighter—silver, worn, clicking open and shut in a quiet, rhythmic snap—and his gaze kept flicking back to the motionless figure on the sofa, as if afraid that if he looked away, he might disappear.

Remus lay there, pale as faded parchment, his eyes closed, lips slightly parted, his breath shallow and uneven. His chest rose in faint, fragile movements, each one feeling like a miracle in the suffocating, heavy silence of Grimmauld Place, where even the creak of the floorboards sounded like a betrayal. Blood had dried in a dark stain at his temple, a thick, almost black streak trailing towards his ear. His robes—torn to shreds, heavy with dirt—hung off him in tatters, exposing a deep gash at his collarbone. Blood still seeped sluggishly from the wound as I pressed trembling hands over it, my breath unsteady, my wand slick in my sweating grip as I whispered healing charms over and over, as if they alone could hold him here.

I didn't remember how I had Apparated us back. All I had were flashes: the biting wind lashing my face as I clung to his limp, unresponsive body; the crushing weight of him pulling me down as I dragged him over the threshold; my knees buckling from fear and exhaustion as we collapsed onto the steps of the old house; the raw, panicked scream I had hurled at Sirius to help me, my voice cracking with something dangerously close to desperation. And then my hands—sticky with blood, his blood—gripping my wand as I scrawled frantic, trembling lines in the air, weaving spell after spell, anything to stop the bleeding, to fix him.

All I could hear was his ragged, unsteady breathing—thin and fragile, like the whisper of dead leaves skittering across the ground. And all I could do was listen, clinging to every sound, terrified that at any moment, it would stop, leaving behind nothing but silence.

Sleep never came for me that night. I sat curled up on the floor beside the sofa, arms wrapped tightly around my knees as if holding myself together by force. The icy wooden floorboards burned through my socks, but I barely felt it. The air in the room was thick with dust and the sharp, metallic tang of blood, coating my throat with its bitter weight. I stared at him, watching the slow, agonising rise and fall of his chest, the deep-set lines at the corners of his eyes, the strands of damp, sweat-matted fair hair clinging to his forehead.

Tears streaked down my cheeks—hot, soundless, slipping past my lips in slow, salty drops onto the cold floor. I didn't wipe them away. My hands felt too heavy, too foreign to move.

This was my fault. My idea—to track the Death Eaters, to push the limits, to risk everything for a scrap of information. I should have been the one lying here, bleeding out, breath faltering, heart slowing. I should have felt that fire—scorching, unbearable—not him. Not the man who found me in the darkest moments and reached for me with quiet words and tired, knowing eyes, flecked with gold. Not him, with his steady presence, his small, careful kindnesses, his voice that could wrap around my name and turn it into something safe.

My fists clenched, nails biting deep into my palms, leaving behind sharp, red crescents. A tight, suffocating lump lodged itself in my throat, and something vast and hollow expanded in my chest, something raw and jagged and aching.

I wanted to take his pain away, to pull it out of him and into myself, to strip it from his body like a weed yanked from the earth. I wanted him to open his eyes, to look at me the way he always did—to say my name in that soft, familiar way that made my heart stammer in my chest. I wanted this cursed world, which had battered him and broken him over and over, to stop, to let him rest, to give him peace—just for a moment, just for me.

Maybe that was the first time I truly understood what it meant to want to take someone else's pain. The first time I realised that his life—his breath, his warmth, his gaze—meant more to me than my own.

People say that love gives birth to dreams—bright, enticing, like stars scattered across the night sky.

But no one admits that to make them real, you need courage—the kind that tightens around your throat like a steel vice and makes your heart hammer against your ribs, drowning out every other sound. That was the courage I had been searching for in those days before our watch at Malfoy Manor, hiding behind flimsy excuses, sleepless nights, and cups of cold tea that I gripped so tightly my fingers started to tremble.

I thought about Remus constantly—his name rang in my thoughts like a spell I couldn't hold onto or let go of. This had long since become more than friendship, and I knew it in every fibre of my being. The feeling burning inside me was new, deep, real—something I had never known before. It was fire beneath my skin, both warming and searing at once. I saw the light in his eyes—soft, golden, breaking through the exhaustion—but I kept stubbornly telling myself we were just friends, that there could be nothing more, that I had imagined it all.

Until Sirius turned my world upside down.

One evening, sitting by the fire with a mug of Firewhisky, he looked at me with those sharp, weary eyes and drawled, "I haven't seen Remus this happy in years, Tonks. Maybe ever."

I froze, the heat of the flames mingling with the sudden blaze in my chest, scorching me from the inside out. The mug wobbled in my grip, and I clenched it tighter, willing my face to give nothing away.

Sirius lowered his voice to a raspy whisper, as if sharing a secret. "Your fears are unfounded. It's mutual. But it won't be easy with him. He's lost too many people to let someone in without a fight. Prove to him that you won't leave."

Absurd, wasn't it?

I was already in his life—every day, every hour, in every glance and fleeting touch. I was here, ready to stay forever, even if he didn't see it yet.

Naïve, foolish, I thought that if I simply told him how I felt, he would understand. That he would see how much I wanted this—wanted him—and that we could be happy together, despite the war, despite the darkness closing in around us.

I planned a speech—Merlin help me, an entire speech. Spent a week rehearsing it in my head while polishing my wand until the shavings littered the table, or peeling potatoes in the Grimmauld kitchen, dropping the skins in my nervous distraction. Spent another few days choosing what to wear—settling on the dark blue cloak that, I thought, made my eyes look brighter, deeper, more alive. And then a few more days gathering the courage to say it, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror of the sitting room, my hair flickering from violet to pink and back again as I whispered to myself, You can do this, Tonks. You have to.

The night of our watch at Malfoy Manor was bitterly cold—the wind howled through bare branches, and the dark silhouette of the estate loomed against the low, grey sky like a ghost woven from shadows. We hid among the overgrown brambles, cloaked in Disillusionment Charms, our boots sinking into the damp, brittle grass. I stood so close to Remus I could hear his breath—steady, slightly hoarse, with a faint rasp at the end of each exhale—and feel the warmth radiating from him, even in the damp chill of the night.

And then, without thinking, without meaning to, as if the words had slipped free of their own accord, I blurted out, "Sirius's still handsome, isn't he, even after Azkaban?"

Why had I said that? Was I teasing him, testing him, desperate for some kind of reaction? Lovers do the stupidest things—thoughtless, impulsive things that make you want to disappear the moment they leave your lips.

He turned to me, and in his voice, there was something raw—something bitter and sharp as the edge of a knife, laced with an emotion too fleeting to name.

"He always got the women."

His jaw tensed immediately, as if trying to swallow the words back down, but it was too late. I saw the way his shoulders stiffened beneath his worn-out cloak, the way his grip on his wand tightened, knuckles whitening.

His words struck like a slap, and rage flared hot and fast inside me, before I even had time to process it.

"You'd know perfectly well who I've fallen for, if you weren't too busy feeling sorry for yourself to notice!"

The words tore from me, raw and trembling with anger and the sting of all the things left unsaid. My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms until the sharp sting of pain cut through the heat in my chest. My breath came fast and uneven, like I had just run a mile, and I could hear the blood rushing in my ears.

I spun to face him, my hair—a striking, furious violet—whipping across my damp cheeks. Fire roared through my veins, hotter than anything the cold night could throw at me.

I stared at him, desperate for something—anything. A flicker of understanding in his eyes. A moment's hesitation in his furrowed brows. A flash of recognition in the tight set of his jaw. I wanted to see the realisation dawn across his face, to watch him feel it, to hear him say something—anything to prove that I hadn't imagined it all.

But nothing happened.

"I think Dolohov just arrived," he murmured, his gaze shifting back to the looming manor. His voice was cool, detached, like a winter breeze. And the weight of those words settled between us like a wall, heavy and impenetrable.

He stood there, still and silent, shoulders slightly hunched, and only the tension in his fingers where they gripped his wand gave him away—something was there, something, but it wasn't what I had hoped for.

Nausea twisted in my gut—thick and bitter, a sickening mix of anger and something that tasted dangerously like heartbreak. I swallowed against it, but the lump in my throat only grew, pressing tighter, until breathing hurt.

We spent the rest of the mission in silence.

The wind rattled the bare trees, rustled the dead grass. Faint noises drifted from the manor—footsteps, the creak of a door, murmured voices—but I barely registered them. I sat with my knees tucked to my chest, staring out into the night, not looking at him, feeling the cold seep through my cloak, gnawing into my bones.

The moment it was over, I Apparated away—straight to my tiny rented flat.

The room greeted me with cramped solitude: a sagging bed with rumpled sheets, a cluttered dresser overflowing with books and empty ink bottles, a single window through which the pale silver glow of the moon streamed in, casting long shadows across the worn floor.

I paced, fists clenching and unclenching, muscles aching with the force of holding everything in, waiting—waiting for the knock at the door, for him to appear on the threshold, dishevelled, with that quiet, lopsided smile, saying I had caught him off guard, that he had realised, that he wanted this too.

But the door remained silent as stone. And the silence pressed in, heavier than the weight of his unspoken words in the brambles.

Maybe that was the first time I burned so badly I could taste the ashes.

People say that falling in love is a magical adventure, each encounter with that special person a step towards something wonderful, full of light and promise.

But no one tells you what to do when you take that step forward, heart open, hands trembling, only to find that the person in front of you is stepping back—slowly, imperceptibly—leaving behind an emptiness you don't know how to fill.

At the next Order meeting, Remus wasn't there. He slipped out of my life as quietly as he had entered it—no more Friday evenings at Grimmauld Place, no familiar presence at the meetings where his voice usually brought calm to the chaos of arguments. No one seemed surprised. No one offered an explanation. And I was too afraid, too trapped in the storm of my own thoughts, to ask for one. Fear wrapped around me like chains—the fear that I had ruined everything with a single misplaced word, with an outburst of emotion he couldn't bring himself to accept.

I sat in the corner of the stifling room at Grimmauld, twisting the hem of my robes between my fingers until the fabric creased and my hands trembled from the tension. Conversations blurred into a low, droning hum—plans, losses, rumours—breaking through the ringing in my ears, but I wasn't listening. The only thing in my head were the words I wished I could say to him—apologies, explanations, something—anything to rebuild the fragile bridge between us. But every time I pictured his face—tired eyes, the soft smile that had faded that night outside Malfoy Manor—my throat tightened around a lump too bitter to swallow.

When the meeting ended, I found Sirius. I kept my voice steady, forcing it into something light, something casual, as I asked, "Where's Remus?" I didn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on his hands wrapped around a glass of Firewhisky, watching as he idly swirled the amber liquid.

"Off on some absurdly dangerous mission," he said gruffly. His voice was low, worn, tinged with a rasp that made him sound older than he was. Then his grey eyes—sharp as a blade—lifted to mine, watching me too closely. "Something happen between you two?"

I looked away, biting down on my lip hard enough to taste metal.

Gone?

Did he even have missions that didn't include me? Hadn't we been side by side all this time—in the cold, in the danger, in the shared, wordless understanding of each other's every movement? My fingers tightened around the envelope Moody had shoved into my hands earlier, tossing a gruff "Your new shifts" over his shoulder. I opened it with stiff, unsteady fingers, and the words on the parchment struck like a spell: all my shifts were now with Bill or Alastor.

His name was gone.

Erased in a neat, impersonal line, like someone had struck him from my life with the careless flick of a quill.

Something inside me twisted, sharp and cold, as if invisible threads were pulling tight around my ribs, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My eyes flicked back up to Sirius—to his face, worn thin by Azkaban, all sharp cheekbones and hollowed eyes that made him look far older than his years—and suddenly, I knew.

Something had gone terribly wrong.

He was still watching me, head tilted just slightly, waiting for an answer, but I only shook my head. A quiet, almost imperceptible movement.

Something inside me cracked.

Softly, silently, like a branch snapping underfoot.

The lump in my throat grew heavier, and an aching hollowness spread through my chest, like someone had pressed a shard of glass deep beneath my ribs. I turned away before he could see the sting of tears welling in my eyes—hot, burning, held back by sheer force of will.

The room around me felt foreign. The low ceiling seemed to press down on my shoulders, the scent of old parchment and damp filling my lungs like something suffocating. The dim lamplight cast jagged shadows against the peeling walls, making them look even more desolate.

I stood there, frozen, as voices faded and footsteps receded down the corridor, leaving me alone with the silence—deafening, merciless silence.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run after him, to find him somewhere in this wretched, war-torn world, to demand to know why. But my legs were leaden, and the courage I had spent so long gathering had crumbled to dust.

Maybe that was the first time I realised that love doesn't always bring happiness. That it can be as sharp as a knife, cutting deep, leaving scars invisible to the eye—but so real that every breath stings.

People say that love can make you feel alive—that it breathes life into every corner of your soul, makes your heart beat faster, stronger, brighter.

But no one admits that sometimes, it's only a fleeting moment—a dazzling flash that burns hot and vanishes before you can catch it, leaving nothing behind but the echo of warmth and the bitter aftertaste of loss.

When I opened my eyes after the battle in the Department of Mysteries, the first thing I saw was Remus's face. He was asleep, slumped in an old hospital chair beside my bed, his body curled into itself in an uncomfortable position. His head tilted to the side, strands of tousled fair hair—streaked with silver at the temples—falling over his forehead, shadowing his closed eyes. Deep lines were etched beneath them, dark as fractures in old stone, making him look older than he was, as if the years had carved their marks into his skin. His plain grey shirt, rumpled and unbuttoned slightly at the collar, clung to his too-thin frame, and a small, faded patch on his sleeve stood out—neatly stitched, yet worn with time.

Slowly, I reached out, my fingers trembling from weakness as they brushed over the warmth of his hand resting on the edge of my blanket. His skin was rough, faintly scarred, and when I touched him, he jerked awake—his grey-green eyes, flecked with gold, still clouded with sleep, but already filled with sharp, raw concern.

For a long moment, he simply looked at me, as if he couldn't believe I was real, as if he thought I might slip away like a dream. His gaze wavered, clinging to my features, as though memorising them, afraid that if he blinked, I would disappear. And then his arms were around me—so sudden, so tight that pain lanced through my ribs, where bruises and fractures ached from the force of the spell that had thrown me across the hall. But I didn't care. I held onto him just as fiercely, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, gripping it as if letting go would make him vanish. His warmth seeped into me, chasing away the cold that had settled deep in my bones after the fight, and I pressed closer, inhaling the scent of him—herbal tea, old books, and something distinctly him, something that felt more healing than any potion.

It had been two weeks since I had shouted my feelings at him outside Malfoy Manor—two weeks of silence, of emptiness, of stolen glances across the battlefield, where there had been no time, no words, only the knowledge that we might not survive long enough to fix what was breaking between us. And now, he was here, solid and real, within reach.

I let myself feel. His presence—so close, so real, that I could touch him. His hand—large, calloused, the ridges of old scars against my skin as it moved gently over my back, soothing, grounding me. His voice—low, worn, murmuring something I couldn't quite hear, words I didn't need to understand because I felt them in the warmth they carried.

The world around us—the stark white walls of St Mungo's, the sharp tang of potions in the air, the distant murmur of voices beyond the door—faded away. There was only this, and I clung to it like a lifeline.

But it didn't last.

Slowly, hesitantly, he pulled away. His hand lingered, warm against my cheek, fingers trembling just slightly as his thumb brushed over my skin. His eyes searched mine—taking in the way my gaze was still heavy with the haze of potions, the way my hair, dull brown from exhaustion, stuck to my temples. There was something in his expression I couldn't name—a mixture of relief, fear, and a guilt so sharp it pulled his features taut.

His fingers hovered there for a moment longer, then his lips parted, and his voice—soft, strained—broke the silence.

"The Ministry knows." His voice wavered, like a fraying thread about to snap. "Sirius is gone. And I… I was afraid I'd lost you too."

The words hit like a curse—sharp, merciless.

Pain flared in my chest, raw and unbearable, tearing through me like a blade, and the tears I had been holding back spilled over—hot, relentless, streaking down my cheeks, leaving damp patches on his shirt where I pressed my face against him. My shoulders shook as I clung to him, feeling the rapid, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my hands, as if his chest couldn't contain it.

He held me tighter, without hesitation, without restraint, as if he was trying to anchor both of us in this moment. His fingers dug into the fabric of my hospital gown, trembling against my back, and his breath—ragged, unsteady, as though he, too, was barely holding it together—shuddered against my hair.

Reality crashed in, cold and merciless.

Sirius was gone—his laughter, his reckless smirk, his sharp wit, all swallowed by the void. The war hadn't stopped. Its claws were still reaching for us, waiting to rip apart whatever was left. And I didn't know what to feel—beyond the warmth of his hand still tracing slow, absent circles over my spine, beyond the emptiness inside me that was expanding like a void, threatening to swallow everything whole.

Pain. Relief. Grief. Hope. It tangled together, impossible to unravel. But his presence held me steady—an anchor in a storm I couldn't outrun.

Maybe, even then, through the tears and the chaos, I still clung to the hope that we had a chance. That we could have something real, despite the war, despite the losses, despite the scars it would leave on us both.

People say that love makes you weightless—that it lifts you off the ground, fills you with lightness and warmth, as if you could take flight with a single breath.

But they don't mention that sometimes, it leaves scars—deep, jagged, impossible to heal, no matter how much time passes or how many potions you drink, no matter how hard you try to forget.

After being discharged from St Mungo's, a scar remained on my chest from Bellatrix's curse—angry and red, the edges still raw, pulsing beneath layers of salves and magic. But the one Remus left in my heart—that was worse. It didn't bleed or sting, but it tore through me all the same, like an invisible wound with no counter-curse to mend it.

He had been there while I recovered. He held my hand through every nightmare, when I woke up gasping for breath, convinced it was my fault Sirius was dead—that if I had been faster, sharper, he would have survived. He calmed me, whispering something soft, barely audible, as I clung to his fingers like a lifeline. When I was discharged, he helped me home—one arm steady around my waist, careful but firm, the other carrying the bag of potions that clinked with every step. Entering my tiny kitchen, with its peeling paint and creaking floorboards, he carefully placed the bottles on the table—in the exact order I needed to take them, as if it was a ritual he had memorised.

He stayed for a few days, and it felt like coming up for air after drowning—clean, life-giving, pulling me back to myself. I started to feel whole again. With him, healing was easy, natural, like breathing. He brewed me tea—strong, with that hint of mint I loved—and read aloud from old books while sitting in the worn armchair by the window, his low, slightly raspy voice drowning out the noise in my head. He told me stories from his school days with the Marauders, and his grey-green eyes—soft, golden flecks glinting—lit up with a rare warmth as he recounted their mischief, his quiet laughter barely audible but so full of life. Everything felt right. We had each other—in these small moments of silence, in his steady presence, in the way he simply was—and it was healing us both, stitching together wounds the war had carved into us.

Until I ruined it.

One evening, he stood by the kitchen counter, telling another story—something about how he and James had once transfigured Snape's robes into a swarm of bats. A mug of tea sat in his hand, forgotten as he gestured animatedly, spilling drops onto the scuffed wooden floor. His fair hair was a mess, damp from the steam, and his smile—that rare, lopsided thing, with that tiny dimple on his cheek—was so painfully alive, so impossibly endearing, that I couldn't take it anymore. The warmth in my chest flared—dangerous, impossible to contain.

I stepped forward, closing the space between us, and kissed him—sudden, impulsive, as if I would lose him forever if I didn't. He froze. For a moment, his whole body went tense, like I had hit him with a Stunning Spell, and I barely had time to process my own reckless courage before I felt his hands—warm, trembling slightly—grip my waist and pull me closer. My fingers threaded through his hair—soft at the ends, rougher at the roots, still slightly damp. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pressing against him as if I could become part of him. His lips were gentle, tasting of herbal tea and cinnamon from the buns Molly had sent us. What started as a hesitant touch deepened into something more desperate—both of us clinging to it, as if this kiss could keep us from falling apart in a world that was crumbling beneath our feet.

And then it was over.

He broke away, pressing his forehead to mine, breath warm and uneven against my skin. His eyes—filled with something raw, something unreadable—held mine, and I saw it happen. The light in them dimmed.

"Tonks, we can't," he murmured, his voice tight, fragile, like a thread about to snap.

"Why not?" I whispered, my fingers still curled around his shoulders, still trying to hold onto the warmth slipping away from me.

"Tonks, please… I'm a werewolf. You deserve someone better. Someone whole. Someone who won't ruin your life."

I recoiled, as if he had struck me—not with his hands, but with words that cut deeper than any curse.

My chest tightened, breath catching, and I stared at him, barely believing he had actually said it.

"Remus, that's utter bullshit!" My voice cracked, trembling with something dangerously close to fury. "I kissed you. Not anyone else! I'm in love with you, and I don't give a damn what you are!"

His fingers—still warm, still shaking—brushed my cheek, his touch unbearably tender. His eyes, filled with something too heavy to name, studied my face as if he was trying to memorise it, to carve it into his memory. And that terrified me.

"Tonks," he said, almost too softly. "You think you feel this now. But it's just… it's the stress, it's Sirius, it's—"

"Don't you dare tell me what I feel!" I shouted, my voice breaking, hands curling into fists at my sides. "I know exactly what this is, and I know what I want. And I want you."

His breath hitched. For a second, I thought—hoped—he would listen. That he would finally let himself believe it. But then he took a step back.

"I have to go," he muttered, reaching for the worn-out jacket draped over the back of the chair—faded, frayed at the elbows, the same one he always wore like a shield.

"Remus, wait!" I grabbed his wrist as he reached for the door. My fingers clenched around the fabric of his sleeve, knuckles white with the force of holding on. "Where are you going? Grimmauld Place isn't safe—"

"I have a mission," he said flatly, still not looking at me.

"And then?" I pleaded. "You'll come back? Tell me you'll come back and we'll talk about this. We'll talk about us."

A muscle in his jaw tightened.

"I don't know if I'll be back."

The words were a hammer to my ribs, knocking the breath from my lungs.

I tightened my grip on his sleeve, fingers trembling. "What does that mean? Where are you going?"

"I can't tell you," he murmured.

Cold understanding crashed over me like a wave.

I looked at him—at the hunched slope of his shoulders, at the tension in his throat—and suddenly, I knew.

"You're not leaving because of me, are you?" My voice was barely a whisper, my throat raw from unshed tears.

Silence.

His gaze stayed locked on the floor, and that silence was answer enough.

"Merlin's sake," I choked out. "You're taking every dangerous mission they'll give you because of me? Because it's easier to die than admit you love me?"

His head snapped up, his gaze searing into mine—wild, burning, laced with something close to rage.

"What do you want from me, Tonks?" His voice was rough, almost unfamiliar, breaking into a hoarse rasp. "I have duties, responsibilities! I can't just sit here with you forever, talking about nonsense, listening to music, reading books, brewing tea, while people are dying out there! We are bloody soldiers in a cursed war! And you need to grow up and understand that instead of chasing childish illusions!"

For a moment, it felt like he wasn't shouting at me but at himself—like he was trying to convince himself more than me. But the bitterness and hurt had already crashed over me, piercing through my chest like poison. His words cut like a knife, and some invisible force twisted the blade deeper.

My hands loosened their grip, slowly letting go of his shirt, and instead reached for the door handle. I opened it, letting in the cold draft that swept through the kitchen, carrying with it the damp scent of the street outside.

"Then go," I said quietly, almost calmly, though inside, everything was collapsing like a house of cards caught in the wind. "And don't come back."

Remus gave a small nod, lowering his head, his hair falling forward to hide his eyes. Without another word, he stepped over the threshold, and I closed the door behind him, listening as his heavy footsteps faded down the stairs—slow, weary, like a man carrying far too much on his shoulders.

When silence finally settled, I turned the lock, slid down to the floor, and broke.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, hot and salty, my chest tightening from the pain, while my ears rang with the sound of something shattering—the sound of my heart splintering into pieces, like glass struck too hard.

Maybe that was the first time I truly heard it break, and I knew this scar would stay with me forever—deeper than a curse, deeper than the war itself.

People say that love sets you free—that it breaks the chains around your soul, fills you with weightlessness, as if you've finally spread your wings.

But they don't mention that true freedom begins with accepting yourself—painfully, brutally, tearing yourself apart in the process—and that sometimes, to do so, you have to disappear somewhere no one can find you, leaving everything behind. Leaving us behind.

When I heard Remus's name at the next Order meeting, followed by Dumbledore's quiet comment—his voice, calm and slightly hoarse, like the rustle of old parchment, saying, "He's gone back to Greyback's pack,"—I froze. Something inside me clenched tight, as if cold fingers had wrapped around my heart, and I wasn't sure whether to burst into tears or start laughing hysterically. Maybe both, like a carousel—tears, laughter, then tears again, an endless cycle that made my head spin and nausea rise in my throat. I felt their eyes on me: Molly's—warm, concerned, her brown eyes searching my face as if looking for even a flicker of light inside me; Moody's—calculating, his magical eye whirring and spinning, studying me like a recruit who had just lost their partner in battle; Bill's and Kingsley's—curious, wondering whether I knew more than they did or if I had simply shattered under the weight of it. But I wasn't about to give them any answers—not with my words, not with my expression.

I put on a mask—a cold, unreadable one, the same one I had seen on Remus so many times when he hid his pain behind indifference—and in a voice carved from stone, I said, "Do we need to come up with a plan to get Harry out of the Dursleys'?"

The hardest part was keeping that mask in place. Not faltering, not revealing how everything inside me was tearing apart—sharp fragments of emotions stabbing deeper with every breath. Especially when people noticed my hair. It had dulled to a lifeless mousy brown, faded as if all the magic had drained out of me along with him, leaving only a shadow behind. I hated that colour—it was a reflection of my defeat, a mirror I didn't want to look into.

"It's a new Muggle fashion trend, haven't you heard?" I would joke with a forced smile, feeling how the corners of my lips trembled under the strain, my voice sounding hollow, like a cracked bell. At home, I had shattered two mirrors—their shards crunched beneath my feet, sharp and cold, as I tied my hair into a high ponytail, refusing to look at my reflection, refusing to see the pale, exhausted ghost I had become.

It was even harder to explain why I looked like I hadn't slept in a week. I used to be able to hide the dark circles under my eyes, the red streaks in them, the marks left on my cheek from falling asleep at my desk. Now I just shrugged, muttered while staring at the floor, "I'm fine, just tired."

It was impossible not to snap when I saw their pity—the silent stares, the soft smiles that screamed We want to help—but they didn't understand. They didn't know what it felt like to be consumed from the inside out by a mix of anger, grief, and emptiness. I didn't want their help. I didn't want to hear Remus's name, didn't want the casual mentions of him after meetings—"He should be back by the end of the week…"—or Molly's gentle, motherly offers—"Remus might stop by later tonight." I didn't want to know what he had become—hollow, exhausted, different—to see him again, and worst of all, to let him see me.

I didn't want him to know that he had won. That I had lost this war against my own feelings, that I was nothing more than a pathetic ruin, falling to pieces at the mere memory of his voice—low, rough, like a whisper on the wind; his gaze—warm, golden flecks catching the light, now feeling like a mirage; his hands—calloused, covered in thin scars, the hands I had once loved to touch. I didn't want anyone to mention me to him—not as this broken, hollow thing, with dull hair and empty eyes.

I wanted to be more than this.

I wanted to prove—to him, to myself, to everyone—that I had moved on, that I was a soldier, not a stray cat left shivering in the rain, pathetic and waiting. Even though, deep down, I was that cat—lost, alone, crushed under the weight of his absence.

So I turned down every invitation with a polite, strained smile, muttered, "I'm fine," and changed the subject to trivial things—the weather, work, the new broom model in the Auror department. And then I would go home.

I would lock the door, the key turning with a heavy click, and slide down onto the cold wooden floor by the threshold. The creak of the boards was sharp in the silence, like a knife against my ears, but I barely noticed. And then I would cry.

Silent tears, slipping down my cheeks, hot and relentless, tracing burning paths along my skin, dripping onto my collarbones as I sat curled up, arms wrapped tightly around my knees. The room around me—with its sagging bed, the stack of dust-covered books on my dresser, the dim light of the streetlamp filtering through the grimy window—seemed to shrink, pressing in on me. But I didn't move. I couldn't.

All I had left was the cold floor, the weight of my own silence, and the pain pulsing in my chest like an open wound.

Maybe, because the only thing Remus left me was the bitter chance to come to terms with myself—to figure out who I was, even if it tore me apart and left nothing behind but the broken pieces of the person I used to be with him.

People say that when you meet your fate, even the most ordinary moments turn into precious memories—warm, like sunlight filtering through curtains.

But they don't tell you that sometimes, memories are all you have left, and they become chains—heavy, cold—binding every step, every breath.

I woke up at the same time every morning—precisely at six, when the first pale rays of light seeped through the cracked, grimy window of my tiny room at the Hog's Head. I made my bed with its faded blanket, the pattern worn away by time, did my morning exercises on the creaking floor, feeling the ache in my muscles, stretched tight like strings, then went for a run through Hogsmeade. The cold air bit at my cheeks, burned my lungs as I ran past shuttered shops with dusty windows and the occasional passerby huddling into their scarves. Then I returned, took a shower—hot, almost scalding, as steam curled up to the low ceiling, clinging to the peeling paint, while water ran down my now noticeably thinner frame, outlining each rib beneath taut skin. Breakfast with Aberforth followed—thick, tasteless porridge and a slice of stale bread with a thin smear of butter—under his silent gaze from beneath bushy brows that scrutinised but never questioned. Then it was off to my ten-hour patrol in Hogsmeade.

In the evenings, I ate alone—a bottle of butterbeer, cold and fizzing against my fingers, and a slice of pie that remained mostly untouched on my plate as I stared into nothing. Afterwards, I either trained, practising spells—flashes of light cutting through the dim room, reflecting in the dusty glass—or patrolled the corridors of Hogwarts, my footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls, the only sound breaking the oppressive silence.

That was my routine. Nothing remarkable, nothing strange. The same route, the same actions, as if someone had wound up a mechanism, and I moved at its command—steady, thoughtless. It was simple. It kept my mind in check, stopped it from wandering, from latching onto the things I had tried so hard to burn out of myself, like a stain on a robe.

But on weekends, when my shifts ended and the Order sent me to "rest" instead of another mission, the memories surged back with renewed force—like waves crashing against a fragile shore, leaving only wreckage behind.

I couldn't drink tea anymore. Even the faintest scent of mint or chamomile—the herbs he used to brew for me at Grimmauld, filling the kitchen with their rich aroma—made my throat tighten, heavy and suffocating, as if I had swallowed a stone. Now, I drank coffee—black, bitter, scalding my tongue until it went numb, no sugar, no milk. It jolted me awake, chased the sleep from my heavy eyelids, drowned out the taste of the past. But every sip still echoed with the memory of his hands, passing me a cup, his voice asking, "Lemon?"

I tried reading. Picked up old books with worn spines—the ones I used to re-read every autumn, curled up under a blanket—but now every line sounded in his voice. That low, slightly husky timbre, the gentle lilt of his words as he read to me while I drifted off to sleep on the sofa. The letters blurred before my eyes, melted into meaningless smudges, and I would drop the book onto the table with a dull thud, unable to finish even a page.

Music had become an enemy too. I no longer played records—every song pulled me back to those quiet evenings in Grimmauld's library, listening to vinyls crackling with age. Sometimes he would hum along, slightly off-key, but warm enough to make me smile, and sometimes—he would pull me up by the hand, and we would dance, stumbling over the rug, laughing, until Sirius teased us from the doorway. Now, silence was my only companion—thick, suffocating, filling the room like an invisible fog.

Sleep had turned into torture.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—warm grey-green eyes with golden flecks, looking at me with a tenderness that made my breath catch; his smile, a little lopsided, that damn dimple in his cheek; his laugh—bright, alive, the kind that once made my heart stutter. And then I would wake—tears in my eyes, a silent scream lodged in my throat, the sheets twisted beneath my clenched fists as if I had tried to hold onto his ghost. My pillow was damp with salt, and I lay staring at the ceiling until the first light of dawn chased the shadows away.

At first, I tried drinking.

Firewhisky scorched my throat like liquid flame, and I drank until the world blurred into a hazy mess, until I blacked out on the lumpy mattress, sinking into oblivion. In the morning, my head pounded, pain pulsing behind my temples, and for a while, that was all I could focus on—pure, physical, distracting. But it didn't help. The hangover brought nausea, bitter and cloying, and in battle, when my wand trembled in my grip and spells slipped from my tongue unevenly, it became a worse enemy than any Death Eater.

Then I turned to dreamless sleep potions.

Their bitter taste clung to my tongue like soot, but they granted me a few hours of black emptiness—no dreams, no pain, no him. Within a week, my body craved more—one vial stopped working, two left me sluggish, my head heavy, nausea rising in my throat. I threw the rest away, watching the dark liquid swirl down the sink, disappearing into the drain.

I was just trying to find something to fill the void, to numb the ache that hollowed me out like acid.

I paced my room in restless circles, clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms, leaving crescent-shaped marks, ground my teeth until they ached just to keep myself from screaming, from releasing the wail trapped inside my chest. But nothing worked.

His shadow was everywhere—in the scent of herbs, in the rustle of pages, in the silence that stretched endlessly through my days.

But maybe… maybe all I really needed was time. Time for the memories to stop cutting like shards of glass, to become just a part of me—faded, quiet, but no longer so sharp.

People say that love finds you when you're open to the world—like a warm breeze carrying the promise of spring.

But no one warns you that sometimes, it's old love that knocks on your door, just when you've finally convinced yourself that time has stitched up your wounds—rough, uneven threads hidden beneath a layer of new skin.

On Christmas, I didn't go to Molly's, or to my parents, or to my friends, or my colleagues. I told everyone I had work, but it was a shameless lie—slippery, like the wet snow outside my window. I stayed in my rented flat in London. Sat on my sagging couch, clutching the edges of a faded blanket, staring at my things—stacks of books with worn spines, vinyl records covered in a thin layer of dust, picture frames I hadn't yet found the courage to pack away. His laughter, his gaze, frozen in black-and-white photographs. Why was I still paying for this place when I had lived in Hogsmeade for the past six months? Maybe because it was my last sanctuary, my fortress, where I could hide from the world. Or maybe because, deep down, I still hoped that one day, Remus would knock on this door, and we would reclaim the warmth that had once existed between us—fragile, but real.

But he didn't come. Not that night, not any other. And as I stared at the dim fairy lights flickering outside, blurred by the winter mist, I understood—this was the final sign, the last punctuation mark in a long list of hopes I had clung to so desperately. I didn't shed a single tear—for the first time in months, for the first time since he left—and I promised myself I wouldn't cry over love again, wouldn't dissolve into it like salt in water. That night, I made a wish: to live again, to be happy, to remember why I was fighting, what I wanted my life to be—and I clenched my fists as if that could trap the promise inside me.

They say the start of a new year is like a blank page in a sketchbook. You still carry the lessons of previous pages, the scars of old sketches, but now you get to create something new, something meaningful, something yours. I threw myself into work—patrolling Hogsmeade, where the wind bit at my face; training until exhaustion, until my muscles trembled from overuse; filling my days with friends and colleagues, whose voices drowned out the silence. I visited my parents, laughed at their jokes, breathed in the scent of my mother's pie—sweet, with a hint of cinnamon, wrapping around me like an embrace. My hair started changing colour again—soft pinks, pale blues—not as bold as before, but shifting nonetheless. And I started breathing again, as if surfacing from deep underwater.

Or at least, I tried to convince myself that I was.

At the end of February, I had two days off. I decided to move out of the flat for good—it was time to let go of this ghost of the past, this shadow clinging to me like cobwebs. I arrived early, armed with boxes, and started packing. By the evening, I was trying to cram vinyls, albums, photographs, and books into one box, stubbornly refusing to use an Undetectable Extension Charm—as if this was some kind of test of my strength, my control. My hands were shaking, my back ached, and my throat was dry from dust and fatigue.

And then a knock came at the door—sharp, abrupt, like a gunshot.

I didn't even think about who it might be. I wasn't expecting anyone, but after months of being around people—of hearing their voices, their footsteps, their casual visits—I assumed it was a neighbour asking for sugar, or checking how long I'd be staying. Muggles had a charming simplicity about them, and the thought almost made me smile. I opened the door and froze, the breath knocked clean from my lungs.

A stranger stood before me, but his eyes were painfully familiar. More grey streaked his hair, tangled and damp from the snow melting on his shoulders. More scars—jagged, red lines slashed across his face, disappearing beneath his half-unbuttoned shirt, leaving behind the marks of claws and suffering. His cheeks were sunken, his skin pale, almost translucent, like a man half-dead. Deep, dark circles hollowed out his eyes, like chasms carved by exhaustion. He could barely stand, gripping the doorframe with trembling fingers, and only then did I notice—his shirt was soaked in blood. Dark stains spread across the fabric, glistening in the dim hallway light, fresh and sticky.

I stepped aside, letting him in, and shut the door quickly behind him, my heartbeat pounding in my throat. Without a word, I guided him to the rickety chair in the kitchen and rushed to grab the first-aid kit I thankfully hadn't packed yet. My hands worked on instinct—bandages, potions, silver powder with its sharp, metallic scent. I knelt before him, lifted his shirt—he didn't resist, just flinched slightly, and I knew how much pain he must have been in if even arguing was beyond him. His body was wrecked—deep cuts still oozing blood, bruises blooming in dark violet patches, claw marks slashed across his ribs like torn stitches.

I worked silently, methodically, sealing wounds, securing bandages, feeling his skin tremble beneath my touch.

I gave him a pain-relief potion—bitter, acrid, the kind that burned the nose—and the half-eaten ham sandwich left over from my lunch. He took it without protest. Then, I sent him to the shower, pressing an old t-shirt and pajama bottoms into his hands—the same ones he had left behind last time. Grey, with a faded pattern, still carrying the scent of dust and memory.

And then I made up the couch for him—clean sheets, covered in tiny, faded Snitches that now felt so unfamiliar.

When he sat at the edge of the couch, dressed in those worn clothes, his damp hair falling over his forehead—it was so familiar, so painfully natural, that tears stung my eyes, hot and bitter. I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms, forcing them back, refusing to show how his presence had shattered the thin layer of armor I had spent months building.

"I'm sorry for coming here. You were the first person I thought of," he said, his voice hoarse, breaking the heavy silence between us like a curtain being torn apart. His gaze—exhausted, yet still warm, still carrying those same golden flecks—met mine, and something inside me wavered.

"Did they do this to you?" I asked, leaning against the doorway to my bedroom, as if it could keep me standing, as if my legs hadn't gone weak beneath me. The thought that he had only remembered me when he was close to death burned more than I wanted to admit, leaving the taste of ashes on my tongue.

He smiled—barely, just the corner of his lips tilting upward, and it was a blade slipping under my ribs.

"I suppose I don't belong anywhere—not even among my own."

"Don't go back there," the words escaped before I could stop them, my voice betraying everything I had tried to hide—the fear, the pain, the hope.

"I have to," he murmured, a quiet resignation in his tone that cut deeper than anything else.

I nodded—short, sharp, pressing my lips into a thin line. I didn't have the strength to argue, to tell him that he wasn't an outsider here, with me, that I needed him more than the pack ever could, more than whatever sense of duty was driving him. I didn't have the strength to scream that this was a foolish, pointless choice, that he was killing himself—and taking me down with him.

I knew he wouldn't listen.

By morning, he would be gone, no matter how fresh his wounds were beneath the bandages, no matter how exhaustion bowed his shoulders.

"Sleep, Remus. You need to recover. We'll talk in the morning."

But in the morning, it wasn't him who left—it was me.

I left a note on the table—clumsy, rushed words: "Stay as long as you need." Left the spare keys, letting them clatter against the wood, and Disapparated without looking back, my throat tightening with all the things I couldn't say. I couldn't stay, couldn't look into his eyes and lose him all over again—not now, when I had only just begun piecing myself back together.

When I returned a week later, the flat was empty and cold.

The bedding was neatly folded on the couch, the corners of the sheet straightened with the same meticulousness I had always loved in him. The dishes had been washed and left to dry, the water droplets long since evaporated. His scent still lingered in the air—herbal, slightly bitter, like the tea he used to make for me—but I forced myself not to notice, not to breathe in too deeply.

I stepped into my bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, the springs creaking beneath me—

And only then did I see them.

A bouquet of asters—bright violet, my favourite, their petals slightly drooping, as if they had grown tired of waiting. Beside them lay a note, written in his precise, slightly unsteady handwriting: "Thank you for everything, Nymphadora."

The name he hadn't called me in over seven months.

The name I had thought he had erased, just as he had erased me.

My foolish heart clenched, twisted, and the tears—hot, unwelcome, breaking every promise I had made to myself—spilled over, streaking salty paths down my cheeks. I never gave up that rented flat. Never threw away the keys. Never returned them to the landlord.

Because what if he came back again? What if the bouquet and the note weren't an ending, but a beginning?

Maybe time never truly healed anything. Maybe it only dulled the pain—just enough for it to return when you least expected it, like an old friend you never wanted to see again.

People say the heart wants what it wants.

But no one warns you how painful it is to want something you can't have—how the longing eats away at you from the inside, leaving behind a hollow space that nothing else can fill.

One spring morning, I was sitting in the Hog's Head, sipping bitter coffee before my shift. A battered Prophet lay open in front of me, but I wasn't really reading—until I caught a snippet of conversation at the bar.

"It hasn't hit the papers yet. Pack attack near London—few dead, few in Azkaban. Didn't touch any civilians. Someone must've warned them in time."

Remus. His name flared in my mind first—like a spell spoken aloud, impossible to take back.

I tried to find out anything through the Order, but no one knew—no one had heard from him in weeks. The Ministry sent me in circles, pointing me to useless reports. I asked Kingsley, but even he, with his steady gaze and unshakable voice, only gave me a shrug. I searched for Dumbledore, but he was nowhere to be found. My heart was tearing itself apart, but I refused to believe he was gone. I couldn't.

And then, at one of the Order meetings, he walked in.

The kitchen door at the Burrow creaked open, and there he was—thinner, new scars cutting across his neck, his eyes dull with exhaustion.

I didn't think. I just moved.

I threw my arms around him, gripping his threadbare robes as if he might disappear again, shaking from the force of my own relief. And he held me back—just as tightly, pulling me against him, as if he was the one afraid of losing me. No words about us. No words about the war, or what had happened. Just the warmth of his arms around me, in Molly's kitchen, with the soft whistle of the kettle on the stove and the scent of freshly baked bread hanging in the air.

"Tell me you're back for good," I murmured against his chest.

"I am," he said quietly, his voice rough but steady. "But, Tonks, that doesn't mean—"

"I know. I know. Right now, it's enough that you're alive."

And in that moment, it was enough.

But then, slowly, like ice melting under the first touches of spring sunlight, something between us—fractured and fragile—began to breathe again.

We found our way back to easy conversations at Molly's kitchen table—the wooden surface worn smooth, still stained with soup spills and tea rings. We laughed at her stories about the twins' latest pranks. He blushed when I repeated the awful jokes I'd heard at the Hog's Head, rolling his eyes, but I caught the twitch at the corner of his lips betraying him. He brewed my tea again—the same blend, minty with a hint of citrus, placing the cup in front of me with that quiet, instinctive care. His fingers trembled, just a little, when he handed me a spoon.

He wasn't the same Remus from Grimmauld Place—light on his feet, laughter ringing through the halls, eyes bright with mischief. Something in him had cracked, fractured beyond repair, and he was trying to hold himself together with glue that wasn't strong enough to keep the seams from splitting.

But I was just as broken.

Scarred in places no one could see. And that made it easier, in a way.

I saw his pain, felt it like my own, and reached for him as if he were the only source of light in an endless dark.

All the memories I had locked away—sealed tight with a hundred latches, marked Do not open, will destroy you—broke free, clawing at my ribs like a restless animal demanding attention.

My resolve—my hard-won strength, the walls I had built—crumbled with every rare smile, every glimpse of that damn dimple in his cheek. With every glance—warm and weary all at once. With every "Tonks, you are impossible," spoken with a theatrical sigh but softened by something unspoken in his tone.

With every cup of tea. With every accidental touch when he passed me the bread or a book.

And on the night Dumbledore died, I saw him as I had never seen him before. His eyes—green, the golden flecks within them dimmed—were filled with despair, fear, and a grief so deep it felt bottomless. His mask—that flawless, impenetrable mask of composure he had worn for years—didn't even try to fall into place. He stood hunched in the hospital wing, his hair disheveled, staring at Bill—unconscious, his face marred with fresh, vicious scars. I thought of how close the killing curse had come to Remus, of Snape's betrayal, of Dumbledore's death, of the agony tearing through all of us. I thought of Fleur, standing by Bill's bedside, of how she had declared she loved him despite everything, and how that love, perhaps, would heal him, even if the scars remained forever. And then I looked at him—broken, lost, his hands trembling where they were shoved deep into the pockets of his old robes—and I saw my own reflection in his eyes: just as broken, just as lost.

In that moment, the wall I had built—brick by brick, out of pride, fear, and resentment—finally crumbled. I knew I had to try again. That we needed each other. That in this war, where everything was falling apart, love was the only reason we had left to keep going. In the hospital wing, surrounded by the sharp scent of potions, muffled sobs, and deep shadows on stark white walls, after Fleur's words, I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"You see!" I cried, my voice cutting through the room like a spell. "She still wants to marry him, even though he's been bitten! She doesn't care!" The words burst out, loud, raw, in front of everyone. I turned to him, waiting—for anger, for understanding, for relief. But all I saw in his eyes was pain—sharper than before, so sharp it made me flinch. And then I heard Molly and Arthur speak to him—gently, reproachfully—like this wasn't the first time he had heard something like this.

Something inside me cracked. I had broken something fragile again, and I couldn't bear it. Muttering something about needing to warn the Order, I turned and left. I Apparated straight to my flat, sent my Patronus with a short message, then buried myself under the blankets of my sagging bed. And sobbed. Loud, raw, choking, until my throat burned.

Someone knocked at the door. I didn't move. Another knock—I remained curled up, face pressed into my tear-soaked pillow. Then silence. I thought whoever it was had left. I started to calm down, rubbing my damp cheeks with trembling hands. Then came the soft click of the lock turning. I bolted upright, snatching my wand from the bedside table, and rushed toward the door.

"Whoever you are, get out of my flat!" I shouted, the tip of my wand glowing as I aimed it into the dimly lit hallway.

"It's just me, Nymphadora," came Remus's tired voice. He stood in the doorway, clutching a small, familiar object in his hand—the spare key I had left for him in February. His hair was damp from the rain, droplets sliding down his temples. His face was pale, dark shadows etched beneath his eyes, his robes hanging loosely off his thin frame. And in his gaze, there was something soft—but heavy.

"I think we need to talk," he said quietly. "What do you think?"

Maybe this was the first time we truly heard each other—not through walls, not through fear, but simply, as two broken people who still wanted to be together.

People say that love is magic, the kind that turns the ordinary into something extraordinary.

But as a witch, I can say with certainty—true magic never comes easily. It is born from faith, patience, and the willingness to fight for it, even when everything around you is falling apart.

We sat on my worn-out couch for hours. After the battle, neither of us had changed—dust and grime clung to our robes, soaked with the scent of smoke and blood, but none of it mattered. The faint aroma of herbal tea lingered in the air, the tea that Remus had made from an old packet he found in my kitchen. Our cups sat on the table, already cold, dark rings staining the bottom. The morning sunlight barely filtered through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the peeling walls of my tiny flat.

We talked—like we used to at Grimmauld Place, when the world felt a little less heavy. We talked about how we had survived this past year, about the scars left on our bodies and souls. Remus spoke about the werewolf packs. His voice—low, slightly hoarse—shook as he described how long it had taken to earn their trust, pretending to be one of them, and how quickly it had all crumbled, leaving him a stranger among those who should have understood him. He was the one who had warned the Order about the attack—I had always known it deep down, but the fear that he could have been one of the unidentified bodies clenched my heart. He spoke of cold nights sleeping on damp ground, of meager food, of things he wasn't proud of—his gaze dropped to his hands, lined with thin scars, as if he could still see the remnants of those days on his skin. I knew he was trusting me with this, and I wondered if he was trying to push me away again. But he should have known by now—I was not so easily driven off.

I told him about my dull patrols in Hogsmeade, about morning runs that burned my lungs with the cold air, about training until my hands trembled from exhaustion. I talked about the ridiculous gossip at the Ministry—he laughed, throwing his head back like he used to at Grimmauld Place, and the sound was like balm on an old wound. I had missed this—his bright, ringing laughter, his "Nymphadora, your colleagues are just pompous idiots," spoken with gentle amusement. I admitted that I had switched to drinking coffee—bitter, black, to drown out the taste of his tea. I told him about my lonely Christmas, about the strange ways I had tried to numb the pain—from Firewhisky to dreamless sleep potions. I saw his face darken, his fingers tighten on the edge of his robes, and I knew I was hurting him. But I didn't want to wound him—I wanted him to understand how empty everything had been without him.

Then we talked about us—quietly, without arguments, too exhausted to put up walls. He didn't wear his mask of indifference, and I liked that. His eyes—green, their golden flecks dimmed—held a warmth tinged with sadness as he admitted he was afraid of losing me. His voice trembled when he confessed that his greatest fear was ruining my life, that his worst nightmare was the day I would wake up and realize I no longer wanted to be with him, and the world would be too cruel to take me back. His thin shoulders slumped, and he stared at the floor, as if ashamed of saying it aloud.

I told him that normalcy had never been my fate. That I didn't care what anyone thought, that I wanted to choose my own life, my own path. That this—us—was the only thing, apart from my parents and friends, that I was willing to fight for. I spoke of my pain, of how his absence had torn me apart, how I had broken without him—honestly, without holding anything back. I repeated that I didn't care about his "too old, too sick, too poor". I assured him that being without him was far worse than any of his so-called flaws, and that none of those reasons were worth losing him again.

And then he held me—wrapped me in his arms, pulling me close. I broke down in sobs—for the first time in a year, I cried not from grief, but from quiet, almost impossible happiness. His scent—herbal tea, old books, slightly earthy—enveloped me, his words—soft, reassuring—murmured near my ear, and the gentle kisses he pressed to my temple were a silent promise. My tears soaked into his shirt, darkening the gray fabric, but he only held me tighter, whispering something I couldn't make out, something that made my heart stop and then start again.

We sat there until the sun rose higher, flooding the flat with golden light. Its rays spilled onto the dusty floor, illuminating cracks in the wood, but we didn't notice. Only then did we shower—hot water washing away the grime and exhaustion from our bodies—and then we fell asleep together, for the first time in a year. Lying on my narrow bed, we clung to each other—I held onto his hand, he wrapped his arm around my waist—as if afraid that one of us might disappear.

But no one was leaving this time.

Maybe that was the moment our hearts finally got what they had wanted all along—each other, despite everything.

People say that love heals all wounds.

But no one mentions that love leaves the deepest scars—the ones that teach us to treasure moments of happiness like a rare potion in the midst of war.

The next day, Remus moved into myour rented flat. It felt so natural, so right, as if that year of separation had dissolved into the past, as if we had always lived like this. We quickly fell into a routine, moving through the small space in an effortless dance, a rhythm only we understood. I made breakfast—clumsily, dropping toast on the floor—while he brewed tea, smiling at my awkwardness. We bumped shoulders in the tiny kitchen, caught each other's gaze in the hallway, and every time, his hand would find mine—a brief touch, but one that meant everything.

Within the walls of our flat, we talked about the news, made jokes, and lived as though there was no war raging outside, as though we weren't its soldiers.

Of course, reality always returned. The Order meetings, where Remus took on the role of a strategist, drawing up plans—how to get Harry away from the Dursleys, what came next, how to fight. His voice became firmer, his gaze sharper as he traced lines across maps. I went to the Ministry, pretending to be a loyal employee, gathering scraps of information for the Order, hiding my fear behind a strained smile. But at home, we left all of that at the door. We returned—dusty, exhausted—and became simply ourselves again: happy, alive. We did everything together, held on to each other as if letting go meant the other would disappear.

One day, Remus asked me to go for a walk. It was a rare day—sunny, warm, one of the best in the midst of war. The sky was clear, the wind playfully tugged at my pink hair, and the air smelled of salt and freedom. We Apparated to a cliff—tall, rugged, overlooking the crashing waves below, where the sea roared against the rocks. He took my hand—his palm warm, slightly rough with old scars—and led me to the edge, where the view stretched endlessly before us. The sunlight gilded the water, seagulls cried in the distance, and the horizon seemed infinite.

"I found this place after the first war," he said, gazing at the sea. His voice was quiet but steady, with a slight rasp, as if he hadn't spoken about this in a long time. "I wandered along the coast back then, not really knowing why—my legs just carried me. I stumbled across this cliff, climbed up, covered in dirt and blood after another night I'd rather forget. I sat here for hours, listening to the waves crash against the rocks, to the gulls screaming overhead, and tried to remember why I was still breathing. After every full moon, I would come back—drag myself here, with aching bones and a ringing in my ears, look out at the horizon and think, 'Maybe tomorrow will be easier.'" He paused, running a hand through his hair—light brown, streaked with silver, tousled by the wind—before turning to me. There was a shadow of old pain in his grey-green eyes, but beneath it was something new, something soft. "I haven't been here in two years. I didn't even think about this place—not since I met you. I just… didn't need it anymore. It only occurred to me recently that this cliff, this crashing sea—they don't keep me afloat now. Because when I open my eyes—after a transformation, when my body is burning, or after a curse knocks me down and leaves nothing but pain and emptiness in my head—I think of you. Of your pink hair, how you always tug at it when you're frustrated. Of your eyes—the same colour as this ocean, but alive, stormy, filled with fire. That's the first thing that comes to mind, and it pulls me back. It makes me stand up."

I froze, feeling warmth spread through my chest. And I smiled, realising that perhaps he had never been joking when he called pink his favourite colour.

And there, on that cliff, Remus Lupin proposed to me. He dropped to one knee—slightly awkwardly, his hands trembling just a little—and pulled out a simple ring that had belonged to his mother, silver, with a tiny stone that caught the light. His voice shook as he spoke about his feelings, about how he wanted to spend his life with me, however much of it we had left. His hair—light brown, streaked with grey at the temples—was tousled by the wind, and his face, lined with thin scars, was so open, so alive.

I cried and laughed and shouted for joy—loudly, without restraint, like never before. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and laughter bubbled from my chest, mixing with the roar of the waves. Just days later, we found a small village in the north of Scotland—quiet, with stone cottages and the scent of heather in the air. There, in a modest chapel, we were married. No fuss, no crowds—just us, an old priest, and a couple of local witnesses. I wore a simple pink dress, he wore his best shirt—slightly creased, but neatly buttoned. It was the happiest time of my life. We were together, and this damned world couldn't break us.

Maybe that was the moment I knew for certain that I would cherish these moments of happiness for the rest of my life—like light that shines even brighter against the backdrop of scars.

People say that love is a gift meant to be shared and that every such gift begins a new story.

But they forget to mention that to begin that story, you need courage—the strength to take a blank page and not falter as your hand writes the first lines.

In books and films, romance usually ends with a wedding—a beautiful full stop, followed by "and they lived happily ever after." No one shows what happens next, no one talks about the challenges waiting beyond the final scene. And when you bind yourself to someone in marriage, you don't expect your honeymoon to be a trial rather than a sweet fairytale.

Remus and I spent more and more time away on Order missions. We took on more responsibility—meetings, plans, stacks of reports that he pored over late into the night under the dim glow of a lamp while I extracted fragments of rumours from within the Ministry. We whispered about who else could be a spy because trust had become terrifying—every glance seemed suspicious. We tried to decipher what Dumbledore wanted from Harry, how to help the kids who were losing everything before our eyes. At home, behind drawn curtains, we talked about us—less frequently, but still clinging to each other. Our legs and arms tangled in our narrow bed, the sheets creased beneath us, and the scent of peppermint tea lingered in the air, brewed out of habit.

We discussed money, housing, the future—but without the dreamy naivety we once had. The Ministry was cracking, and we knew its days were numbered. Soon, we would both be without jobs, without stability. I couldn't even say my new name—Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin—out loud at work. The laws against werewolves had tightened, and Remus worried it would affect me. His concern was in every look, in every "Dora, please be careful," and I had learned to accept it without arguing, even when frustration boiled inside me.

That was manageable. What was harder was seeing the pain in my mother's eyes. She looked at me with silent reproach, as if our secret wedding, without inviting our parents, had been a betrayal. It almost amused me—after all, her own wedding to Dad had been just as rushed and quiet. I knew she didn't truly blame us. It was just that, ever since I was born, she had dreamed of a different daughter: one with long hair plaited into neat braids, in floor-length skirts, playing the piano, knowing which fork to use for salad. She had imagined me at a grand wedding—with a crowd of relatives, in a white dress, flowers in my hands. She had wanted to give me her dream, to shape me into another version of herself. And I understood that. I understood that good parents always believe they know us better than we know ourselves. I was old enough not to take offence.

But Remus wasn't. He took her shouting too much to heart. I tried to explain that it wasn't about him, that she was just worried, but he only shook his head, his lips pressed into a stubborn line. His stubbornness, especially when it came to his condition, was stronger than mine. It added another shadow to our box of doubts.

Fear was easy. It was easy when war breathed down our necks and we couldn't plan further than a week ahead. Easy when we didn't know if we would come home at night to close the door behind us. Easy when, each morning while brushing my teeth, I noticed the small box on the shelf containing two letters—"in case of my death," mine and his—and my heart clenched, tears dripping into the sink, mixing with the water. Easy when I held his hand before another deadly mission, memorising every wrinkle on his face, every scar, the dimple in his cheek, the grey-green of his eyes, trying to capture it all, down to the last detail. Easy when I stared into Bellatrix's mad eyes—so much like my mother's, yet filled with hatred—and realised she wanted to kill me, as if it were her sole purpose. Easy when I understood that another important person had vanished from my life—Moody, with his quiet words of encouragement, his crooked grin, and his jokes that would never be heard again.

Fear is like poison. It takes away reason, makes you doubt yourself, makes you afraid of the future. Steady plans collapse like a house of cards in a gust of wind, and every day delivers new blows—sharp, unexpected, merciless. You don't have time to process it, no time to think it through. All you can do is move forward mechanically, like a squirrel in a cursed wheel that someone's rigged with a motor. You fall, you stumble, you scream into your pillow, you cry until your throat is raw, but every time, you force yourself to get up and keep going. It drains you to your very bones, pushes you to reckless decisions, makes you snap at the people you love, compels you to act on desperate choices you'll regret later.

That was when we found out I was pregnant. My thoughts became chaos—a tangled ball of threads, impossible to unravel. They darted, tangled, slipped away, and I couldn't think clearly. Where would we be in nine months? Would the war be over? Would we even be alive? How would we continue helping the Order? What would happen to Harry, Hermione, and Ron? To my parents? To us? How would we survive? On what? Would we be able to find work in this hell? Could we give our child safety? Would there be any safety left anywhere? The questions spun in my mind like a curse with no counterspell, and I felt like I was suffocating under their weight.

I wasn't alone in that whirlwind. Remus often got up at night, thinking I was asleep. I would lie still, eyes closed, listening to the soft shuffling of his footsteps on the wooden floor of our tiny flat. His long fingers—thin, lined with old scars—would brew tea in our old kettle, the spoon clinking softly against the rim of the cup. He'd open the window, and I'd hear the wind carry away the tendrils of cigarette smoke into the cold night. I didn't know when he had started smoking—perhaps in the werewolf packs, perhaps later—but that bitter scent had become his strange way of steadying himself, and I never protested. He never spoke about what was eating away at him, wearing his damn mask again—cold, unreadable—but I could see the cracks forming in it. I was just waiting for that fragile wall to crumble, for him to stop hiding.

After Bill and Fleur's wedding, everything got worse. We were tortured for information about Harry, and later, we found out my parents had been targeted too—their house searched, their voices shaking from the Cruciatus when we arrived at their doorstep. We understood then: safety was an illusion, melting away with each passing day. Remus realised it first. He left. Just as he had before, leaving a note on the table—short, three lines, no explanations. He left to protect us, to speed up the end of the war, to win us even a scrap of normality. I understood him. I resented it, I was furious to the point of trembling hands, but I understood. He was a soldier—just as I was—and soldiers are the first to throw themselves into the fight to stop the bloodshed, even if it tears them apart in the process. But Merlin help him, he was an absolute idiot if he still believed he was "ruining my life."

He returned a week later—pale, with new lines around his eyes, his gaze full of guilt, and a quiet "I'm sorry, Dora." I could have made a scene—screamed, thrown plates, smashed the porcelain tea set my mother had treasured for years. But morning sickness had drained the strength from my body, and Mum would never have forgiven me for breaking her favourite floral-patterned cups. So I just nodded, swallowed the lump in my throat, and pulled him into an embrace. He held me tightly, and I felt his hands shaking.

We were broken again, exhausted, wrecked—by the war, by fear, by uncertainty. But in his eyes, weary and grey-green, I saw something new—faint, fragile, but alive. And in my heart, beneath the layers of anxiety, I felt it too.

Maybe that was the moment we realised we had found a new reason to keep fighting—a tiny, unseen one, but already so important?

People say that love, when it takes root in the heart, can open new horizons, filling life with meaning and inspiration.

And I think that's exactly what happened to us. The pregnancy—a tiny love created by the two of us—became a breath of fresh air in the desert. It gave us a sense of normality, even as the world outside crumbled, even after my father left, even when we learned of his death. It brought tears, pulled us back into harsh reality, hit us straight in the heart—but the moment I felt the first flutter of movement inside me, a small, gentle nudge, like a quiet reminder, I couldn't help but smile. That tiny person growing within me was our light, our anchor.

Remus was unexpectedly wonderful—better than I could have ever dreamed. He supported us, me and my mother, with everything he had, becoming the rock we leaned on. He was turning back into the Remus from Grimmauld Place—the one with the spark in his grey-green eyes, with that light, ringing laugh that filled the room, with a smile that started in the corners of his lips and reached all the way to his gaze. He told funny stories—about the Marauders, about how Sirius once enchanted James's shoes so they danced all night—and I would clutch my belly, laughing so hard that my tea went cold in my hands.

He became my quiet refuge. In the evenings, when the weight of fear was too much, he would sit beside me on our sofa, take an old book—tattered, its pages yellowed with time—and read to me. His voice, low and slightly hoarse, wrapped around me like a warm blanket as I lay with my head in his lap. Sometimes he would pause, his hand resting gently on my growing belly, and whisper, "You hear that, little one? This one's about dragons—you'll love it." And once, when I dozed off mid-story, he simply covered me with a blanket and sat there, holding my hand, until the moon had risen outside the window.

He helped my mother. I watched from the porch as he rolled up the sleeves of his old shirt, working in her garden, pulling weeds, planting new flowers—asters, my favourite. Mum grumbled that he was too thin and kept shoving plates of pie at him, while he rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile and said, "Thank you, Andromeda, but I'm fine." But I knew that these moments with her—her quiet gratitude for his presence—were healing him just as much as they were healing us.

He found odd jobs—translating old texts, fixing wards in nearby villages—and brought home a handful of Galleons, enough to buy something small for the baby. One day, he came back with a little wooden crib—plain, slightly uneven, something he had built himself. "Not exactly a masterpiece, but I did my best," he said, scratching the back of his head, and I threw my arms around him so tightly he laughed, the dimple on his cheek deepening.

Some evenings, he would put on an old record—the one we took from Grimmauld Place—and pull me up by the hand. "Come on, Dora, just one dance," he'd say, and we'd spin around my mom's kitchen, laughing when I stepped on his feet. My hair—bright pink in those days—got tangled in his fingers, and he'd grumble playfully that I was far too clumsy for a witch. But his hands on my waist were so warm, so steady, that I forgot about everything else.

He was our unwavering rock. When I woke up from nightmares—about the war, about Bellatrix, about my father's death—he would hold me, whispering into my hair, "I'm here. We'll get through this." And in the mornings, he would bring me mint tea, set the cup on the bedside table, and rest a hand on my belly until I smiled again.

Maybe that was when this tiny life inside me reminded us that even among scars and losses, love still had the power to breathe new hope into us?

People say that love at first sight is a miracle—a moment when your heart suddenly begins to beat in tune with an unfamiliar, new rhythm, filling with a warmth and light strong enough to heal even the deepest wounds of the soul.

And this time, I can't argue with that. The first time I saw you, my heart faltered—just for a second, a brief, almost painful jolt—before racing faster, like a bird trapped in my chest, its wings trembling, ready to break free. That feeling was so pure, so dazzling, almost tangible—like a warm, golden light seeping into the darkest corners of my soul, gently touching old wounds, scars, and cracks that I had hidden beneath layers of exhaustion and pain. You were a miracle, a living embodiment of wonder and magic. Every tiny movement you made—the faint curling of your fingers, the slight turn of your head—every flicker in your newborn eyes carried the promise of something indescribable, something worth living for, worth breathing for, worth fighting for.

You were the exact replica of your father. Your grey-green eyes, flickering with curiosity as you took in the world for the first time, were his—just as deep, with the same golden sparks glimmering like stars in the night. The faint dimple that appeared on your chubby cheek when you smiled—unconsciously, barely noticeable—made you so real, so mesmerising, it sent shivers down my spine. You had his nose—slightly upturned, its curve soft—his thick brows, furrowing even in sleep, his high forehead, his stubborn chin, hinting at a personality yet to be discovered. Even your ears—small, perfectly shaped, slightly sticking out, covered in the softest down—were his. I looked at you, lying warm and weightless in my arms, and all I could see was his reflection.

"Honestly, Teddy," I murmured with a soft smile, rocking you gently in my arms, feeling the warmth of your tiny body seep into mine, calming the storm inside me. "You could have at least taken something from me. Just a little. For variety."

At that moment, my hair was bright pink, tangled from a sleepless night, smelling of sweat and healing potions, but I found that I didn't care. How could I? You were too perfect, too much mine—even with his face, even without my eyes. I looked at you, and the exhaustion melted away, replaced by something soft, something vast and unexplainable, filling my chest to the brim.

Let's be honest: we were lucky that you took my gift and your father's looks. It spared Remus the torment, the endless nights he would have spent watching you with fear, dreading that he might have passed his curse onto you—the darkness he carried like a heavy cloak. Merlin knows, he would have had a heart attack if he had seen even the slightest hint of wolf's claws or amber eyes in you. And then he wouldn't have been able to slip so effortlessly out of bed at night to soothe you with his husky voice, or change your nappies with that focused gentleness that always made me bite back laughter. (But don't be mad at him, Teddy. As I've already written, he's too strict and stubborn when it comes to being a werewolf—it's his way of loving, of protecting, even if sometimes he takes it too far.)

Your father… You know, he fell in love with you at first sight too. I saw it the moment he held you for the first time—his fingers still trembling, as if he couldn't quite believe you were real. His face—tired, with a light stubble that scratched against my skin whenever he leaned down to me, and the fine lines around his eyes that appeared from laughter or pain—transformed, as if someone had lit a fire inside him. His eyes, grey-green like yours, filled with tears, but they were tears of happiness—pure, boundless, the kind so rare for him. He looked at you, and I saw love shining there—deep as the ocean, warm as a sunny day after a long winter, and I felt my own throat tighten with emotion, felt hot, unbidden tears sting my eyes. He held you carefully, almost reverently, as though you were a fragile treasure he was afraid to drop or startle. His large hands, covered in thin scars—the marks of his own battles—gently cradled your tiny body, wrapped in the soft blanket embroidered with stars that Molly had knitted for you long before you were born.

"Hello, little one," he whispered, his voice unsteady, breaking under the weight of his emotions, turning soft, almost fragile. He murmured something incoherent, tender—words without meaning, yet filled with warmth—as he leaned in so close that his tousled, russet-brown hair, still slightly damp with sweat, nearly brushed your forehead. The room around us—small, with peeling wallpaper curling at the edges from damp, carrying the lingering scent of the herbal tea he had brewed before the birth—faded away, dissolving into this single moment. There was only the two of you: him, radiant with joy, his smile chasing away the shadows from his face, and you, sleeping soundly, tiny fists curled against your cheeks—the most precious gift one could ever imagine.

I watched you both, and something inside me clicked into place, like the final piece of a puzzle I hadn't even realised was missing. You were everything we had ever wanted, even before we knew it. You became our light, our magic, our miracle—a small piece of us that made us whole, binding us together more than any vows or spells ever could. In that moment, I knew that every struggle—every pain, every loss, every tear—had been worth it if it had led me to you, to us.

You were our beginning, Teddy, our little miracle with his eyes and my gift, and I knew that for you, we would fight until our very last breath.

People say that love can inspire great deeds, but true strength lies in the ability to forgive—the quiet, unseen courage that lives in the heart, even when everything around you screams for vengeance or despair.

Perhaps there's some truth to that, though I would never call what I did for your future, Teddy, an act of heroism. It wasn't a choice I carefully weighed, sitting in the comfort of quiet with a cup of tea in my hands. It was a necessity—an instinct burned into my chest by despair and love, like a searing brand, dictated by circumstances I could not turn away from, no matter how much I wanted to hide, to shelter you in my arms and forget about the world outside.

I simply had to do it. I couldn't stand idly by while the world collapsed like an old house battered by a hurricane, while innocent children—just like you, with wide, wonder-filled eyes, still clinging to fragile hopes—perished in the shadows of a war that devoured everything in its path. Their cries rang in my ears, piercing and distant, even when I closed my eyes, trying to shut them out, to drown them with the lullaby I sang to you before bed. I couldn't just sit in my parents' old house, with its faded wallpaper and creaking floorboards, sipping freshly brewed tea while its aroma mixed with the scent of fear seeping through the cracks in the walls. I couldn't pretend everything was fine, knowing the forces of light were dwindling like wax beneath an unrelenting flame, while darkness spread like ink in water. Fear and chaos pounded at every door, driving people to seek refuge where none existed—just an illusion, shattering beneath the gaze of the Death Eaters. And I couldn't remain silent when Bellatrix—her silhouette, sinuous and ominous like a serpent's shadow, with burning eyes and a mad, twisted smile—glided across the earth, leaving death and ashes in her wake. Her rasping laughter echoed through my nightmares, cold and sharp as a blade, while you, my little one, stood at the very edge of that abyss, where every dawn could have been your last, where your tiny hands might never have reached for the sun.

I am writing these words at a rickety old table, by the flickering light of a dying candle in a tarnished holder. The flame trembles, casting long, wavering shadows over the yellowed parchment, where ink smudges in the damp air, and my hands—scratched, stained with ink and exhaustion—tremble as they clutch the quill. My hair, dull brown today, lacking the usual bright hue that once reflected my spirit, falls across my face, sticking to my cheeks, and I don't brush it away—I have no strength, no desire. The room smells of wax and dust, of aged wood and something sour—perhaps the remnants of a potion I brewed yesterday, or perhaps my own fear. But I must finish this letter, Teddy. You must know, even if these words are all that remain of me.

I truly hope that one day, you will find that strength—not the loud, heroic kind they sing about in stories, but the quiet, deep-rooted kind, like the roots of an old tree—the kind that will allow you to forgive me. My choices were not grand gestures of bravery, not attempts to prove something to the world or carve my name into history. They were the steps of a mother whose soul was torn between duty and love, between the fear of losing you—my light, my heart—and the hope of giving you a life free from shadows, from screams, from the blood that soaked this earth. I never sought glory, never wanted medals or songs. I only wanted you to live—to grow, to laugh, to run beneath the sun, to have your eyes, so much like his, shine not with sorrow, but with joy.

And whatever happens, whatever thoughts you may have as you look at this world—sometimes beautiful, with its sunsets and stars, sometimes cruel, with its wars and losses—know that you were the greatest love of our lives. You were our light, driving away the darkness in our blackest nights; our reason to rise each morning, even when our legs buckled from exhaustion; our miracle, cradled in our hands—warm, breathing, with your tiny fingers and soft, steady breaths—even as everything around us collapsed like a house of cards in the wind. You were everything, Teddy, and for you, I would have done anything—even if it meant leaving you behind, so that you could live.

Your mother, who loves you more than life itself, who would give anything to see you smile just once more.