Eight Little Deaths
Eight Little Deaths
Word count: 521
Characters: Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of sex, Deathly Hallows spoilers.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional, nonprofit work for entertainment purpose only. The copyright in the franchise “Harry Potter” and its components is owned by J.K. Rowling, which reserves all rights therein.
This fic was recced at chocolatefic and crack_broom. Yay! :D
The first time. Grimmauld Place. Sirius sleeps, alive and drunk, at the kitchen table. "Fancy a shag?", she says; he laughs and only then realises she means it this time.
It takes approximately five seconds between pinning her against the corridor wall, pulling it out of his pants and oh yes.
They sort of pretend it never happened, afterwards. (Blame it on the firewhisky, Sirius would have said, had it been him.)
The second time. His dusty old cabin; books under her as she looks at him with pleading eyes, half of a chocolate bar on the side table, both of them conscious that sex doesn't bring the dead back.
"I love you", she tells him for the first time. He sends her away because he loves her too.
The third time. Hogsmeade (he should never be there). A room above Hog's Head, dirty and impersonal as their moves, both reduced to animal need. They copulate as if committing a crime.
Maybe he is.
He leaves her crying and tells himself it's better this way.
Fourth time. The Burrow, may Molly never find out. It's fast, they keep checking if anybody is coming near, "for Merlin's sake, keep quiet, woman", and they're giggling by the time they're finished and he wonders to himself whether it's ok to feel this happy when Dumbledore's corpse has barely become cold.
Fifth. Muggle hotel, recommended by Kingsley (who would have guessed), at the Order's expense. Husband and wife: it's official, he thinks, now it's making love, not having sex.
He's so scared, it doesn't work the first time; takes him a backrub and the longest snog session ever known by mankind to relax.
Unconsciously, he has started to believe it was a mistake.
Sixth. What they call home.
Alastor Moody is dead.
It could have been either of them.
She took the Precaution Potion religiously every day, except for that month; obligatory interval period, the apothecary had said.
They'd been using spells.
Of course they would forget.
Seventh, at her parents' guestroom (their new home). He thought she'd leave him out in the cold night breeze; he thought she would make him sleep in the couch (a gift from hell, really, that couch, he bet Andromeda had used some Dark spell to make the goddamn piece of furniture extra-hard); he thought she wouldn't let him so much as lay a single finger on her.
Later, when she's already had "enough apologies for a lifetime", he feels the little lump of her naked belly under his palm, and starts thinking of names.
The guestroom, again. Both of them realise it's the last time.
They take their time, glad that Teddy will be quiet for the next few hours. It's slow and gentle like it is when two lovers know each other well enough.
La petite Mort, the French say. He tells her this. "To make way for the real Death", it's at the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't need to say it aloud.
"I love you", and that is him, and he says it aloud, and the meaning is the same.
Word count: 521
Characters: Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mentions of sex, Deathly Hallows spoilers.
Disclaimer: This is a fictional, nonprofit work for entertainment purpose only. The copyright in the franchise “Harry Potter” and its components is owned by J.K. Rowling, which reserves all rights therein.
This fic was recced at chocolatefic and crack_broom. Yay! :D
The first time. Grimmauld Place. Sirius sleeps, alive and drunk, at the kitchen table. "Fancy a shag?", she says; he laughs and only then realises she means it this time.
It takes approximately five seconds between pinning her against the corridor wall, pulling it out of his pants and oh yes.
They sort of pretend it never happened, afterwards. (Blame it on the firewhisky, Sirius would have said, had it been him.)
The second time. His dusty old cabin; books under her as she looks at him with pleading eyes, half of a chocolate bar on the side table, both of them conscious that sex doesn't bring the dead back.
"I love you", she tells him for the first time. He sends her away because he loves her too.
The third time. Hogsmeade (he should never be there). A room above Hog's Head, dirty and impersonal as their moves, both reduced to animal need. They copulate as if committing a crime.
Maybe he is.
He leaves her crying and tells himself it's better this way.
Fourth time. The Burrow, may Molly never find out. It's fast, they keep checking if anybody is coming near, "for Merlin's sake, keep quiet, woman", and they're giggling by the time they're finished and he wonders to himself whether it's ok to feel this happy when Dumbledore's corpse has barely become cold.
Fifth. Muggle hotel, recommended by Kingsley (who would have guessed), at the Order's expense. Husband and wife: it's official, he thinks, now it's making love, not having sex.
He's so scared, it doesn't work the first time; takes him a backrub and the longest snog session ever known by mankind to relax.
Unconsciously, he has started to believe it was a mistake.
Sixth. What they call home.
Alastor Moody is dead.
It could have been either of them.
She took the Precaution Potion religiously every day, except for that month; obligatory interval period, the apothecary had said.
They'd been using spells.
Of course they would forget.
Seventh, at her parents' guestroom (their new home). He thought she'd leave him out in the cold night breeze; he thought she would make him sleep in the couch (a gift from hell, really, that couch, he bet Andromeda had used some Dark spell to make the goddamn piece of furniture extra-hard); he thought she wouldn't let him so much as lay a single finger on her.
Later, when she's already had "enough apologies for a lifetime", he feels the little lump of her naked belly under his palm, and starts thinking of names.
The guestroom, again. Both of them realise it's the last time.
They take their time, glad that Teddy will be quiet for the next few hours. It's slow and gentle like it is when two lovers know each other well enough.
La petite Mort, the French say. He tells her this. "To make way for the real Death", it's at the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't need to say it aloud.
"I love you", and that is him, and he says it aloud, and the meaning is the same.