War Baby, by MrsTater
Title: War Baby
Author: mrstater
Rating & Warnings: G, none
Prompt: angst, grave
Format & Word Count: fic, 1743 words
Summary: It's time for Teddy's first outing, and for Tonks to make peace with a noble great idiot.
Author’s Notes: Unbetaed and I'm not at all sure I've said what I wanted to say with this piece, but the Tater Tot doesn't leave me with much writing time these days, and I need to post this before I leave town, so what you see is what you get. Feedback is love. :)
War Baby
She laughs--they both do--they always do--as they dress the baby. Because it's like dressing a doll--exactly like it--a little magical doll that squirms and pulls one arm out its sleeve while you're tugging the other one on and both feet somehow end up down one trouser leg, and the trousers get twisted the wrong way round--and Dora never played with dolls so she's had no more practice at this than Remus has. And because the entire ensemble--jumper, cap, mittens, booties--were knitted by Molly Weasley in baby blue and brown stripes--and of course marked with a T.
Dora stops laughing--only she does--once Teddy's tucked into the pram--her old pram, which her mum kept through the years of waiting hopefully for another baby that melted into the years of resigned waiting for a grandbaby.
"Will he be warm enough, d'you think?" Dora asks, eyeing Remus as he winds a matching like-father-like-son scarf--happily, an aspect of like-father with which he is comfortable-- around his neck.
"The Order have seen to that," he replies cheerfully, as if he really believes that his wife, like every new English mother, is concerned about the effects of the English climate on her child. "I knew Dumbledore had a penchant for knitting patterns, but I'd no idea so many of our male members had the skill on their CVs."
He Summons a baby blanket from a chest by the front door--not the blanket that was a gift from Aberforth and they're pretty sure is made of yarn spun from his own goats' hair because it smells suspiciously like the Hog's Head Inn--but the violet one worked through with daisy chains that came from Dedalus Diggle, who thought they were having a girl--and tucks it round Teddy in the pram. Then, glancing out the window at the tree swaying in the wind that hasn't seemed to let up since the blustery day Teddy was born, he Summons another.
"And I know being in hiding's as dull as ditchwater," he goes on, packing it in the nappy bag, "but I'm really quite touched that Petunia Dursley learnt to quilt and did one for Teddy. Even if Hestia did trick her into it."
He laughs--as he has before--as they have before--over the wonderful absurdities of their friends and comrades-at-arms who have gone above and beyond the call of friendship and duty to make the birth of their child as celebratory an occasion as it would be if it hadn't happened in the middle of a war. Maybe even more celebratory than if it hadn't happened in the middle of the war, because it's such a deeply personal victory over those who want to do worse than burn their names off family tapestries. A thought which makes him laugh again--at himself--at his transformation--at the irony of his being a freedom fighter through two wars and only now daring to do something so subversive on behalf of his own freedom--and not even having done it intentionally.
But Dora still isn't laughing. She fingers the edge of Teddy's blanket and asks, "Are you sure it isn't a bit soon?"
"Three weeks is a bit late, I should think, for baby's first outing," replies Remus, still managing to keep his tone light, though a slight hoarseness belies the difficulty of keeping heaviness at bay in the face of Dora's moroseness. "Most parents--"
"We're not most parents."
Her eyes flash as they lock with his, giving him the distinct impression of having deflected, at almost the last second, an offensive spell in a duel. He braces himself for the ensuing assault.
She fires off at him, "Most parents aren't government fugitives."
"That's never troubled you before," he calmly deflects.
"Most parents aren't shape-shifting half-blood freaks."
"How fortunate for us, being government fugitives, that we can take our baby out incognito. Unlike most parents."
For a heartbeat, he watches Dora's chest rise and fall with her heavy angered breathing.
Then, he says, "You can't disguise yourself from me, Nymphadora. I know this isn't about Teddy's health and safety."
Instantly the mask crumbles, revealing the unmistakable burn of shame on her pale cheeks even as she bows over Teddy's pram, strands of brown hair falling limply over her face.
"Most parents don't take their babies to…" Her voice breaks, and so does Remus' heart.
He goes to his wife, wraps his arms around her naturally altered frame--feeling the sagging bump of her recently pregnant belly, contrasted with the firm full swell of her breasts-- and leans in to brush his lips across her wet and salty cheek.
"I know," he tells her. "I know. But this is good and right for you."
He touches her chin, lifts her tear-stained face to look up at him. She nods, but sniffles again.
"I just wish...Most parents take their babies to happy places for their first outings."
Embracing her again, her head resting against his chest, he says, "Disneyland's a little out of the way, but we could always pop in the McDonald's and get Teddy his first Happy Meal."
It's a terribly inappropriate thing to say. But Dora laughs--they both do--they always do.
She tucks her hand into the crook of Remus' arm, and together they push their son's pram out into the wide world.
They take a picture of the Happy Meal box nestled beside the knitwear-clad baby sleeping in his pram--and then divide the cheeseburger, fries, and orange soda between themselves. She laughs--they both do--at how deeply demented they must be to something like this--finally blaming it on their lack of sleep and the giddiness of taking their child for his first outing and having him cooed at and pinched by total strangers who think nothing more negative about his parents than that they look very tired, but very happy.
And then they arrive at their destination:
A churchyard in a Muggle neighbourhood.
Dora stops laughing--they both do--and their squabble over who gets the remnants of the chips is immediately forgotten. Dora looks up at Remus, and he squeezes her hand. There is no resurgence of the scene at home; she releases his fingers--saying she needs to do this on her own when he asks if she wants him to go with her--lifts Teddy from the pram, wrapping the purple daisy chain afghan around him--and strides from her husband with all the confidence and courage--and clumsiness, for she catches her toe on a clod of freshly shoveled dirt--that attracted Remus to her at once that night he met her in the dingy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
Watching her, Remus cannot decide whether her posture is more like an Auror facing an enemy or a suppliant accepting the judgment of the Wizengamot--as she faces the headstone.
Ted Tonks
Born 16 September, 1952
Died Autumn 1997
Greater love hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends.
"Wotcher, Dad." Dora's customary greeting lacks her usual enthusiasm--or maybe it's lost in the howl of the wind. "There's so much I want to say to you…"
Remus thinks of the last time they were here--at Ted's funeral--when Dora also had much to say. She'd taken issue with the epitaph--the Scripture on which her mother insisted--for in leaving his wife, his daughter, his unborn grandson, Ted only placed himself in harm's way rather than protecting them from it--the noble great idiot. Words that had hurt her mother--who insisted something to the effect of it being the thought that counts-- words that shamed Dora--words that could not be recalled, but could never be forgotten.
Words too like the million times Dora had the same argument with him.
Words that are, regretfully, the truth.
Which makes Dora's grief all the more difficult to bear--and makes Remus wonder how much greater wound her suffering be had he died while on the run--during his assignment among the werewolves, or if Harry allowed him to accompany him on his mission--thank Merlin he didn't, that Remus had returned home, had the chance to be the father to the precious boy with whom Dora now kneels before the grave.
"I'm not going to say any of that," she says, "because I'm not sorry for any of the things I said to you before. I'm only sorry you never got to know Teddy." A pause, then, softer, "That's right--he's named for you. Because I love you. And…I forgive you."
As he listens to his wife make her peace with her father, Remus feels something within him loosen, so that if only the April wind could touch it, it would blow as freely as the ends of his striped scarf. In all the discussions they had leading to this moment, they'd never talked about forgiveness. They'd danced around it, but somehow, had avoided the word, even though it was the most essential vocabulary to bringing this conversation to its conclusion--but he should have understood the significance of the name, the message she had meant to convey in giving it to Teddy...
Her head turns, looking over her shoulder at Remus, whose heart is in his throat as she goes on, "So, Dad, meet your grandson--Teddy Remus Lupin."
She shifts the baby to one arm and holds out her free hand to her husband. As he joins her at the grave, fingers twining, the strands of hair peeking out from her knitted cap bloom pink.
"He looks just like Remus," she says, "though Remus says he's like me."
"Well, he is a Metamorphmagus," says Remus, and she laughs--both of them do--
--they always will.
Author: mrstater
Rating & Warnings: G, none
Prompt: angst, grave
Format & Word Count: fic, 1743 words
Summary: It's time for Teddy's first outing, and for Tonks to make peace with a noble great idiot.
Author’s Notes: Unbetaed and I'm not at all sure I've said what I wanted to say with this piece, but the Tater Tot doesn't leave me with much writing time these days, and I need to post this before I leave town, so what you see is what you get. Feedback is love. :)
War Baby
She laughs--they both do--they always do--as they dress the baby. Because it's like dressing a doll--exactly like it--a little magical doll that squirms and pulls one arm out its sleeve while you're tugging the other one on and both feet somehow end up down one trouser leg, and the trousers get twisted the wrong way round--and Dora never played with dolls so she's had no more practice at this than Remus has. And because the entire ensemble--jumper, cap, mittens, booties--were knitted by Molly Weasley in baby blue and brown stripes--and of course marked with a T.
Dora stops laughing--only she does--once Teddy's tucked into the pram--her old pram, which her mum kept through the years of waiting hopefully for another baby that melted into the years of resigned waiting for a grandbaby.
"Will he be warm enough, d'you think?" Dora asks, eyeing Remus as he winds a matching like-father-like-son scarf--happily, an aspect of like-father with which he is comfortable-- around his neck.
"The Order have seen to that," he replies cheerfully, as if he really believes that his wife, like every new English mother, is concerned about the effects of the English climate on her child. "I knew Dumbledore had a penchant for knitting patterns, but I'd no idea so many of our male members had the skill on their CVs."
He Summons a baby blanket from a chest by the front door--not the blanket that was a gift from Aberforth and they're pretty sure is made of yarn spun from his own goats' hair because it smells suspiciously like the Hog's Head Inn--but the violet one worked through with daisy chains that came from Dedalus Diggle, who thought they were having a girl--and tucks it round Teddy in the pram. Then, glancing out the window at the tree swaying in the wind that hasn't seemed to let up since the blustery day Teddy was born, he Summons another.
"And I know being in hiding's as dull as ditchwater," he goes on, packing it in the nappy bag, "but I'm really quite touched that Petunia Dursley learnt to quilt and did one for Teddy. Even if Hestia did trick her into it."
He laughs--as he has before--as they have before--over the wonderful absurdities of their friends and comrades-at-arms who have gone above and beyond the call of friendship and duty to make the birth of their child as celebratory an occasion as it would be if it hadn't happened in the middle of a war. Maybe even more celebratory than if it hadn't happened in the middle of the war, because it's such a deeply personal victory over those who want to do worse than burn their names off family tapestries. A thought which makes him laugh again--at himself--at his transformation--at the irony of his being a freedom fighter through two wars and only now daring to do something so subversive on behalf of his own freedom--and not even having done it intentionally.
But Dora still isn't laughing. She fingers the edge of Teddy's blanket and asks, "Are you sure it isn't a bit soon?"
"Three weeks is a bit late, I should think, for baby's first outing," replies Remus, still managing to keep his tone light, though a slight hoarseness belies the difficulty of keeping heaviness at bay in the face of Dora's moroseness. "Most parents--"
"We're not most parents."
Her eyes flash as they lock with his, giving him the distinct impression of having deflected, at almost the last second, an offensive spell in a duel. He braces himself for the ensuing assault.
She fires off at him, "Most parents aren't government fugitives."
"That's never troubled you before," he calmly deflects.
"Most parents aren't shape-shifting half-blood freaks."
"How fortunate for us, being government fugitives, that we can take our baby out incognito. Unlike most parents."
For a heartbeat, he watches Dora's chest rise and fall with her heavy angered breathing.
Then, he says, "You can't disguise yourself from me, Nymphadora. I know this isn't about Teddy's health and safety."
Instantly the mask crumbles, revealing the unmistakable burn of shame on her pale cheeks even as she bows over Teddy's pram, strands of brown hair falling limply over her face.
"Most parents don't take their babies to…" Her voice breaks, and so does Remus' heart.
He goes to his wife, wraps his arms around her naturally altered frame--feeling the sagging bump of her recently pregnant belly, contrasted with the firm full swell of her breasts-- and leans in to brush his lips across her wet and salty cheek.
"I know," he tells her. "I know. But this is good and right for you."
He touches her chin, lifts her tear-stained face to look up at him. She nods, but sniffles again.
"I just wish...Most parents take their babies to happy places for their first outings."
Embracing her again, her head resting against his chest, he says, "Disneyland's a little out of the way, but we could always pop in the McDonald's and get Teddy his first Happy Meal."
It's a terribly inappropriate thing to say. But Dora laughs--they both do--they always do.
She tucks her hand into the crook of Remus' arm, and together they push their son's pram out into the wide world.
They take a picture of the Happy Meal box nestled beside the knitwear-clad baby sleeping in his pram--and then divide the cheeseburger, fries, and orange soda between themselves. She laughs--they both do--at how deeply demented they must be to something like this--finally blaming it on their lack of sleep and the giddiness of taking their child for his first outing and having him cooed at and pinched by total strangers who think nothing more negative about his parents than that they look very tired, but very happy.
And then they arrive at their destination:
A churchyard in a Muggle neighbourhood.
Dora stops laughing--they both do--and their squabble over who gets the remnants of the chips is immediately forgotten. Dora looks up at Remus, and he squeezes her hand. There is no resurgence of the scene at home; she releases his fingers--saying she needs to do this on her own when he asks if she wants him to go with her--lifts Teddy from the pram, wrapping the purple daisy chain afghan around him--and strides from her husband with all the confidence and courage--and clumsiness, for she catches her toe on a clod of freshly shoveled dirt--that attracted Remus to her at once that night he met her in the dingy basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.
Watching her, Remus cannot decide whether her posture is more like an Auror facing an enemy or a suppliant accepting the judgment of the Wizengamot--as she faces the headstone.
Ted Tonks
Born 16 September, 1952
Died Autumn 1997
Greater love hath no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends.
"Wotcher, Dad." Dora's customary greeting lacks her usual enthusiasm--or maybe it's lost in the howl of the wind. "There's so much I want to say to you…"
Remus thinks of the last time they were here--at Ted's funeral--when Dora also had much to say. She'd taken issue with the epitaph--the Scripture on which her mother insisted--for in leaving his wife, his daughter, his unborn grandson, Ted only placed himself in harm's way rather than protecting them from it--the noble great idiot. Words that had hurt her mother--who insisted something to the effect of it being the thought that counts-- words that shamed Dora--words that could not be recalled, but could never be forgotten.
Words too like the million times Dora had the same argument with him.
Words that are, regretfully, the truth.
Which makes Dora's grief all the more difficult to bear--and makes Remus wonder how much greater wound her suffering be had he died while on the run--during his assignment among the werewolves, or if Harry allowed him to accompany him on his mission--thank Merlin he didn't, that Remus had returned home, had the chance to be the father to the precious boy with whom Dora now kneels before the grave.
"I'm not going to say any of that," she says, "because I'm not sorry for any of the things I said to you before. I'm only sorry you never got to know Teddy." A pause, then, softer, "That's right--he's named for you. Because I love you. And…I forgive you."
As he listens to his wife make her peace with her father, Remus feels something within him loosen, so that if only the April wind could touch it, it would blow as freely as the ends of his striped scarf. In all the discussions they had leading to this moment, they'd never talked about forgiveness. They'd danced around it, but somehow, had avoided the word, even though it was the most essential vocabulary to bringing this conversation to its conclusion--but he should have understood the significance of the name, the message she had meant to convey in giving it to Teddy...
Her head turns, looking over her shoulder at Remus, whose heart is in his throat as she goes on, "So, Dad, meet your grandson--Teddy Remus Lupin."
She shifts the baby to one arm and holds out her free hand to her husband. As he joins her at the grave, fingers twining, the strands of hair peeking out from her knitted cap bloom pink.
"He looks just like Remus," she says, "though Remus says he's like me."
"Well, he is a Metamorphmagus," says Remus, and she laughs--both of them do--
--they always will.