Legacy, by godricgal

[godricgal]

Title: Legacy
Author: godricgal
Rating and warnings: G, consequently, no warnings.
Prompts Beatles prompt: Suddenly, I'm not half the man I used to be / There's a shadow hanging over me /Oh, yesterday came suddenly "Yesterday", The Beatles. Word prompt: interrupt
Word Count: 6,120
Summary: "It's early August when she first comes to him with that rosy glow on her cheeks and the sun in her smile; he's lived long enough to recognise the symptoms of love when he sees them."
Author's Notes: I'm actually rather surprised that I'm here posting this, what with exams and holidays, but I'm really glad I am. This fic, while set in 'Ducking Verse' is unlike anything I've ever attempted before, the reasons for which will become clear very early on, and I'm rather keen to know what people make of it, so feedback would be much appreciated. :) Thanks and appreciation must, as always, go to the wonderful mrstater for her unrivalled Bestest Beta skills. Oh, and it's probably worth mentioning that I doubt anyone will see my prompts in this, but you'll have to trust me that they are very deeply ingrained in the story and have shaped it enormously -- you just need to be in my mind to see it! ;)

Legacy

It's early August when she first comes to him with that rosy glow on her cheeks and the sun in her smile; he's lived long enough to recognise the symptoms of love when he sees them.

He waits patiently as she waltzes though the motions of her routine: popping the kettle on, dropping a tea bag into the mugs, grabbing the secret biscuit stash from the top of the wardrobe -- not with the grace typical to other young women, but one that recommends her all the same; Dora has never failed to charm him, and he is well aware there have been many occasions when he's been wrapped firmly around her little finger. With her customary cheer she asks about his day, inquires with a cheeky smile whether he's been behaving himself (to which he replies, "I hope not!") while she carelessly drops a bouquet of freesias in an old jam jar on the windowsill and waits for the kettle to boil.

These afternoons are so precious to him, when they sit with the tin of chocolate digestives between them, sipping unsweetened tea from chipped mugs as they chat. It's almost as if, for a while, he's free from the house that reeks of decay and welcomes death, bathing in the optimism of youth she brings to him and feeling rejuvenated in spirit so that memories of his own youth are held in sweetness and not dampened by the shroud of bitterness that lonely days and darkened hallways all too often allow to fall.

Mostly they talk about her -- her work, people she's met -- occasionally, her parents; but sometimes she pipes up with a question that leads them down a rambling path of conversation that twists and turns until neither could say where it started.

There is something about her today that is different. It's not in her face or the spring in her step; it's rooted much deeper: there's something knowing in her eyes now, a quiet maturity and self-assurance that is new in her, a gravity that wasn't there on her last visit.

"He loves me, Grandpa," she says after half an hour or so, with such conviction that he cannot doubt her, or the man who says he loves her; certainty such as that cannot exist without foundation, and he knows his granddaughter well enough to be assured she's not the kind of girl who falls in love every second Thursday.

"And that the feeling is mutual is plain for even this old man to see," he replies, oddly choked by the idea of his little Dora happy and in love; she laughs and it's a peal of joy that makes the day impossibly brighter.

"I never was very good at hiding my emotions," she says, just a little ruefully. "Ever to Mum's chagrin." Memories of Dora as a child are invoked: grey-haired and forlorn, standing in church before the coffin that contains his wife's body; as a baby, chubby legs kicking furiously, face scrunched up in outrage beneath scarlet baby down.

"Have you introduced this man of yours to your mum and dad yet?" he asks, although he's fairly sure he already knows the answer.

"No, not yet." He catches a shadow ghosting across her eyes before they flicker downwards and her hands tighten round her mug.

He knows he doesn't need to prompt her to go on, and she'll continue when she's found her words. A loving family though they are, Dora's always been a bit too independent minded, slightly too bold for her parents' comfort, and he's always made a point of laying his door open to her when an understanding ear is required for the relief of parent-induced stresses.

"I think they'd...question my judgement. There's nothing wrong with him," she adds hastily, her voice rising slightly in pitch, as her eyes widen, pleading, he thinks, for understanding. "Remus is the best of men."

"Remus?" Between Ted and Andromeda and Dora, he's used to hearing all manner of strange wizarding names dropped into conversation (not to mention that Andromeda and Nymphadora are hardly run of the mill names in his world) but the introduction of a new one always takes a bit of getting used to.

"Remus Lupin," a bashful smile plays at the corners of her mouth "But..." She casts her eyes down; a gentle sigh rises and falls in her chest, and when she looks up again, sad regret shadowing her eyes. "...There's a lot of old prejudice in our world, and even if I don't think Mum and Dad share the majority opinion, I'm pretty sure there are ramifications of the majority opinion that will concern them."

He senses she's said all she will, for now; wonders if she's still weighing it all up herself, if perhaps these problems have been swept to one side so they can enjoy the thrill of falling in love, and maybe it's only now that they've landed, the realities are rising to the surface. He will not push her for answers she cannot, or is not ready to give, but he trusts her to begin to work it out on her own, and if she needs him, he knows she will ask, though more likely than not it will be one of those occasions on which he finds himself sorely lacking the proper knowledge to help and guide her.

There is one thing he can do, however, and knowing Dora, though reluctant to share her recent happiness with her parents, she'll be all too eager to show him off to someone.

"Can I meet him?"

Her grin is wide as the clouds lift from her eyes and the sun shines once more from her face. "I was hoping you'd ask that."

But the next time she comes, a few weeks later, she is, once more, alone -- and looking a little forlorn. He does worry about her, has always worried about her and that dangerous job he doesn't quite understand; though he remembers well enough the fear evident on the faces of his son and daughter-in-law the last time they considered themselves at war to understand that it's his Dora who'll be on the frontlines if war is to come again -- which she tells him will happen, and soon.

So inadequate does he often feel in his role as her confidant that he sometimes wishes he were fully informed, up to speed, in order to better advise her. But then, the lingering memory of the weight of worry in his son's eyes, in harder times past, makes him glad he isn't. It's with a certain hard-edged inner tone that he reminds himself that the odd letter from Hogwarts, telling of Ted's encounter with a particularly abrasive potion or a minor playground spat that resulted in a lost bone or a sprouted tail, inspired in no small amount of panic. Thus, he's never quite been able to decide whether his patchy knowledge of wizarding affairs is better off in a partially informed state or whether, with more serious tales of evil wizards and horrendous wars in his mind, it is more torturous to imagine what the worst might be than to know it absolutely. And war is one thing he does understand, having fought on the blood-soaked battle fields of France. He always has to conclude that to bury his head in the sand in this particular area is to avoid the path to madness.

As it turns out, impending war is not the foremost worry on Dora's mind.

"Remus is away," she says after a long silence. "Been gone for a week."

"Missing him?" he asks, relieved that she's lovelorn, not war torn, yet aching for her, too.

"Just a bit." Her laugh is tinged with self-recrimination. "I'm being a tad pathetic." She sits up straighter in her chair opposite his, throws her shoulders back in her stronger posture. "He'll be home soon."

"It's not pathetic to miss the person you love," he says gently, taking a sideways glance at the photo that takes pride of place on the table beside his day chair; there isn't a day goes by when he doesn't miss his Anna and remembers all too well the pain of even brief separation.

Dora looks up, slightly abashed. "I know." Her eyes, too, flicker to the photograph, and then her expression brightens. "I got an owl from him this morning," she says. "He asked me to tell you that he's sorry he couldn't make it today but that he's hoping this trip will top up his collection of interesting stories that he can regale you with in the hope of winning you over."

"Why don't you tell me more about him?" he says through a chuckle, liking Remus Lupin's thought to send a message, and his humour -- not to mention his understanding of the importance in winning over a young lady's family. "Explain to me what's so complicated that you haven't told your mum and dad."

"Have you got enough tea? Because this is going to take some explaining," she says.

"Full cup," he replies, holding up his mug. "And I'm not going anywhere, so take your time."

She takes a deep breath -- to steel herself, he assumes as he wonders again what can be so very serious; but guessing is not a game he has ever been fond of and drawing conclusions out of the air is a dangerous pastime indeed.

"It's a pickle to know where to start because there are things in the wizarding world that are myths in the Muggle one, and myths are full of untruths. Maybe it's best just to ask you to bear that in mind."

"I've learned enough of magic to know that the stories and legends are rarely true," he says; but he cannot help starting in shock when she tells him she's fallen in love with a werewolf. Cannot stop the shudder that passes through his age-weakened body as she describes the pain of the transformation and the innate violence in the nature of the beast that knows nothing of a man's love -- is not a reflection of him. Though he does note, with sadness, the pain in Dora's voice, can see in her eyes the distress it causes her to know that this man she loves suffers for what she calls his 'curse.'

As she tells him that a werewolf is only a monster under the full moon, that Remus is a man in heart and mind at all other times, and a good one, he looks her straight in the eye and nods because he can see it is very important to her that he understand this, and understand it completely and without question, which he does because it's Dora telling him.

"Remus' greatest fear," she says, "is hurting someone under the influence of the moon, when he has no control."

Dora is not afraid, though; he can tell from the almost casual way she gives a slight shrug of her shoulders -- she trusts this man to keep himself safe, to keep her safe and others.

"Presumably plans can be made for this -- a safe place away from people?" he asks.

"Yes, Remus locks himself away." There is sadness in her voice as she says this, and he feels it, too. He likes everything he's heard about Remus Lupin (which, to own the truth, is not much, but he knows a lot more of him because he has Dora's love and he's certain Remus will have earned it in word, thought, deed and something more) and good and kind men do not deserve hardship such as he's learned about today, nor do they deserve to be locked away like an animal in a zoo.

He is relieved when she tells him about the existence of a potion that can ease the full moon suffering, but that is short-lived because in the next breath she tells him Remus doesn't take it because he cannot afford to.

"I've been a coward about offering to pay for it myself," she says, "because I know it'll cause an argument and we've not had one yet."

"If there's one thing my Dora most definitely is not," he says, firmly, "it's a coward."

She stands suddenly, strides to the window. "It's so difficult! No one in the whole damn Wizarding world will give him a job because of what he is -- they're afraid, bigoted, because a few evil people like being werewolves and use their Dark power as a weapon. People fail to understand that it's human evil at work there, not the werewolf's influence. They won't see Remus, the good man. He's just 'that werewolf' and shunned for it." Her fists are coiled tightly at her side, her shoulders tense; he wonders if it's the first time she's ever said that -- out loud, to another person.

"I've never met a man with more dignity, Grandpa. He wears his shabby robes and still holds his head up high. How do you think it'd make him feel to rely on his girlfriend for something like that?"

Long after Dora has gone and the sun has set, he's still turning the conversation over in his mind; it was most definitely one of those days when a greater understanding of the wizarding world would have held him in good stead, for he's fairly sure -- would like to think -- that this prejudice she speaks of is not something he would ever own. There are issues in play, though, that transcend magic, and perhaps there he can be useful. He knows dignity is a most important possession and one that is like a house of cards: it can be easy to crush and time consuming to rebuild; he also knows that true partnership must be able to compromise, and Remus' dignity must be balanced with the anguish Dora experiences each month when the man she loves suffers more than he need. He wishes he could make it right for them, or at the very least to take away a burden, to make it easier for them to be young and in love, enjoying it for every precious moment, but his assistance cannot be offered lightly.

By bedtime, he is ever more anxious to meet Remus Lupin and take his own measure of the man; perhaps then he will have a clearer idea of how to proceed.

September is dying into October and the leaves are beginning to turn when he meets Remus Lupin for the first time.

Remus is instantly likeable, with a firm handshake and a smile that is as genuine as his 'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tonks.' Conversation is easy and light; Remus answers questions with ease and poses ones that are born of real interest in the answer, in getting to know Dora's family. They hold hands lightly, sit close together but not so close as to be uncomfortable in company; when Remus looks at her it is with open affection that is tinged with wonderment -- a feeling he remembers so clearly from the days of his own courtship -- and beyond.

Remus does, indeed, have tales from his travels, which he delivers in an unassuming and easy manner, but he never dominates the conversation, effortlessly turning the topic around to include him, and Dora.

Yes, he likes Remus Lupin very much.

So much so, that when Remus asks what he thinks of the nursing home in which he lives, rather than replying with his usual off-hand comment that's swiftly followed by a sharp change in topic, he answers honestly, candidly. Admits that it is a bit of a prison, really, that being trapped with a bunch of old and dying people is a bit of a downer, not to mention a little dull, and relying on young nurses (pretty as some are) for almost every need is an adjustment he has yet to make in eight years of residence.

"And finding a lady friend is nigh on impossible!" he finishes, hoping that Remus won't mistake his candour, given in trust, for a sympathy plea, though he thinks it's unlikely and he's right.

"I think reliance on someone in whom you do not have great trust or feel deeply for is not something that comes naturally to anyone," Remus replies, giving him hope that perhaps Dora has over-thought her quandary about whether to talk to Remus about the potion and is the catalyst he needs to start seriously thinking about how he can manage his intention to help in that quarter himself. For if they are to progress to marriage, there are other things Dora's salary will be needed for, and he wishes so very much for her -- them -- to be able to confine their worries to when to redecorate the living room, or purchase a new car -- broom, or whatever it is they have -- and discount the burden of a costly potion.

They end up staying for hours; at dinner time they pop out for half an hour and return with a large pizza which they share over conversation that is filled with laughter. He is sorry to see them leave, but they do so on a promise to come again very soon.

The next time they come, they have a plan; it's reckless and foolish -- gloriously so.

"When was the last time you went to the seaside?" Dora asks as soon as the door has closed and Remus has rapped sharply on the door handle with his wand and given it a tug for good measure.

"Must be a decade, at least," he replies, wondering if this will really lead where he suspects it might -- forty-odd years experience at the periphery of the magical world has taught him enough to know that the unexpected should always be expected, and his granddaughter is sporting a wide grin and has shared at least two significant conspiratorial glances with her partner in life and love and, clearly, crime.

"Buckle up then, Grandpa!" she chirps. "Remus and I've been plotting, and we're taking you out for the day."

There are questions and buts and what-ifs on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them all down because no doubt his Dora will have thought of most of them, and Remus, who seems to be the balance on her racing mind, will have thought of the rest.

"Best find my hat, then," he says, feeling a broad smile make its way to the corners of his mouth.

For a few minutes, they bustle about, under his direction -- handing him the hat Dora finds squashed in the bottom of the wardrobe, throwing a blanket, just-in-case medication and a camera in an old canvass bag that has always lived in the room for reasons unknown to him. He's lived here for eight years, four months and a fortnight, give or take a day, and this is the first trip beyond the boundaries of the garden in six of those years.

Dora talks as she works. "Remus is going to put a spell on your door so if anyone comes near with the intention of coming inside, they'll come over all forgetful and rush to put the kettle on instead. We'll shrink all this stuff, pop it in my bag, and I'll go ahead of you, and then Remus will Apparate you." She looks at him as though something has only just occurred to her. "Have you ever Apparated before?"

He shakes his head, anticipation of adventure rising. "I tried to talk your father into taking me somewhere when he first passed his test, but your grandmother overheard and gave me such a scolding I never dared ask again."

"Probably for the best," Remus says. "The first time's not a pleasant experience, though not to worry! I've a useful little spell that we'd normally use for small children when Side-Alonging, but it'll work just as well for you. Our journey'll be as smooth as a boat on a mill pond."

"Right you are," he says. Ten years ago he'd have begged Remus leave off this "useful little spell" of his, in the interests of the full and genuine Wizarding experience, but aching joints, a dodgy ticker and his wife's voice as an angel of good sense on his shoulder keep him quiet.

"Anyway," Dora pipes up, "like I said, I'll Apparate first with the bags, and you and Remus will follow. We've scouted out a pretty decently hidden place -- it's in the Chine -- have you ever been?"

Again, he answers her with a shake of his head.

"Oh, you'll love it!" she says. "It's full of squirrels. We can feed them if you want. I want. And there's a miniature golf place and the sea, of course..."

Her chatter continues until Remus declares them ready to leave. True to her word, Dora leaves first, and then Remus, with a steadying hand at his elbow, helps him to stand; Remus touches his wand softly to the hand that grips his arm and they turn.

He feels nothing more than a gentle pull at his centre of gravity that makes him lean onto Remus' bracing arm and then blackness gives way to natural light filtering in through branches high above them. The air is full with the sounds of summer: sea gulls calling to each other on a breeze that cools the air to a temperature of perfection; a symphony of voices, adult and child, composed of enjoyment and played under a cloudless sky.

He takes a deep breath, the tang of salt in the air invades his senses -- it tastes of freedom. Then Dora is beside him, pulling the wheelchair up and helping him lower himself gently to the seat. She literally bounces with excitement before him, and Remus watches her with a smile on his face and love in his eyes.

They set off, Dora chattering happily behind him as she pushes the chair. She and Remus, he notes, are careful to keep their voices loud enough for him to hear as they walk. They're in the Chine, she tells him; there are, indeed, squirrels -- so tame they'll take nuts from the fingers of children, and anyone else, offering. A few years ago he might have thought it an activity exclusively for a child, but when Dora insists they settle on a bench for a while and produces a packet of nuts from her bag, it is he who holds out his hand for his own supply, and a genuine thrill passes through him as the bushy tailed creature approaches and plucks the nut he offers directly from his fingers.

They walk for a mile along the seafront, until they reach the cafes and ice-cream huts by the pier, where he beats down opposition from Dora and Remus and buys lunch for the three of them. It's one of those strange things he'd never given a second thought, but there is both pleasure in treating his family to a meal, and pride and strength to be found in the act of pulling out his wallet (which normally remains hidden beneath his mattress) and handing over the notes -- like a restorative for some of the indignities of having his independence handed over to a young nurse who calls him 'love' and takes a flannel to his private parts.

"Is there anything seaside-y you've been harbouring a burning ambition to try out these last few years, Grandpa?" Dora asks.

"I've always fancied having a go at surfing," he replies, "but I reckon you picked the wrong day for your old grandpa. Waves look a bit feeble for it, to me." He enjoys the appreciative twinkle in her dark eyes and Remus' accompanying chuckle.

"Why don't you two go and dunk your feet in the water for a bit and I'll sit here and watch the world go by?"

"We couldn't leave you alone, Mr. Tonks," Remus says.

"It's Jack, Remus. And of course you can. Go -- enjoy yourselves for a bit. Besides, I might find a young lady to talk to, and I can't do that if you're here, cramping my style, can I?"

He doesn't find a young lady, nor does he watch the world go by. He watches the very here and now of his granddaughter in love: their loosely entwined fingers as they make their way, gingerly, across the sand; when they stop a few feet in to remove their shoes and socks, they lean on each other for support and laugh as they sway before Remus catches their balance; when they reach the water, dodging the incoming waves until Dora darts in and kicks water back at Remus and he runs in after her. They play almost like children, clearly oblivious to everything but each other. When they turn to head back up the beach, Dora waves at him enthusiastically, and Remus offers a raised hand of his own. Then they sit, and Remus takes each of her feet in turn, dusting the sand from her toes and replacing her shoes.

He sleeps well that night, dreams of nothing because his heart doesn't want for anything.

They manage to visit only once before the Christmas season sets in. The weather is dreary and cold, and he's not had a good night; he's feeling weak and old and certainly not up to a trip to the seaside or anywhere else.

Dora's face falls only slightly when he tells her, but she turns instantly to Remus who nods with understanding and says, "I'll be back in a moment," before disappearing with a crack that makes his head boom.

Dora doesn't fuss -- she never does, which is one of the many reasons she has always been and will always be his favourite visitor; his son and Andromeda haven't yet realised that to fuss is to draw attention to the failings of his old body and that the ageing and dying would rather live one year in wilful ignorance than five weighed down by the apprehension that the fears which bubble away during hours of solitude might propagate in reality.

"Sorry to spoil your plans. I hope you didn't go to too much trouble," he says, feeling ever more pathetic for the weak quality to the tone of his voice. Fatigue wracks his every muscle and bone; he can do no more than lean his head against the wing back of his chair.

She flashes him a winsome smile that's ever-so-slightly marred by the concern in her eyes. "Don't be silly. Remus is tired anyway -- it was the full moon just two days ago and it does take it out of him. I was counting on dragging two old men around Kew and I'm not sure they make double wheelchairs, so it's probably for the best."

The sound of his laugh is not even close to expressing the appreciation he feels; he wonders how she never manages to patronise or emasculate when half the nurses in this place can make him feel two feet high with nothing more than a smile and a "Now then, Mr. Tonks."

"But we are going to have a bit of fun, anyway. Remus has gone to pick something up from home and he'll be back in a jiffy."

"Home? You two living together now?" he says, hoping that they are because thinks that coming home each day to loving arms and the deep understanding that can only come from a lover would make participation in war that much more bearable.

"Not officially, really," Dora replies with a faint blush. "Remus is away a lot. But we divide our time between my house and Remus' friend's house. Probably I ought to move in there for the sake of economy, since there's more than enough room, but it can get a bit hectic with everyone dropping by so..."

"It's nice to have some privacy?"

The blush deepens, and her eyes drop bashfully downward. "Yeah."

"Feel like that a bit myself sometimes. There's always some interfering busy-body or another, popping their heads 'round the door, poking me with needles and forcing tablets down my throat. I daresay you don't have that particular problem, though with a communal house, one never knows."

They share a chuckle. "The seventies are long gone, Grandpa."

"And don't these old bones know it."

At that moment, Remus returns, a chess board under one arm and a hefty-looking box in both hands. "Fancy a game of Wizard's chess?"

The nurses had advised against it in the harshest terms, and he thinks they'd probably have been right were the matter not so very important. He's spent the afternoon with a lawyer from a small local practice that had taken a sizable ad in the Yellow Pages. It is done now, and he is glad of it, relieved, tired as he is. The not inconsiderable contents of his Abbey account is now willed in a legacy that can only legally fund the purchase of the Wolfsbane potion for one Remus Lupin. Of course, he had to word his bequest in a manner so as not to risk the question of his sanity in the non-wizarding world, yet also to be clear in meaning for when the time comes. It took him weeks to come up with the plan, and he is pleased with the outcome.

He feels weak and tired, but his efforts have been worth it; anything for Dora's happiness and, after all, he's had a life and if a legal financial legacy will leave a greater one of giving her the life she deserves, then so much the better.

It has been months since he'd first met Remus Lupin, and they are months during which he put off the execution of his plan, but now it is done and he will rest that much easier for it.

There's a sallow morning light filtering in through worn curtains when he wakes; it takes him a few moments to place himself, then it becomes clear that he's in no stranger a place than his own bed in the old people's home that is home only in name.

"I think he's waking," a gentle male voice says from somewhere near the foot of the bed; clomping footsteps, stumbling once, twice, follow it.

"Grandpa?"

What you doing here this early? he asks.

"Grandpa, can you hear me? It's Dora."

'Course I can hear you.

"Remus, call the nurse."

A chair scraps across the floor and footsteps retreat, steadier than those that had come before.

I'm fine he starts to say. He hears the words in his head, feels them move on his lips, but--

He tries again, listening hard for the sound of his own voice, but it doesn't come. There is a hand in his; he tries to wrap his fingers around it, but for his efforts, that contact, those warm fingers and the soft skin of youth are somehow beyond his grasp.

Fear tastes bitter in his mouth; confusion swims before his eyes as they water. His breath he can feel because it's coming ever more quickly, and that fear, that cold fist around his heart tightens when he registers the fear in Dora's voice as she calls, "Remus, quickly!"

"Mr. Tonks -- Jack." That calm voice again. "Try to relax, the nurse is on her way. You had a bit of a funny turn, but they'll sort you out."

"Remus is right, Grandpa. Sit tight and it'll be okay." That trembling note in her voice contradicts the words.

Suddenly the room is alive with activity; Dora's hand is gone and there's a light shining in his eyes. They ask him questions, questions to which the answers will not form, not in words, not in nods or shakes of his head. Alien phrases echo around the room, each one a bell that chimes his fate. And that light...When they shine that light in his eyes do they see his fear?

It's there in Dora's eyes, when they're finally alone, he, 'made comfortable' and left in this shell of a body that sees and hears, feels pain and cannot react.

Night follows day, and day follows that, but time brings no changes save the light in the sky, unwelcome visitors and thoughts he wishes he'd voiced when he had one. At first, they plague his days, those thoughts -- things he's never said because they're not the type of things a man says, things he so desperately wants to say -- wants people -- her, Dora, and the man he trusts to take care of her, consequences be damned because love like theirs is worth a million of the pounds he doesn't have and a hundred of the friends she may not have for loving him -- to hear.

What weighs most heavily on his mind is that he's never told them what he's done, what is theirs; regret that he made no provision for informing them in the event that death should creep up on him before the time came for him to do so himself is a bitterly difficult pill to swallow.

At night there is a weariness; fatigue that goes deeper than to the bone, driving at his very heart. 'You'll know it when you feel it,' his own father had said, thirty-odd years before. These last few years he's lived in what they've jokingly called Death's Waiting Room -- the laughter never quite reaching their eyes because that lingering fear of nothingness is never far away. It's like waiting for the postman, he thinks: checking the mat every few minutes for that all important letter at the slightest sound, but that crack of the letterbox and the fluttering of envelopes to the floor is unmistakeable.

You know it when you feel it.

Death's grip is tightening around him and there is no mistaking it. That fear, though, is retreating slowly every day, every minute sat trapped in his body; for every minute of frustration that he can't do, can't say, exists but does not live.

He is too tired to open his eyes, too weak. There is light chatter around him: Dora and Remus, his Teddy and Andromeda, occasionally a nurse -- all indistinct, a gentle buzzing that comforts and warms him.

He dreams of sun-streaked woodland and a stream; of a lady with dark eyes that crinkle at the corners, who laughs and smiles, takes his hand in hers and holds it hard.

Two funerals, she thinks, looking down at her hand encased in Remus', and empty, lonely time between them. The sizable crowd, the lakeside venue and the marble table are a world away from the last funeral. That hand, though, is a constant; that steadying hand that is comfort and warmth and those clutching fingers that tell of shared grief and mutual dependence.

Not even a year ago they stood side by side, just as they do now, watching her grandpa's cherry wood coffin lowered to the ground. She tried to hold back the tears because she knew once started they mightn't stop and later, alone, Remus would hold her until they did. Remus supported her that day as she will to for him on this -- he won't cry, but she'll wrap her arms around him, hold him to her and make love to him, because that's all they have to cling to.

The table and the shrouded body upon it flash in phoenix flame and a white marble tomb appears before them; centaurs' arrows rain down with sharp, soft, thuds to the grass behind them; and merpeople, their wizened faces fixed into masks of grief drift beneath the surface of the water.

"Not like your Grandpa's, is it?"

She looks up at him, the man who reads her like a book, who understands her as perhaps only one other person has come close to doing.

"Do you think they'd have liked to have swapped?" she asks. " Grandpa would've got a kick out of all the magic, and I reckon Dumbledore would have been happiest with only his nearest and dearest in attendance." She tries not to notice Dolores Umbridge out the corner of her eye.

"Probably," says Remus. "He'd have appreciated the pink, though." Gentle fingers drift through her hair and come to settle on the back of her neck.

She rests her hand over his wrist. "He'd have appreciated this, too," she says, looking into those clear blue eyes that shine with openly with the love she's always trusted lives within him. "And so would Grandpa."