Falling, by godricgal

[godricgal]

Title: Falling
Author: godricgal
Rating and warning: PG & none.
Word count: 6,840
Summary: All her life, Tonks has known exactly what she wants out of life, and joining the Order of the Phoenix fits that bill in every way, but she's made a grave miscalculation, and her reputation hangs in the balance. There is no doubt that Remus Lupin is to blame for many of her troubles, but he thinks he can provide the solution, only it's not exactly what Tonks had in mind.
Author's Notes: Am just briefly poking my head up from my holiday activities to post my fic, which mrstater has been good enough to beta in my absence, so very many thanks must go in her direction for being my Bestest Beta.

Falling

OWLs, NEWTs, Auror training and progress -- that's always been the sum total of your life plan. You have never allowed yourself to be convinced otherwise, not by parents who want their sole daughter firmly out of harm's way, nor friends who all believed war -- and Voldemort -- was something to be consigned to the history books, as much belonging to the past as the ghost who taught them.

If they'd really known you, they would have known better. And that, ultimately, has been your downfall. Men, love, sex, companionship have never been high on your list of desirables, certainly not in comparison to achievement, promotion, professional recognition and the feeling of returning home at the end of the day with the satisfaction of having done a good and worthwhile job.

Listen, learn, react. Constant vigilance -- Mad Eye's lessons.

And you've proved -- haven't you? -- that it is possible to be entirely focussed, always on the ball and ready for anything, the star of the class, and still crack a joke or play the fool at the appropriate moment.

Cream of the crop. That's why you were chosen for Auror training. That's why you were asked to join the Order of the Phoenix: excellence, dedication, a willingness to put yourself out in the name of duty.

That, and an aptitude for subterfuge.

But you hadn't seen it coming.

Love, that is. Real love, you think -- the kind where all the rest doesn't matter, or it does but in a lesser way, somehow, the kind that, ironically, makes you realise that this is the reason you're doing all that you are. Only, you're supposed to be doing it so that everyone else can have it, not for yourself, and that's where it all went wrong.

Falling in love wasn't part of the plan.

The real question is: is it possible to be in love, in real love, while the person you profess to love remains in total, perhaps blissful, ignorance of the fact?

"You know Tonks loves you."

It's not a statement you want to hear. Truth or not, any happily ever after ending is, and always has been, out of the question. Before she was even born, that very possibility with you had been removed from her fate. Luckily for her.

"Doesn't matter, Sirius. What could possibly happen?"

He looks at you like you're five years old and asking what's the purpose of a wand, because, regardless of whether you've used one before or not, a five year old really ought to know.

"I know you're not particularly well versed in the area, Moony, but it's really quite enjoyable. For all parties."

"How many parties would you expect to be involved?"

"Well, there's you and Tonks. And Merlin knows I could use some entertainment. I think Molly would rather like it, too."

And then you know you're doomed, and so is she: to disappointment, to false hope, to many conversations such as this where possibilities are dangled before you in gloriously tempting scenarios that can never be but in reckless daydreams.

"Sorry to disappoint you. All of you. There is nothing between us, at least not on my part."

You tell yourself that because it has to be true. It's the only way to deal with this and emerge with your sanity intact.

"Wotcher, Remus."

He's rushing past you and you've only whispered the words so you're not sure he's heard. There are no witnesses, but it's humiliating, all the same, when you're standing there with a cocked chin and a hopeful smile and your words fall on empty ears.

Good humour is gone and you are embarrassed, hopelessly so, but you're already a little bit late and so you have no choice but to heave a great gulp of air into your lungs and follow him down to the kitchen. Your hands are shaking and your feet feel a bit unsteady; you're not tracing his footsteps because yours are erratic and unsteady, ungraceful and uncertain.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, you trip and stumble into the room to meet everyone's eyes.

"Sorry," you whisper, unused to feeling outside your element, and unsettled by the feeling that everyone in the room thinks you're out of your depth: you're not, you're just unsettled by an emotion you've not been trained to deal with.

"Best candidate we'd had in years," Mad Eye says to Sirius. "Knew the second she walked in the interview room door. Might not be management material, but that's no bad thing. Time will make a veteran out of her, mark my words. Experience from the trenches, that's what's needed; no use to anyone when good Aurors are promoted out of action."

"Never happened to you, did it, Mad Eye."

"Nay. Different times, though, lad, different times."

"Black blood's a formidable force. Nice to know it's being put to good use for a change."

Listening to this exchange, you're not sure if it's for your benefit or not. Over the last month, Sirius has taken every opportunity to impress upon you what a wonderful catch his cousin would be. In Sirius' own way, he's been subtle and less so, neither of which are particularly unobtrusive in the general scale of things, but you remain unimpressed.

By the points Sirius recommends, at least. By his observation she's everything that she does not appear to be to you. To you she is inelegant, insecure and really rather plain, not to mention clumsy, of word and foot.

She's beautiful, too.

In spite of all the other observations -- and you're beginning to realise that she is just as talented at her job as Mad Eye says she is. You've started to watch her when she doesn't know you're looking, and it's as though you're watching a different person. There is no uncertainty, none of the awkwardness that's come to characterise her in the view of the Order.

You're self conscious about it, but you can't help it, you're a teacher, a vocation which stems from a desire to help others do well. She's beautiful, but that's nothing to do with your sudden decision to help her. Your interest is solely professional. She's got potential and a confidence problem, and that's something you have enough experience of to qualify you, even if you weren't a teacher.

"It's going to be a tough assignment," Mad Eye tells the assembled Order, "Lupin'll need a steady and able partner."

"I'd like Tonks," you hear yourself saying. "If she'll agree."

You'd been surprised and blindsided by Remus' request. Asked yourself a million questions ever since. Though mostly the same two questions half a million time each: Why does he want me? Does he feel the same way? Peppered occasionally with: is he looking for an excuse to spend time with me? Which probably takes the other two questions down to four hundred and fifty thousand each.

Still, each question is no closer to being answered and he's not looking at you, has not spoken to you, at all, throughout the rest of the evening, and they're more than drunk by now -- aren't people supposed to get more honest when they're drunk? Gravitate towards the people they really want to talk to?

You can't kid yourself that you've not tried to get close to him, followed him around the room in an attempt to keep close enough that you might legitimately have an opportunity to talk.

"I'd like Tonks," Sirius mimics, "if she'll agree." His voice is high pitched and mocking. "Tantamount to a proposal for you, isn't it, Moony?'

He's drunk; and so was everyone who's just left, and you suppose you ought to be thankful for him having saved this little gem for after everyone's gone and you're helping him up to his bedroom.

"If she's as good as Mad Eye says she is, she's not showing it to the Order, and I want to see if I can help."

Sirius' head hangs forward and you're not sure if he's heard. You support his weight on one arm while you push his door open and propel both of you forward towards the bed. You let go at the last second and Sirius flops squarely to the mattress.

"Sleep with her, that'll help."

You learned long ago not to listen to Sirius' advice, and, really, it wasn't all that much sooner since you'd learned that drunken advice from Sirius was invariably ill-advised.

You're being followed. There are at least two of them, probably three. Pines loom tall above you -- not the best sort of wood for hiding in; better when there are low branches for cover. As it is, your only options for concealment are prickly bramble bushes and you'd really rather avoid throwing yourself into one of those.

And besides, better that they catch sight of you than Remus. That's Mad Eye's orders: don't let them catch scent or sight of Lupin. If crunch comes to the snap, you'll dance a jig for them, but you'll be damned if you fail on that crucial point. Only thing you hadn't counted on was Remus' determination to muck it up for you by giving his own orders.

"Run," he hisses. "Apparate...Just go, now!"

"I have my orders," you whisper back, "and you're the one who ought to run. Let me take them."

There's no time, after that. One of them is upon you. There's a split second for decision making and you make it. A sharp flick and a rap of your wand, and a Concealment Charm is cast: Remus is no more than a vague outline against the bark of the tree you've been hiding behind.

You take the boldest move of your career and step out, whispering, "Go!" beneath your breath as you do so.

Your nearest pursuer is ten feet away and sees you instantly. You don't even think: "Expelliaramus!"

It works, but his colleague is right behind him and he fires a shot of red light, which flames towards you and you duck; it hits the ground like a firecracker, and you dance away from the ricochet, aim and fire.

Pursuer number two is down, and it's a few seconds before you realise that the guessed at third is beating a hasty retreat through the undergrowth. You point your wand a few feet ahead of his trajectory and fire.

The wood is quiet and still and you catch your breath, waiting to see what happens next. Then panic sets it as an arm swoops about your middle and a sharp crack and pull of Apparition set in before momentary blackness takes over.

Cobwebs swing from the ceiling, a draft blows in from a broken window pane. You're not sure why you chose this place, or even if you did, but it's home and your relief is great. You hadn't expected to be caught; the opposition had been underestimated, or its paranoia had, but you couldn't blame Tonks, she'd stepped up to the breach you had been ordered away from, though you would have joined her, if needed, you know that now, having had your mettle tested. You only hope she is all right.

"Where are we?" Your demand is shaky and you're more perturbed than you would like to admit; even more embarrassing, you know you'd slumped in defeat the moment before you knew what was really happening.

His arm is still around your waist, and his scent envelops you completely. You've never been this close to him before, feeling every bone and muscle; you're not sure you've ever been close enough to know what he smelt like before, but it was just a split second before you knew it meant safety, so perhaps it hadn't been defeat but relief?

You'll tell yourself that.

"Remus?"

"Yes." His laugh is short and not at all in humour, more a puff of emotion that sounds like relief.

"I'm sorry." You're apologising for the failure of the mission, though you're really not sure what could have been done differently. Failure, however, is failure, and that is always to be lamented. Learned from, too, you know that, it's one of Mad Eye's lessons, however hard it is to digest.

"Sorry? What is there to be sorry for? You were brilliant -- stupid, but brilliant."

You're buoyed for a moment before you realise that 'stupid' is hardly a complement. "I'm sorry," you say again. "I didn't know what else to do."

You realise with an internal start that the girl -- woman -- you're looking at is a perfectionist. She is like James: never content but for the ideal outcome, not, as you'd previously surmised, like her cousin, content to ride the high from confrontation, no matter what the result, as long as you emerged alive to laugh about it -- in the old days, at least.

"You did exactly the right thing," you tell her, because it's the truth, not because you expect her to believe it, that will take time, but you know, now, how to help her.

"Where are we?" she asks again.

"This is the house I grew up in," you tell her. It's only when her breath heaves that you realise you're still holding her and you let go quickly and take a step back.

The act of his move away from you causes a breach of stability -- it's only then that you realise you've been leaning against him, but more than the loss of support, it feels like rejection, and that blindsides you. You stumble sideways and think you're about to fall, but he's there, again, hand at your elbow, to catch you. Clumsiness is only a symptom of nerves, you've always known that, and why shouldn't yours be shot? You've just walked out of a Death Eater trap, but even so soon after, that feels like it's in the past. These nerves are to do with Remus, the man you love, who doesn't love you -- at least, you think he doesn't -- and the hip hip hurrah at his having brought you to his childhood home, which you realise you'd already ascribed more meaning to than you ought.

"Seriously, you did well out there," he says. "Mad Eye said you were good, that I'd be glad to have you to get my back, and he's right, on both counts."

Suddenly, all the rest doesn’t matter because Remus thinks you're good and that's a longed-for first step down the road to acceptance.

To realise, in an instant, that you hold the power to turn on a light in someone's eyes that is so bright and pure, is breathtaking. You've seen her smile a hundred times -- it seems to be her default expression -- but this one is not tinged with doubt or unease; her features are not forced into an expression of outward cheer, rather it is easy and true and you can't shake the feeling that this smile is for you, and perhaps you alone.

Though you know that is likely to be nothing more than fanciful nonsense, there is something about her eyes, dancing as they watch you, which draws you in, a warmth that is magnetic, pulling at every long suppressed desire you've ever tucked away and which you had long thought more secure than the vaults of Gringott's.

Just for a moment, you want to tease yourself, to step closer to her, to share something with her in return that is as honest as the smile upon her face.

You'd greeted him cheerfully, hopefully, foolishly, with far more familiarity that he wanted or expected, judging by his awkward response, the shifty glance sideways at Sirius, who you've just beaten at cards.

"I, er, how are you, Tonks?" he'd said, eyes cast down upon his shoes.

He'd been cold and disinterested throughout the stilted and awkward, though mercifully brief, conversation that had followed. There had not been an ounce of recognition of the fact that, three nights ago, you'd spent a couple of hours lying side by side on the hillside garden of his childhood home, arms touching while you talked, and though you cannot say there was anything particularly profound in the conversation you shared, you'd been struck with the certainty that what passed between you want not something Remus normally gave willingly, or often.

You'd made excuses quickly and left, dejection trailing in a heavy cloak behind you. Even now, three hours later it cannot be shaken, nor can the burning cheeks of embarrassment every time you replay the scene in your mind. No one has ever told you that love and humiliation go hand in hand.

Just as you'd watched that smile bloom across her face, you witnessed the crushed look steal away her good humour and hated yourself for it as you did.

You're probably deluding yourself if you think you know her well, but the feeling that you do, or are getting to very quickly, is hard to shake, and your instincts tell you that the sensitivity of emotion that you have seen in her is entirely down to you, as arrogant and preposterous as that sounds. Three nights ago, as she lay beside you, she seemed to wholly own the confidence she exuded. The sense of camaraderie as you relaxed beside her was so strong, you were sure you both felt it, and even though it had been pushed to the back of your mind, you knew, even then, that you were giving her something only temporarily, it was one time, one night, never to be repeated: to flirt with temptation any more would be to tempt Fate herself.

You know that with clarity, now, because it is only when you felt the full weight of guilt as her hopeful expression crumbled that you knew just how dangerous this could be: that you could love her. There is no question of that, though, it must be forgotten, buried, and you must deal with her as a colleague and no more.

The owl comes as a surprise. Not his handwriting, though: small, precise script that's just as controlled as he is, except for the elegant flourish on the looped letters at the end of a sentence. You manage to spend at least half an hour trying to divine the insight this gives into his character: wildness longing to escape, though, given what he is, you swiftly push this to one side; suppressed emotion, longing for expression -- you like this one better, it's more...hopeful. You even consider checking the Public Wizarding Library for a text on graphology, but then you check yourself and take a moment to feel relieved that your common sense is still largely, if not entirely, intact. Whatever secrets those loopy letters might have to reveal, it's not a surprise that they're there, you've always known there's more to him than the person he presents to the world, otherwise you wouldn't -- couldn't -- have fallen in love with him.

The surprise is that he wants to see you. There is no doubt that the missive is entirely professional, it is all business and devoid of anything personal, except to offer the hope that you are well, but it heralds a great deal of relief all the same, and the knot that's been hard in your stomach for days, now, begins to unwind. Though his rebuff had sat heavily for a few days, it didn't compare to the sickness that descended at the thought that his good opinion of your professional ability, once given, should be taken away.

For a few happy hours, you'd tasted a teasing hint of true partnership, and to work with a man like Remus, in pursuit of a cause you believe in so enduringly, is too much to contemplate losing.

All will be well, though; it's here in writing. He wants to meet you -- pick your brain, he says, and maybe come up with a game plan for your next outing to the woods.

Your heart is in your mouth; it's been a long time since you have you been so terrified for another person. Nor filled with such admiration. Not only because her disguise brilliant, going beyond her natural ability to transform herself, to attend to the smallest detail: a slight tick in her left eye, her head cocked to the side, eyes narrowed to slits, squinting at her subject; her hands twitch and shake in fingerless gloves, nails untrimmed and lined with dirt; she speaks in halted tones, voice rough and slightly deeper than its natural pitch. More than her skill in assuming this character, it's the confidence with which she portrays it, belying a courage that sits up there with those special people in your life whose influence has been lasting.

Crouched down, thighs burning from holding the position, absolutely, for so long, you are filled with a desperation to know what they're saying, to have your instincts confirmed: that they're buying her story, feeding her the information the Order needs to proceed, that will make this night, putting her in such danger, worthwhile.

When they, the two ruffian go-betweens, turn and drag their feet through the undergrowth, sloping away, your breath is suspended in your chest. She doesn't turn her back on them, but cuts a sideways path back to you, her feet sure and steady, her balance and stealth practiced in defiance of those who said she couldn't. Single-minded determination has got her where she is, and that's as attractive to you as the gentle features of her natural face, which is becoming more and more familiar, both by day at work, and by night when she is an apparition beneath your closed lids.

He is grimly pleased with your work, reminding you a little of Mad Eye: proud, but not daring to say it out loud, which is not quite what you want from him; you'd prefer a comradely slap on the back and a team debrief at the nearest available pub, but you'll settle for anything but the blank indifference you've come to dread.

Lying in your bed at night, you analyse everything as you'd always privately ridiculed those silly and giggling girls with whom you'd shared a dorm at Hogwarts for. It's not truth that you're searching for, you've decided, it's hope, because you think hope is a less certain thing and therefore easier to grasp at, especially in the small things: the careless smiles and sideways glances; the worried look he gets in his eyes when it's you who's up for a risky assignment; that night on the hillside in his parents' garden still plays on your mind; the warm heat from his arm spilling into yours is hard to forget.

Tonight, there is no casual conversation, nothing that intimates you're anything more than colleagues; you do not linger before returning to Grimmauld Place, which you're just using as a stop-off Apparition point on your way home. He says goodnight, and you respond; you turn on the ball of your foot to the door and reach out to open it, when you become aware of the silence in the hall behind you: there are no footsteps heading to the kitchen, Remus is standing behind you, watching you -- you can feel his gaze upon your back.

"Tonks?"

It feels like it takes an hour for you to turn back. "Hm?"

"You were brilliant tonight," he says. He is closer than you thought: he reaches out, lays his hand on your arm and squeezes gently. "Well done. And thank you."

You feel yourself smile as he steps away, but no words form in response. It's not that you're speechless, more that something instinctive is telling you he doesn't not expect, or want, a response; you somehow feel this warmth is his concession to whatever he's holding himself up against. And when you're home, later that night, tucked up in bed, you sleep soundly for the comforting knowledge that you've finally walked away from an encounter with him where you did the right thing; your dreams find hope in that, sweetly exploring the possibilities.

Though you don't remember those dreams, you wake with a dull ache that persists for days, for something you become ever more uncertain you can live without.

"How's your project coming along, old friend?"

You look up, distracted, from the report that came in from Tonks an hour ago. She is unexpectedly eloquent on paper, her handwriting is neat and orderly, not at all what one might expect, but, now that you have come to think about it over the last hour, probably what you should have expected. Firstly, because Tonks seems to exceed expectations on every level, and secondly, in spite of the disordered personality she often exhibits, she is, in fact, a creature of control and precision.

"Project?" you say, uninterested in the interruption.

"My cousin. Tonks. Our Nymphadora. Well," he pauses heavily, "it's more like 'your Nymphadora', isn't it, Moony?"

"I'll certainly claim her as mine if it keeps her off other people's schedules and assigned to this project we're working on at the moment. She's a real asset." You try to keep your voice as nonchalant as possible, unsure of your success, but then it's Sirius you're speaking to: nonchalance is unlikely to get you off the hook. A wisdom which is thus proved when he says: "You don't fool me, old man. This stolid resistance of yours won't last." You flash a look of warning that won't be heeded and unroll the parchment, once more, hoping to deflect further enquiry.

"I take it, though, that she has blossomed as your protégée. You always did like a project -- the more hopeless the better, as I recall."

"She was never hopeless, Sirius. Don't do her the disservice of saying so, even as a joke." Stung into betraying so much more than you'd ever wanted, you gather your things and leave, cursing Sirius for knowing you well enough to tap out such a response and cursing the circumstance that means you have to hide, suppress, what most men would be shouting from the rooftops. The door slams behind you.

Swaying in your seat, the fine cut crystal with its Black crest resting elegantly in your palm, the golden liquid within casting a jewelled shadow on your skin, you feel more lonely than in all your years in prison. It's the drink talking, of course, you're not that self-centred. Yet. You've always been prone to a cruel streak when on the booze, but your outbursts normally find more worthy victims, or at worst, friends who are understanding enough to put you to bed with a bucket close by and forget.

Young and good cousins, however, are somewhat a mystery, especially when you add the descriptor 'female' into the midst. Her mother might have been your favourite cousin, but that was largely down to her not numbering aimless murder among her hobbies and extending a dinner invitation every so often -- the competition for the title was not strong. The point being, relative familial closeness with the mother does not equal understanding of the daughter, but somewhere along the line, you've added 'close family ties' with the second-hand description of her -- from more than one source, you point out to yourself -- as 'capable and up for anything' with what must be the all round recommendation of Moony's ardent love, and equated that with it being perfectly acceptable to treat her like you would have any one of your mates. Which, normally, seems perfectly acceptable to her, appreciated, even.

Treating her like a mate who expects to field drunken abuse, every now and again, was, however -- it has taken you half an hour of confused deliberation to realise -- miscalculated.

Sirius' mocking tones reverberate in your ears. "You know you're just a project to him, don't you? One of his special teaching projects that beg for extra attention."

A project. What did that even mean? For an hour you try to tell yourself that it doesn't matter, that Sirius was drunk and it doesn't mean anything. Which would be a lot easier if it didn't make a bit of sense, in which case, you want to know just what the hell he -- Remus -- is playing at on the few occasions when he's made you think there might be something more.

Restless energy carries you to your feet, and to your desk; fingers that itch to pick up a pen, obey and your hand flies across the page:

"Sirius says I'm just a project. Is that true?"

You send it quickly, before you have the chance to change your mind. Even if Sirius is wrong, you've suffered mixed signals and uncertainty long enough. You're unsettled by the knowledge that an argument lies somewhere, close, in your future, until it strikes you that a far worse outcome would be no argument at all...

You've never been to her flat before, but you're already in danger of single-handedly wearing a hole in the carpet outside her door, if you don't either pull up the courage to knock, or take the coward's way out and retreat before you've been spotted.

It's worse than you'd expected -- the hurt on her face when she answers your knock. So, too, is the spiritless way she turns, leaving the door open, gesturing vaguely to the settee in unenthusiastic invitation.

"Tonks, I..." you begin haltingly. "Sirius, he was drunk..."

"That doesn't preclude him from telling the truth, though, does it?"

"No, but..."

"I thought...that you chose me for all the assignments because you thought I was good. I thought...I thought that you trusted me. That we...we were a team."

The pain in her voice affects you so profoundly and unexpectedly that you find yourself floundering; it leaves you wondering if perhaps there are some things you cannot ignore, or at least, in situations such as these -- when deeper emotions are at work -- that it is impossible to pick and to choose the rules that govern your actions.

"We are a team. No one else could have begun to fill your shoes this year."

"What," she says acidly, "because I'm a Metamorphmagus?"

"Of course not," you say, rising from the sofa, pacing three steps and back. "Of course I can't deny that your skills for disguise have been an asset, but there's a damned sight more to it than the ability to change your skin. And you know it!"

"Of course I bloody know it. It's been a constant study since I was twelve years old. Whatever people think, it's not as simple as a quick change with accompanying sartorial considerations."

"I know that, and anyone that does not, does not possess the same attention to detail that you do." She meets your eyes, albeit briefly, for the first time since you arrived and you sense that they soften, surprised, but mollified, by your words. Seizing this as an opportunity, you continue, allowing your own expression to soften as it settles on her face, as you have so often schooled yourself against. "Tonks, you must know, surely, that you have advanced the Order's cause in the work we've been doing beyond anything Dumbledore and I had hoped for, that it is, singularly, down to you. I have told you. Why should some drunken, off-hand remark from Sirius negate all that?"

"Because it was the only way that everything made sense!"

"What do you mean?"

If you hadn't known at the moment you sent the note without thinking, you'd certainly known in the hour that had followed, that it would mean all cards on the table. That you wouldn't be able to hold anything back or you would not be able to demand the honesty from him that you so desperately need.

"You pick me for every assignment you do on this case," you start slowly, hoping you can guide him through the trail of your logic without coming across as a lunatic. "And we work well together, don't we?"

"Without doubt."

"And you're very fastidious about always saying thanks for a good job, or, on the occasions when the stakes have been a little higher, taken the time -- or so I thought -- to make sure I knew my part was appreciated, and I appreciated that. But what's always been a puzzle is: why will you have nothing to do with me outside of that? I don't understand it. If you really did respect my work, wouldn't you think me worthy of being a friend?"

Silence. He has resumed his seat at the opposite end of the settee; he drops his head into a hand for a moment and your heart hammers in your chest because you don't think you've ever seen emotion like this from him and you cannot read it.

At length, he looks up, his eyes alight on your face for a moment. "More than worthy," he whispers.

"Then why?"

Why, indeed? You have been asking yourself that very question with increasing frequency, and the answer is always the same: you cannot risk getting close to her. For her sake, too, because you know all too well how terrible false hope is, and it wouldn't be fair -- to her, mostly, but to lesser extent, yourself.

But she is sitting there, looking at you, with such a plaintive expression, framed with earnest, that is just so achingly typical of her that suddenly, honesty seems like the only course of action.

"It wouldn't be enough, would it, Dora?" The name you know her family calls her whispers off your tongue like a caress, as though it's been part of your vocabulary for years.

She looks at you stunned, for a moment, and you are transfixed; the space between you seems to physically shrink, though neither of you has moved so much as a muscle; it's as though you are frozen in each others' gaze.

He's looking at you like there's no one else in the world. A force is exerting itself upon you like a magnet, pulling you to him, but you must resist: too much is at stake. You would rather him a friend than nothing at all and any move on your part would be to risk everything.

"I would try for it to be," you whisper back, without thinking.

"It wouldn't be fair," he says. Hearing the pain that underpins his tone, it strikes you forcibly that he doesn't just mean fair for you, he means, for himself, too, and that must mean that he...

"Remus, why won't you...?" You leave the question unfinished when he finally breaks eye contact and looks down.

"I can't. People like me, Tonks...We're not...I can't."

"Why not?" He's still not looking at you, so you reach out, lay your hand briefly on his arm. "Remus, why not?" You shouldn't be pushing but you can't help it. You've always known what he is, and it's never mattered; above all things, he is a good man, and that is the only thing that counts. It's is foolish, perhaps, to assume that he's not been here and done this with another girl at some point in his greater years than yours, but what if -- what if you were the only one to challenge that, the only one given the opportunity to make him see that love is love and when it's as real as this feels, nothing else matters.

"For many reasons. I have lived with this for a long time; long enough to know that I could not conscience asking another person to live along side it. I won't do it."

The vehemence of his last declaration is so strong that it hits you like a bludger to the stomach; tears sting in your eyes, and are quick to fall. "I would," you manage to say. So many nights you've given to fretful sleep on the matter without tears seem to be catching up with you.

"Dora. Oh, Dora, no," he mumbles, but you cannot look at him, so you don't realise he is right beside you until his arms are around you, and your head is tucked beneath his chin. It only makes you cry harder because nothing has ever felt better. You know, instinctively, that comfort can only ever come from those arms, from feeling his chest against your cheek, from feeling the strength him in, and his breath warm upon your skin.

And you know, when his hand settles upon your face, his fingers exploring, tentatively, at first, and then moulding to the contours of your cheek, that he wants you every bit as much as you want him.

The first time your lips found hers had been the most exhilarating moment of your life to that date. The sheer strength of your desire to kiss her hadn't been in your arsenal of resistance techniques to counter; and you kissed her hard, learning instantly the fit between you, like two halves of jigsaw puzzle. You'd tasted her, soft and warm and sweet, and felt her wet tears upon your cheek.

It is sweeter now, so many months -- over a year -- later. Your second kiss has been just as urgent, but laced with a more potent brand of longing that time and the seeds sown by the first have brewed; and you are certain now, you can and you will give yourself to her -- she loves you that much and you love her as much, in return.

Perhaps you needed that time to know that, but you're sorry for it, too, for the hurt and the lost kisses, lost opportunity. How much easier would it have been to have known that this was waiting, and not to be denied?

"I love you."

You say that together, in one shared breath.

There is no time, now, for denial. Death proves that life can only be for the taking. It doesn't matter who you are -- celebrated headmaster, or werewolf, it comes to everyone in the end, and all that can be done is to grasp every moment. It's taken two wars, the loss of many friends and her, most importantly, her, thoughts of her that have filled your head for almost two years -- Dora, who lives within your arms, shares your breath, your hopes and dreams -- to realise that, but you do now, and you will not be fool enough, as you once were, to think that love can be driven away by time and distance.

There is no distance between you now, and tonight has put a magnifying glass on the fragility of life. As you give to her what you've not given anyone else, you can be truly glad that it is hers, only, and while you know this next chapter in your life will be ever more difficult for the loss you have suffered this night, it will be easier for knowing that, whatever happens, you have been loved.

You can't honestly wish that this hadn’t happened a year ago, but it will always be for him that you wish that more. It hurts to think of all that he's endured alone this year, but Remus is strong, and together you can only be more so.

In the narrow bed that fills the small room that's been found for you at Hogwarts, it still seems like a dream, but he sleeps close beside you, solid as gold, only worth more to you than his weight in it. You can't stop looking at him, and have barely slept for doing so.

It isn't quite mirror symmetry that your first kiss preceded the first great battle of the second war and your second followed the latest, as you have no doubt there will be many more battles to follow if you are to succeed in the mission that brought you together, but there is poetry in it, all the same, and Remus will not run now, you are sure of it.

He spoke of marriage tonight, and soon; and though you have only officially been a couple for a night time, you are sure enough of him, and your feelings for him, to know. You'd waited a year to find out whether he was in love with you; another to discover whether he was coming back, and at no point has it felt like a cause not worth pursuing. He'd given so much away that first night, enough for you to know that you'd have to fight for the both of you, and so you have.

You only have one battle to fight, now -- the one you should be fighting: for freedom and justice, and perhaps, one day, the right for Remus to live as a good man ought to live. For now, it is enough to know that you live for each other.

The End