LATE PROMPT 7 - HANDFAST
Title: Handfast
Author: gilpin25
Prompt: 7, Broken egg (I’m very late)
Format and Word Count: Fic; 4971 words.
Rating: R
Warning: It’s a soft R, but there’s implied Paganism, references to sex and swearing.
Summary: Sent to investigate a worrying possibility at a neglected house, Remus and Tonks find the textbook answers sometimes just aren't enough.
Author’s Notes: Liberties taken with the line: ‘“There are - certain defences one can use,” said Lupin.’ (POA). I’m sure he didn’t mean this. There’s a few other liberties taken, as well, so feedback is much appreciated. Set during OotP.
Handfast.
The old oak tree stood there silently, as if it were absorbing her thoughts and her emotions and considering what to do about them.
That made two of them, then. Possibly three, though the other one was still pretending he was above this sort of thing.
Of course, he’d say he was below it.
“It’s crossed the boundary.” Remus ran his long fingers softly, almost reverently, down the swollen and gnarled trunk, and she watched him, telling herself that one person’s hand was much like any other. “Just over that hill is a Muggle village. The roots must be so long and old that they’ve grown through. It’s literally attached to both worlds.”
“Is that why…?” There were coloured ribbons tied to the lower branches and twigs on the right hand side, labels with hand-written messages, as well as flowers; some fresh, some decaying, some fusing with the blistered bark.
Offerings? Some Muggle game?
It seemed rather undignified for the poor tree to be half-dressed like that. The Muggles wouldn’t be able to see or touch the side in the wizarding world, of course.
He shrugged. “Children, probably. Perhaps Harry would know.”
Tonks shivered and almost stamped her freezing feet again before remembering she’d nearly squashed the box of eggs standing by them flat the last time. She stared up through the jagged branches at the muddied and rapidly darkening light, the dim suggestion of a few unenthusiastic stars appearing here and there. “Must be confusing for the tree.”
“Hmm. Trying to live in two worlds and belonging to neither. It’ll never quite fit in.” He gave her the slightest of sideways glances, his hair falling forward into his eyes as he did so, and she thought grimly that she’d got the point, thank you very much, the meaningful look was entirely unnecessary, and that every time he did this sort of crap it made her even more determined.
Besides, he had no one but himself to blame - although that was clearly what he was doing to such impenetrable, barrier-like effect - by starting it all that day in the Dursley’s kitchen. Back then, she’d still been coming to terms with the realisation that her initial Sirius Black is one sexy-looking man idea, had been hastily replaced by Sirius Black has a head like a tangled ball of wool, which isn’t remotely sexy, and the whole notion of I want Remus Lupin’s mouth and hands on me, was a faint, jaw-dropping suspicion she’d barely recognised, let alone acknowledged.
And of all the bloody places to choose, surrounded by everyone else. What an idiot.
No wonder she’d reacted all wrong. No wonder she’d bitten his head off when he’d said Nymphadora, and then been completely, embarrassingly hyper with Harry.
Why didn’t people feel exactly the same thing at exactly the same time?
“You’re so young,” he’d said, touching her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers in a dismissive and affectionate - affectionate! - manner a few days later when she’d drunk enough to broach the subject, and was desperate to say she hadn’t realised at the time, but now she thought about it yes, yes, yes! Except he was already in the middle of some beautifully worded and incredibly irritating speech he must have rehearsed many times over - the gist of which seemed to centre on not meaning to take advantage of her, hoping she’d forgive him, and weren’t they just absolutely wonderful as the best of friends?
He’d then rambled on about keeping things “on an even keel” and “You and I maintaining our emotional equilibrium, Tonks,” and generally sounding like the stuffed shirt she knew he was a million miles from being. The basic message, though, was that everything was tickety-boo now he’d seen the error of his lusting werewolf ways.
Oh, no, it bloody isn’t, she’d raged at him, but, of course, that had been the worse thing possible because it had served to convince him even more that he was right, and her that she was even deeper in than she’d ever thought possible.
And he was right that she was young because someone older, someone with more experience with men than her, would have known straight away what she realised only later. That he hadn’t been able to choose the moment back then, any more than she could stop herself now; and that the one split-second glimpse of Remus Lupin, for once not cool, calm and in control, but naked and open and wanting was burnt forever in her mind.
“He,” she said, watching the muscles work in his hand as he flexed it against the tree, and wondering how they were ever going to get a moment like that together at the same time. She was old enough to know this had to be mutual want.
“He?”
“Trees are male. They stand around for centuries, look as though they’ll do something impressive, but never move from the spot.”
He laughed, pushing his hair back with that slim hand which she’d imagined stroking her skin for the last however many nights it was.
“Books must be female then because they’re constantly being looked at, and men are desperately trying to get the right meaning from their words all the time.”
She laughed too, and they left the tree, with her giving it a farewell pat because, male or not, she felt it was on her side, which was really both their sides, and remembering to pick up the eggs so that they might still be able to eat mushroom omelettes for dinner with Sirius, as had been the plan before Mad-Eye’s owl had found them. They bickered and joked and flirted as they picked their way up the thistle-strewn lane towards the house - she pointing out trains were male as they used the same old lines when picking people up, and he that egg-timers must be female because eventually everything ended up at the bottom - and it was all very comfortable and familiar and enjoyable.
And it wasn’t enough. Not any more.
On the other hand, being back in the comfort zone of light-hearted remarks and warm smiles at each other, did momentarily stop her dwelling on the fact that the headlines in the Muggle newspapers of a ghostly black monk, scaring kids and old ladies alike, might not be about a very tall Muggle flasher, who’d had a few too many, and roamed around at night with an interesting taste in dressing gowns.
Certainly, the sight of the ivy-covered and neglected house coming into view again, effectively silenced them both.
She braced herself against the bite of the cold wind, wishing she’d put a warmer jumper on, tapped the side of her wand against the wall and watched the tell-tale amber sparks briefly flare. Remus, meanwhile, traced a deep crack in the crumbling brickwork with a thoughtful finger, and a slight frown on his face.
“They don’t usually come this close to the boundary edge,” she said.
“No, but …” He looked at her and shifted slightly, standing to the windward side of her, and giving her the shelter of his body. “We don’t usually come this close either, do we? There’s lots to appeal here.”
It was true. Houses were touched by the magic and the emotions that went on within them, and what this one had taken in over all the years felt wrong. Not evil, exactly, but not happy, either.
A Dementor might well feel at home here, or want something else to.
Thinking that made her shiver again, but Section 13 (Defensive Counter-Measures Against Dementors) of the Auror Manual insisted you empty your mind of anything remotely negative beforehand, though she doubted the textbooks meant dwelling on what colleagues would be like in bed. In her defence, she had found that the best way to prepare to face a Dementor was to start off by thinking of light-hearted, almost frivolous things, which seemed to confuse them momentarily. Rather like the simplicity of Sirius’ thoughts when in dog-form had been hard for them to focus on.
They’d discussed it on the way over here. If you had the guts to do that first, and then summon your happiest memory; the resulting Patronus seemed to rip from your wand with even greater force, and almost smash into them.
Of course, all of this preparation theory had one slight snag; it assumed the Dementor was obliging enough to let you know beforehand that it was coming.
“We really need to investigate this house in the light of day.” Remus raised his eyes to the now black sky, not even glancing at the crescent-shaped moon. “I’ll quickly do a sweep round the lane again and by the tree, if you’ll watch from here. There’s no other way in. Then, if there’s still nothing, I think we should come back tomorrow and do a proper stakeout, not like this spur-of-the-moment look, while hanging onto our dinner.” He nodded towards the box of eggs she was still holding, looking at her steadily. “I was looking forward to that omelette, as well.”
The easy tone would have fooled someone who didn’t know him, but his eyes were very serious, thin shoulders hunched against the swirling wind.
“The tree?” She already knew the answer.
“You saw, didn’t you?”
There’d been a depression near it, a hollow of trampled grass. Worn bits of branches were lying around in the shallow pit like discarded bones. A dark stain from a recent fire near the centre. Rocks jutting unevenly out of the ground that were also suggestive of bone. Another younger tree nearby had an outgrowth at the base of the trunk, which in the murky light was like a skull with only one gaping eye socket.
She’d wanted to do every procedure she’d learnt as an Auror and then every trick she’d learnt as an Order member on that place alone. There might as well have been a sign saying Death Eater’s building plot available here.
“Our tree’s not happy about it,” she said.
“Our tree?” He grinned at her, hair falling forward onto his forehead again, the pale hand pushing it impatiently back.
“Yeah. It doesn’t feel like everything else does around here.” She smiled, letting just a fraction of what she was feeling show in her expression, watching him respond for a few precious seconds, before he recollected where he was and what he was doing and the just good friends crap.
He turned away quickly and spoke to her over his shoulder. “I won’t be long. It’ll give you more time to think about Moody, just in case.”
She’d told him that her frivolous and distracting pre-Dementor thoughts normally centred on ways to get Mad-Eye to reveal which wizards were minus a buttock. Which was very cowardly of her, really, and how could she expect him to be honest if she wasn’t?
“No.” She put the eggs down carefully in the narrow doorway near her, and raised her eyes to his as he half-turned.
“No?”
She swallowed, but her voice sounded quite calm. “You know what I think of. And I know that you do, too.”
He didn’t deny it, but not a muscle moved in his face. Hardly surprising, really, when he’d lived all his life at the School of Hard Knocks, and been slapped down more times than she could imagine. Although the continuous bags under his eyes at present did suggest he was having as much interrupted sleep as she was lately, a thought which gave her immense satisfaction. And hope.
“Well, I’d have to agree that that’s frivolous in the extreme, and of little importance. I suggest you keep your mind on the job. The one thing I am constantly thinking about is that I want you to stay safe.” He said it very coolly, very calmly. The perfectly collected and totally unflappable Remus Lupin; still doing his utmost to eradicate every memory of the one who’d rested his hand next to hers, and whispered to her in the gloom of the Dursley’s kitchen.
He turned on his heel abruptly and left her to the dark and her thoughts.
She fixed her eyes on the house, the memory she needed to summon ready in her head, prepared others in case it failed, and, eventually, allowed herself to wonder if it was just lust. She knew what that felt like, she’d had that with her ex, and yet the abiding memory of times with him was afterwards when she felt most empty because she knew there was something else just out of reach.
A theory surely proved by the fact that she remembered him with affection for the laughs they’d had. Rather than the bed times, nice though they’d been. Nice? Other witches said their boyfriends were fantastic lovers or great shags or total losers. (Or Molly said Arthur was the sweetest man ever, but Tonks could count all those kids for herself).
What a fine pair we are, she thought; a Metamorphmagus who has never known love, and so doesn’t recognise it when she sees it. A werewolf who runs from it, because he does.
Did she really want this? He was right; she was young. Everyone should have their heart broken once and move on. Most people had by her age. Perhaps she might even have a clockwork heart, instead of a flesh and blood one.
The sound of quiet footsteps approaching from her right, gave the immediate lie to that one. She took one eye off the house and watched Remus walking back towards her.
“Anything?” she called, thinking coldly, and logically, that he was looking particularly shabby this evening. There were several visible mends and patches in his long black coat and the elbows were shiny and worn. The laces on his shoes didn’t match, either.
“Nothing.” He shook his head as he drew near. “Nothing at all. Yet there’s something here.”
“Yeah, I know.” He was a lot older than her, too, and could she really see herself introducing him to her friends? See their polite and disbelieving smiles, and wait for the jokes afterwards about how she was suffering a mid-life crisis in her twenties, and had finally found a man whose fashion sense was as bad as her own?
She stepped out of the doorway towards him and the chill of the wind caught her again, making her turn her face away.
“You’re frozen.” He took a step towards her, concern on his face.
“You must be as well. When we come back tomorrow we’ll have to wear more sweaters and pinch Sirius’ thermal undies.” For a moment, while she was talking, she thought he was going to touch her cheek, and then he dropped his eyes and his hand back to his side. A long, elegant hand, which looked as though it should play the keys of a piano or write a novel, instead of sprouting hair and claws once a month and hideously, unbelievably, turn into something monstrous.
Something as terrifying as the Dementor they waited for, and which could threaten her career or even her life.
None of which seemed half as important as imagining those hands entwined with hers. None of which seemed half as impossible as trying to convince him of that at this moment.
She stared up at the night sky for inspiration and thought she must have been mistaken about the few stars which had been there earlier as there were none now. What could she say to reach him? What did she really know about this man? What did she know about herself to suggest he was what she needed?
She shivered. There were no answers, only questions, which seemed fitting in a place such as this. It really was the stuff of nightmares, and it was so piercingly, bitingly cold, and there was no light.
There was no light because the stars had gone.
“Remus,” she said suddenly, urgently, at the same time as he, his head looking backwards down the long drive, said: “Move!”
The darkness was closing in on them, so was the cold. Misery and suffering was gliding smoothly up an over-grown lane towards them, and she could hear the rattling breaths of death that came with it.
There was only one place to go and that was back into the doorway. Standing room for one slender person only. She pointed at a gap she’d seen earlier between the ramshackle shed-like buildings on the opposite side of the lane, about twenty feet away from her, and he moved swiftly towards it.
“Only if you can,” he said as he passed her, his eyes meeting hers for a long second, and she knew immediately that he meant don’t use the Patronus unless it became absolutely necessary. If they chased the Dementor away they’d never find out what it was interested in, and it might look for somewhere else.
She grasped her wand firmly, shut her ears to the faint sounds that were growing louder, told herself the smell was due to her imagination, and concentrated on the happy memories she always relied on. The day she’d passed Auror training. The moment she first sat at her desk and stared out the window. The day Dumbledore asked her to join the Order. When she’d first realised that …
… She wasn’t imagining the smell any more.
Nor the cold which was so intense she was covered in goose bumps; nor the air which was suddenly still and charged.
She moved her head very slightly and saw the Dementor hovering; a towering, hooded figure, a little way behind where she was hidden, close to the other side of the wall.
The hood was tilted at an angle. Listening. Waiting. Her mind had gone as clear and as cold as the ice she felt down her spine, and she reached for the frivolous memory - the time she’d walked along the wall on the edge of the pond with Remus alongside on the pavement, and he’d said it was like being out with Hagrid. She’d promptly morphed tangled, Hagrid-like hair, which fell heavily to her waist, leant forward to pat him on the head, and almost toppled into the pond as the extra weight threw her off balance. He’d grabbed her, laughed up at her as he held her, and she’d thought how young his face was in the bright sunshine, underneath the lines he didn’t deserve.
The hoarse, rattling breaths were nearer. Moving only her eyes, she found the owner of them directly in her line of vision. The smell of putrid, death-cold breath was all around her, filling her nostrils, and the hood was seemingly looking straight at her, making her shrink back into the dark of the doorway even more.
She closed her eyes to find a happy memory, so that there would be nothing for it to feed on here, but instead of the normal one she was suddenly back in the kitchen at the Dursley’s with everyone, waiting to take Harry to Grimmauld. She’d been looking at some sort of silver Muggle box, with two puzzling slots in the top, when a hand had appeared next to hers. She’d waited, knowing at once whose long fingers those were, and expecting the gentle whisper against her ear.
“Does purple hair today mean you’re hearing things through the grape vine?”
She’d turned to him, laughing, pleased that he was there because she liked him a lot, and he always made her laugh, and totally, utterly, unprepared to meet his eyes and see them dark with an emotion that even she couldn’t mistake.
Please hold me and touch me and love me.
She swallowed at the memory, feeling an intense happiness flooding through her. It forced back the sense of fury at her stupidity at the time, and the sound of the plate crashing to the floor as her elbow caught it, faded away to nothing. Even the hope on his face, which she relived a thousand times at night as it hardened into a polite mask of indifference, was hazy and indistinct.
The air around her had lifted fractionally.
The Dementor had glided on, a little way beyond Remus’ position. She leaned out carefully to see where it was going, and a tile or a branch or something on top of one of the shed roofs shifted slightly in the wind.
The hooded figure whipped round at the noise, the head tilted to one side again to listen, and, to Tonks’ absolute horror, it pressed up against the gap between the buildings where Remus was hidden.
There wasn’t a sound apart from her thudding heart. She made herself count, furiously, calculating how long he could hold a memory while it ate into his mind. Because there was no way he’d use the Patronus, would he? Oh, no, he’d put duty before sanity every time, even if it was his bleeding sanity on the line.
How many happy memories had the stupid bastard got?
Two and a half minutes, nearly three, and he must be drowning in there. She grabbed at the box at her feet, and thought that some girls couldn’t run, and most girls couldn’t throw, but she’d always been able to do both.
The egg soared through the air and smashed into the hard earth of the lane.
And the Dementor swung round at the noise, hesitated, and then did what she’d never expected. It glided after it, straight past her with her wand pointing at it from the doorway, waiting to blast it to hell. On another day, another occasion, she’d laugh like mad about watching this despicable creature behaving like a dog after a ball.
It stopped by the egg and bent low, looking down at the smashed pieces.
Perhaps it preferred them scrambled.
She stepped out from the doorway and lobbed another one, as hard as she could, and watched it soar straight over the bent figure to land in a large thistle-patch.
The hood snapped up again and, at the same time, some strange wailing sound, like a siren, could be heard in the distance. It was shrill and terrifying, and it was coming from the direction of the Muggle village. Had some little old lady, peering through her curtains, reported seeing the black monk once more?
When she looked again, the Dementor was gliding off. Disappearing at speed.
Every instinct told her to go to Remus, but she ignored them all because duty came before personal and, besides, it would take more than one Dementor to damage that thick, pig-headed skull of his. And she needed to see it wasn’t coming back.
The last glimpse she caught of it was as she stood by the old oak tree, watching it disappear down into the valley, and be swallowed up by the dense wood of the trees down there. The strange wailing sound was fainter now as well, rather forlorn, as though it wasn’t sure where the chase was any more.
Hurried footsteps sounded behind her.
“It’s gone,” she said, still watching the trees, the words tumbling breathlessly out of her. “Are you all right? You silly sod, you shouldn’t have done that for so long, I bet you’re going to have a hell of a headache soon. Can you believe a Dementor was frightened of some weird Muggle siren and two eggs? I think this has put a whole new slant on the fight against evil. Obviously, it didn’t get the yo-“
“Don’t you dare make jokes about it.”
For a moment she didn’t recognise his voice, it was so low and angry.
“What?” She swung round to see him staring at her, his face very pale in the gloom. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, I’m all right! It’s not me that was taking ridiculous chances with something you never take any chances with. Ever!”
She blinked. “Okay, I didn’t expect you on your knees with gratitude, but-“
“You threw eggs at a Dementor, Tonks!”
“Yeah, well,” she grinned, feeling the blood pumping in her veins, her heart thudding with relief. “They need to be … egg-u-cated, don’t they?”
He took a step towards her and as the light caught his face she saw he was positively glowering at her. Were his hands actually clenched?
Oh, for the love of… “Are you just sore because I saved your scrawny arse?” She grinned at him, trying to lighten the moment because he was probably feeling absolutely crap after that and trying to be all manly. “You can save mine another day, if you want.”
“You were reckless, Nymphadora!”
“Which you never are, of course, Lupin!”
His face tightened. “I’ve learnt the hard way it doesn’t pay to be.”
“So you’re never going to take a chance, or a risk, ever again?” She could hear her own voice getting shriller and louder as his got quieter.
“Not with Dementors I’m not, no.”
“Nor anything else from where I’m standing.” She said it bitterly, staring at him, daring him to look away.
The moment of silence seemed to stretch out interminably, and then he said, in a very low voice: “We seem to be wandering a little from the point.”
“Oh, we’re still on it! You’re yelling at me because you were worried about me. Only you can’t actually say that, can you? And I was worried sick about you back there, but I threw the sodding eggs because I trusted you to know what you were doing and, idiot that I am, thought you’d trust me to get you out of it without scaring the thing off. Which I did! So why can’t you trust my judgement now?”
“Because, Tonks,” he stopped, turning his head away from her for a second, and then looking back at her with a face that she realised was strained and anguished. “Because I want to, so very badly.”
She started to speak, not even knowing what it was she was going to say, just astounded that he was opening up like this, but he stepped right up close to her and held his hand up between them.
“You couldn’t throw eggs at this to stop it. Once a month, I could kill you with it.”
She looked at his hand, that lovely pale hand that was trembling slightly with the cold and something else.
She reached out and took hold of it with her own, lacing her fingers through his.
As she touched him, something vivid and elemental seemed to shiver between them. The next instant his arm was about her and he was holding her hard and close.
His mouth came down on hers and, after a moment of utterly stunned disbelief, she kissed him back fiercely, clinging to him. She could feel the need in him, and the hope, and something more; something she’d always known existed but never quite understood, and she tried to convey her own want and gratitude back to him because she understood it now.
Nothing mattered at all, save the warmth of his mouth and the taste of him and the feel of him.
She took a step back on unsteady legs as he murmured her name against her lips and stroked her face. The comforting, solid bulk of the tree, was waiting there to support her. Her head leant back against the trunk, gazing up into the branches which seemed to be forming a protective canopy over them, glorying in the sensation as his mouth on her neck described a curve to the hollow of her throat.
He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes dark with that emotion she now recognised. He bent his head towards her ear and she waited for the gentle whisper, the tender words.
“How do you know my arse is scrawny, Nymphadora?”
She giggled like an idiot, trying to catch her breath, and he laughed too, but she’d heard the note in his voice, knew there was disbelief there, too, as well as joy, and wasn’t fooled by this apparent re-emergence of Mister Cool, Calm and Collected. She drew his mouth back to hers, bit his lips gently, and felt them curve into a smile.
“You do know, don’t you,” he said, kissing her cheek, her jaw, his warm breath mingling with hers in the cold air, “that you couldn’t do worse than me?”
“Isn’t it just perfect?” She grinned up at him and kissed him softly. “Because you couldn’t do any better than me, could you?”
His eyebrows came together in amusement. “Oh, I don’t know. I always hoped I’d meet a girl who could cook. You make leather omelettes.”
“You’re still thinking about food, after that?” Her voice rose indignantly and she glared at him.
“I am hungry, yes.” His eyes danced at her mischievously, the sudden confidence in him shining back at her. “I think we’d better get those eggs and get home. Fond as I am of this tree, some places might be warmer to discuss a few things.”
“Discuss things?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Now, you want to discuss things?”
“Yes, I do." He smiled, taking the edge off his words, and bent and kissed her again. "Perhaps there are a few things to do, as well. After we’ve eaten. Come on.”
He moved his right hand and she realised hers was still held fast within it. The back of her hand clearly showed the intricate pattern of lines from the trunk of the tree where it had pressed into it.
It’s like it witnessed this for us, she thought, thinking that the markings were like a seal, and immediately mocking herself for such a thought. But she looked back at the tree as they started to walk away, hand in hand, and silently promised it that they’d be back to put things right.
Then another thought occurred to her.
“Just a sec.” She tugged at him and he stopped, looking at her in query as she raised her wand. “I want to say thanks. Do you mind?”
He grinned and turned to watch, squeezing her hand tight in his.
She waved her wand and the branches danced in the wind with their silken pink ribbons.
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Author: gilpin25
Prompt: 7, Broken egg (I’m very late)
Format and Word Count: Fic; 4971 words.
Rating: R
Warning: It’s a soft R, but there’s implied Paganism, references to sex and swearing.
Summary: Sent to investigate a worrying possibility at a neglected house, Remus and Tonks find the textbook answers sometimes just aren't enough.
Author’s Notes: Liberties taken with the line: ‘“There are - certain defences one can use,” said Lupin.’ (POA). I’m sure he didn’t mean this. There’s a few other liberties taken, as well, so feedback is much appreciated. Set during OotP.
Handfast.
The old oak tree stood there silently, as if it were absorbing her thoughts and her emotions and considering what to do about them.
That made two of them, then. Possibly three, though the other one was still pretending he was above this sort of thing.
Of course, he’d say he was below it.
“It’s crossed the boundary.” Remus ran his long fingers softly, almost reverently, down the swollen and gnarled trunk, and she watched him, telling herself that one person’s hand was much like any other. “Just over that hill is a Muggle village. The roots must be so long and old that they’ve grown through. It’s literally attached to both worlds.”
“Is that why…?” There were coloured ribbons tied to the lower branches and twigs on the right hand side, labels with hand-written messages, as well as flowers; some fresh, some decaying, some fusing with the blistered bark.
Offerings? Some Muggle game?
It seemed rather undignified for the poor tree to be half-dressed like that. The Muggles wouldn’t be able to see or touch the side in the wizarding world, of course.
He shrugged. “Children, probably. Perhaps Harry would know.”
Tonks shivered and almost stamped her freezing feet again before remembering she’d nearly squashed the box of eggs standing by them flat the last time. She stared up through the jagged branches at the muddied and rapidly darkening light, the dim suggestion of a few unenthusiastic stars appearing here and there. “Must be confusing for the tree.”
“Hmm. Trying to live in two worlds and belonging to neither. It’ll never quite fit in.” He gave her the slightest of sideways glances, his hair falling forward into his eyes as he did so, and she thought grimly that she’d got the point, thank you very much, the meaningful look was entirely unnecessary, and that every time he did this sort of crap it made her even more determined.
Besides, he had no one but himself to blame - although that was clearly what he was doing to such impenetrable, barrier-like effect - by starting it all that day in the Dursley’s kitchen. Back then, she’d still been coming to terms with the realisation that her initial Sirius Black is one sexy-looking man idea, had been hastily replaced by Sirius Black has a head like a tangled ball of wool, which isn’t remotely sexy, and the whole notion of I want Remus Lupin’s mouth and hands on me, was a faint, jaw-dropping suspicion she’d barely recognised, let alone acknowledged.
And of all the bloody places to choose, surrounded by everyone else. What an idiot.
No wonder she’d reacted all wrong. No wonder she’d bitten his head off when he’d said Nymphadora, and then been completely, embarrassingly hyper with Harry.
Why didn’t people feel exactly the same thing at exactly the same time?
“You’re so young,” he’d said, touching her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers in a dismissive and affectionate - affectionate! - manner a few days later when she’d drunk enough to broach the subject, and was desperate to say she hadn’t realised at the time, but now she thought about it yes, yes, yes! Except he was already in the middle of some beautifully worded and incredibly irritating speech he must have rehearsed many times over - the gist of which seemed to centre on not meaning to take advantage of her, hoping she’d forgive him, and weren’t they just absolutely wonderful as the best of friends?
He’d then rambled on about keeping things “on an even keel” and “You and I maintaining our emotional equilibrium, Tonks,” and generally sounding like the stuffed shirt she knew he was a million miles from being. The basic message, though, was that everything was tickety-boo now he’d seen the error of his lusting werewolf ways.
Oh, no, it bloody isn’t, she’d raged at him, but, of course, that had been the worse thing possible because it had served to convince him even more that he was right, and her that she was even deeper in than she’d ever thought possible.
And he was right that she was young because someone older, someone with more experience with men than her, would have known straight away what she realised only later. That he hadn’t been able to choose the moment back then, any more than she could stop herself now; and that the one split-second glimpse of Remus Lupin, for once not cool, calm and in control, but naked and open and wanting was burnt forever in her mind.
“He,” she said, watching the muscles work in his hand as he flexed it against the tree, and wondering how they were ever going to get a moment like that together at the same time. She was old enough to know this had to be mutual want.
“He?”
“Trees are male. They stand around for centuries, look as though they’ll do something impressive, but never move from the spot.”
He laughed, pushing his hair back with that slim hand which she’d imagined stroking her skin for the last however many nights it was.
“Books must be female then because they’re constantly being looked at, and men are desperately trying to get the right meaning from their words all the time.”
She laughed too, and they left the tree, with her giving it a farewell pat because, male or not, she felt it was on her side, which was really both their sides, and remembering to pick up the eggs so that they might still be able to eat mushroom omelettes for dinner with Sirius, as had been the plan before Mad-Eye’s owl had found them. They bickered and joked and flirted as they picked their way up the thistle-strewn lane towards the house - she pointing out trains were male as they used the same old lines when picking people up, and he that egg-timers must be female because eventually everything ended up at the bottom - and it was all very comfortable and familiar and enjoyable.
And it wasn’t enough. Not any more.
On the other hand, being back in the comfort zone of light-hearted remarks and warm smiles at each other, did momentarily stop her dwelling on the fact that the headlines in the Muggle newspapers of a ghostly black monk, scaring kids and old ladies alike, might not be about a very tall Muggle flasher, who’d had a few too many, and roamed around at night with an interesting taste in dressing gowns.
Certainly, the sight of the ivy-covered and neglected house coming into view again, effectively silenced them both.
She braced herself against the bite of the cold wind, wishing she’d put a warmer jumper on, tapped the side of her wand against the wall and watched the tell-tale amber sparks briefly flare. Remus, meanwhile, traced a deep crack in the crumbling brickwork with a thoughtful finger, and a slight frown on his face.
“They don’t usually come this close to the boundary edge,” she said.
“No, but …” He looked at her and shifted slightly, standing to the windward side of her, and giving her the shelter of his body. “We don’t usually come this close either, do we? There’s lots to appeal here.”
It was true. Houses were touched by the magic and the emotions that went on within them, and what this one had taken in over all the years felt wrong. Not evil, exactly, but not happy, either.
A Dementor might well feel at home here, or want something else to.
Thinking that made her shiver again, but Section 13 (Defensive Counter-Measures Against Dementors) of the Auror Manual insisted you empty your mind of anything remotely negative beforehand, though she doubted the textbooks meant dwelling on what colleagues would be like in bed. In her defence, she had found that the best way to prepare to face a Dementor was to start off by thinking of light-hearted, almost frivolous things, which seemed to confuse them momentarily. Rather like the simplicity of Sirius’ thoughts when in dog-form had been hard for them to focus on.
They’d discussed it on the way over here. If you had the guts to do that first, and then summon your happiest memory; the resulting Patronus seemed to rip from your wand with even greater force, and almost smash into them.
Of course, all of this preparation theory had one slight snag; it assumed the Dementor was obliging enough to let you know beforehand that it was coming.
“We really need to investigate this house in the light of day.” Remus raised his eyes to the now black sky, not even glancing at the crescent-shaped moon. “I’ll quickly do a sweep round the lane again and by the tree, if you’ll watch from here. There’s no other way in. Then, if there’s still nothing, I think we should come back tomorrow and do a proper stakeout, not like this spur-of-the-moment look, while hanging onto our dinner.” He nodded towards the box of eggs she was still holding, looking at her steadily. “I was looking forward to that omelette, as well.”
The easy tone would have fooled someone who didn’t know him, but his eyes were very serious, thin shoulders hunched against the swirling wind.
“The tree?” She already knew the answer.
“You saw, didn’t you?”
There’d been a depression near it, a hollow of trampled grass. Worn bits of branches were lying around in the shallow pit like discarded bones. A dark stain from a recent fire near the centre. Rocks jutting unevenly out of the ground that were also suggestive of bone. Another younger tree nearby had an outgrowth at the base of the trunk, which in the murky light was like a skull with only one gaping eye socket.
She’d wanted to do every procedure she’d learnt as an Auror and then every trick she’d learnt as an Order member on that place alone. There might as well have been a sign saying Death Eater’s building plot available here.
“Our tree’s not happy about it,” she said.
“Our tree?” He grinned at her, hair falling forward onto his forehead again, the pale hand pushing it impatiently back.
“Yeah. It doesn’t feel like everything else does around here.” She smiled, letting just a fraction of what she was feeling show in her expression, watching him respond for a few precious seconds, before he recollected where he was and what he was doing and the just good friends crap.
He turned away quickly and spoke to her over his shoulder. “I won’t be long. It’ll give you more time to think about Moody, just in case.”
She’d told him that her frivolous and distracting pre-Dementor thoughts normally centred on ways to get Mad-Eye to reveal which wizards were minus a buttock. Which was very cowardly of her, really, and how could she expect him to be honest if she wasn’t?
“No.” She put the eggs down carefully in the narrow doorway near her, and raised her eyes to his as he half-turned.
“No?”
She swallowed, but her voice sounded quite calm. “You know what I think of. And I know that you do, too.”
He didn’t deny it, but not a muscle moved in his face. Hardly surprising, really, when he’d lived all his life at the School of Hard Knocks, and been slapped down more times than she could imagine. Although the continuous bags under his eyes at present did suggest he was having as much interrupted sleep as she was lately, a thought which gave her immense satisfaction. And hope.
“Well, I’d have to agree that that’s frivolous in the extreme, and of little importance. I suggest you keep your mind on the job. The one thing I am constantly thinking about is that I want you to stay safe.” He said it very coolly, very calmly. The perfectly collected and totally unflappable Remus Lupin; still doing his utmost to eradicate every memory of the one who’d rested his hand next to hers, and whispered to her in the gloom of the Dursley’s kitchen.
He turned on his heel abruptly and left her to the dark and her thoughts.
She fixed her eyes on the house, the memory she needed to summon ready in her head, prepared others in case it failed, and, eventually, allowed herself to wonder if it was just lust. She knew what that felt like, she’d had that with her ex, and yet the abiding memory of times with him was afterwards when she felt most empty because she knew there was something else just out of reach.
A theory surely proved by the fact that she remembered him with affection for the laughs they’d had. Rather than the bed times, nice though they’d been. Nice? Other witches said their boyfriends were fantastic lovers or great shags or total losers. (Or Molly said Arthur was the sweetest man ever, but Tonks could count all those kids for herself).
What a fine pair we are, she thought; a Metamorphmagus who has never known love, and so doesn’t recognise it when she sees it. A werewolf who runs from it, because he does.
Did she really want this? He was right; she was young. Everyone should have their heart broken once and move on. Most people had by her age. Perhaps she might even have a clockwork heart, instead of a flesh and blood one.
The sound of quiet footsteps approaching from her right, gave the immediate lie to that one. She took one eye off the house and watched Remus walking back towards her.
“Anything?” she called, thinking coldly, and logically, that he was looking particularly shabby this evening. There were several visible mends and patches in his long black coat and the elbows were shiny and worn. The laces on his shoes didn’t match, either.
“Nothing.” He shook his head as he drew near. “Nothing at all. Yet there’s something here.”
“Yeah, I know.” He was a lot older than her, too, and could she really see herself introducing him to her friends? See their polite and disbelieving smiles, and wait for the jokes afterwards about how she was suffering a mid-life crisis in her twenties, and had finally found a man whose fashion sense was as bad as her own?
She stepped out of the doorway towards him and the chill of the wind caught her again, making her turn her face away.
“You’re frozen.” He took a step towards her, concern on his face.
“You must be as well. When we come back tomorrow we’ll have to wear more sweaters and pinch Sirius’ thermal undies.” For a moment, while she was talking, she thought he was going to touch her cheek, and then he dropped his eyes and his hand back to his side. A long, elegant hand, which looked as though it should play the keys of a piano or write a novel, instead of sprouting hair and claws once a month and hideously, unbelievably, turn into something monstrous.
Something as terrifying as the Dementor they waited for, and which could threaten her career or even her life.
None of which seemed half as important as imagining those hands entwined with hers. None of which seemed half as impossible as trying to convince him of that at this moment.
She stared up at the night sky for inspiration and thought she must have been mistaken about the few stars which had been there earlier as there were none now. What could she say to reach him? What did she really know about this man? What did she know about herself to suggest he was what she needed?
She shivered. There were no answers, only questions, which seemed fitting in a place such as this. It really was the stuff of nightmares, and it was so piercingly, bitingly cold, and there was no light.
There was no light because the stars had gone.
“Remus,” she said suddenly, urgently, at the same time as he, his head looking backwards down the long drive, said: “Move!”
The darkness was closing in on them, so was the cold. Misery and suffering was gliding smoothly up an over-grown lane towards them, and she could hear the rattling breaths of death that came with it.
There was only one place to go and that was back into the doorway. Standing room for one slender person only. She pointed at a gap she’d seen earlier between the ramshackle shed-like buildings on the opposite side of the lane, about twenty feet away from her, and he moved swiftly towards it.
“Only if you can,” he said as he passed her, his eyes meeting hers for a long second, and she knew immediately that he meant don’t use the Patronus unless it became absolutely necessary. If they chased the Dementor away they’d never find out what it was interested in, and it might look for somewhere else.
She grasped her wand firmly, shut her ears to the faint sounds that were growing louder, told herself the smell was due to her imagination, and concentrated on the happy memories she always relied on. The day she’d passed Auror training. The moment she first sat at her desk and stared out the window. The day Dumbledore asked her to join the Order. When she’d first realised that …
… She wasn’t imagining the smell any more.
Nor the cold which was so intense she was covered in goose bumps; nor the air which was suddenly still and charged.
She moved her head very slightly and saw the Dementor hovering; a towering, hooded figure, a little way behind where she was hidden, close to the other side of the wall.
The hood was tilted at an angle. Listening. Waiting. Her mind had gone as clear and as cold as the ice she felt down her spine, and she reached for the frivolous memory - the time she’d walked along the wall on the edge of the pond with Remus alongside on the pavement, and he’d said it was like being out with Hagrid. She’d promptly morphed tangled, Hagrid-like hair, which fell heavily to her waist, leant forward to pat him on the head, and almost toppled into the pond as the extra weight threw her off balance. He’d grabbed her, laughed up at her as he held her, and she’d thought how young his face was in the bright sunshine, underneath the lines he didn’t deserve.
The hoarse, rattling breaths were nearer. Moving only her eyes, she found the owner of them directly in her line of vision. The smell of putrid, death-cold breath was all around her, filling her nostrils, and the hood was seemingly looking straight at her, making her shrink back into the dark of the doorway even more.
She closed her eyes to find a happy memory, so that there would be nothing for it to feed on here, but instead of the normal one she was suddenly back in the kitchen at the Dursley’s with everyone, waiting to take Harry to Grimmauld. She’d been looking at some sort of silver Muggle box, with two puzzling slots in the top, when a hand had appeared next to hers. She’d waited, knowing at once whose long fingers those were, and expecting the gentle whisper against her ear.
“Does purple hair today mean you’re hearing things through the grape vine?”
She’d turned to him, laughing, pleased that he was there because she liked him a lot, and he always made her laugh, and totally, utterly, unprepared to meet his eyes and see them dark with an emotion that even she couldn’t mistake.
Please hold me and touch me and love me.
She swallowed at the memory, feeling an intense happiness flooding through her. It forced back the sense of fury at her stupidity at the time, and the sound of the plate crashing to the floor as her elbow caught it, faded away to nothing. Even the hope on his face, which she relived a thousand times at night as it hardened into a polite mask of indifference, was hazy and indistinct.
The air around her had lifted fractionally.
The Dementor had glided on, a little way beyond Remus’ position. She leaned out carefully to see where it was going, and a tile or a branch or something on top of one of the shed roofs shifted slightly in the wind.
The hooded figure whipped round at the noise, the head tilted to one side again to listen, and, to Tonks’ absolute horror, it pressed up against the gap between the buildings where Remus was hidden.
There wasn’t a sound apart from her thudding heart. She made herself count, furiously, calculating how long he could hold a memory while it ate into his mind. Because there was no way he’d use the Patronus, would he? Oh, no, he’d put duty before sanity every time, even if it was his bleeding sanity on the line.
How many happy memories had the stupid bastard got?
Two and a half minutes, nearly three, and he must be drowning in there. She grabbed at the box at her feet, and thought that some girls couldn’t run, and most girls couldn’t throw, but she’d always been able to do both.
The egg soared through the air and smashed into the hard earth of the lane.
And the Dementor swung round at the noise, hesitated, and then did what she’d never expected. It glided after it, straight past her with her wand pointing at it from the doorway, waiting to blast it to hell. On another day, another occasion, she’d laugh like mad about watching this despicable creature behaving like a dog after a ball.
It stopped by the egg and bent low, looking down at the smashed pieces.
Perhaps it preferred them scrambled.
She stepped out from the doorway and lobbed another one, as hard as she could, and watched it soar straight over the bent figure to land in a large thistle-patch.
The hood snapped up again and, at the same time, some strange wailing sound, like a siren, could be heard in the distance. It was shrill and terrifying, and it was coming from the direction of the Muggle village. Had some little old lady, peering through her curtains, reported seeing the black monk once more?
When she looked again, the Dementor was gliding off. Disappearing at speed.
Every instinct told her to go to Remus, but she ignored them all because duty came before personal and, besides, it would take more than one Dementor to damage that thick, pig-headed skull of his. And she needed to see it wasn’t coming back.
The last glimpse she caught of it was as she stood by the old oak tree, watching it disappear down into the valley, and be swallowed up by the dense wood of the trees down there. The strange wailing sound was fainter now as well, rather forlorn, as though it wasn’t sure where the chase was any more.
Hurried footsteps sounded behind her.
“It’s gone,” she said, still watching the trees, the words tumbling breathlessly out of her. “Are you all right? You silly sod, you shouldn’t have done that for so long, I bet you’re going to have a hell of a headache soon. Can you believe a Dementor was frightened of some weird Muggle siren and two eggs? I think this has put a whole new slant on the fight against evil. Obviously, it didn’t get the yo-“
“Don’t you dare make jokes about it.”
For a moment she didn’t recognise his voice, it was so low and angry.
“What?” She swung round to see him staring at her, his face very pale in the gloom. “Are you all right?”
“Of course, I’m all right! It’s not me that was taking ridiculous chances with something you never take any chances with. Ever!”
She blinked. “Okay, I didn’t expect you on your knees with gratitude, but-“
“You threw eggs at a Dementor, Tonks!”
“Yeah, well,” she grinned, feeling the blood pumping in her veins, her heart thudding with relief. “They need to be … egg-u-cated, don’t they?”
He took a step towards her and as the light caught his face she saw he was positively glowering at her. Were his hands actually clenched?
Oh, for the love of… “Are you just sore because I saved your scrawny arse?” She grinned at him, trying to lighten the moment because he was probably feeling absolutely crap after that and trying to be all manly. “You can save mine another day, if you want.”
“You were reckless, Nymphadora!”
“Which you never are, of course, Lupin!”
His face tightened. “I’ve learnt the hard way it doesn’t pay to be.”
“So you’re never going to take a chance, or a risk, ever again?” She could hear her own voice getting shriller and louder as his got quieter.
“Not with Dementors I’m not, no.”
“Nor anything else from where I’m standing.” She said it bitterly, staring at him, daring him to look away.
The moment of silence seemed to stretch out interminably, and then he said, in a very low voice: “We seem to be wandering a little from the point.”
“Oh, we’re still on it! You’re yelling at me because you were worried about me. Only you can’t actually say that, can you? And I was worried sick about you back there, but I threw the sodding eggs because I trusted you to know what you were doing and, idiot that I am, thought you’d trust me to get you out of it without scaring the thing off. Which I did! So why can’t you trust my judgement now?”
“Because, Tonks,” he stopped, turning his head away from her for a second, and then looking back at her with a face that she realised was strained and anguished. “Because I want to, so very badly.”
She started to speak, not even knowing what it was she was going to say, just astounded that he was opening up like this, but he stepped right up close to her and held his hand up between them.
“You couldn’t throw eggs at this to stop it. Once a month, I could kill you with it.”
She looked at his hand, that lovely pale hand that was trembling slightly with the cold and something else.
She reached out and took hold of it with her own, lacing her fingers through his.
As she touched him, something vivid and elemental seemed to shiver between them. The next instant his arm was about her and he was holding her hard and close.
His mouth came down on hers and, after a moment of utterly stunned disbelief, she kissed him back fiercely, clinging to him. She could feel the need in him, and the hope, and something more; something she’d always known existed but never quite understood, and she tried to convey her own want and gratitude back to him because she understood it now.
Nothing mattered at all, save the warmth of his mouth and the taste of him and the feel of him.
She took a step back on unsteady legs as he murmured her name against her lips and stroked her face. The comforting, solid bulk of the tree, was waiting there to support her. Her head leant back against the trunk, gazing up into the branches which seemed to be forming a protective canopy over them, glorying in the sensation as his mouth on her neck described a curve to the hollow of her throat.
He raised his head and looked at her, his eyes dark with that emotion she now recognised. He bent his head towards her ear and she waited for the gentle whisper, the tender words.
“How do you know my arse is scrawny, Nymphadora?”
She giggled like an idiot, trying to catch her breath, and he laughed too, but she’d heard the note in his voice, knew there was disbelief there, too, as well as joy, and wasn’t fooled by this apparent re-emergence of Mister Cool, Calm and Collected. She drew his mouth back to hers, bit his lips gently, and felt them curve into a smile.
“You do know, don’t you,” he said, kissing her cheek, her jaw, his warm breath mingling with hers in the cold air, “that you couldn’t do worse than me?”
“Isn’t it just perfect?” She grinned up at him and kissed him softly. “Because you couldn’t do any better than me, could you?”
His eyebrows came together in amusement. “Oh, I don’t know. I always hoped I’d meet a girl who could cook. You make leather omelettes.”
“You’re still thinking about food, after that?” Her voice rose indignantly and she glared at him.
“I am hungry, yes.” His eyes danced at her mischievously, the sudden confidence in him shining back at her. “I think we’d better get those eggs and get home. Fond as I am of this tree, some places might be warmer to discuss a few things.”
“Discuss things?” She rolled her eyes at him. “Now, you want to discuss things?”
“Yes, I do." He smiled, taking the edge off his words, and bent and kissed her again. "Perhaps there are a few things to do, as well. After we’ve eaten. Come on.”
He moved his right hand and she realised hers was still held fast within it. The back of her hand clearly showed the intricate pattern of lines from the trunk of the tree where it had pressed into it.
It’s like it witnessed this for us, she thought, thinking that the markings were like a seal, and immediately mocking herself for such a thought. But she looked back at the tree as they started to walk away, hand in hand, and silently promised it that they’d be back to put things right.
Then another thought occurred to her.
“Just a sec.” She tugged at him and he stopped, looking at her in query as she raised her wand. “I want to say thanks. Do you mind?”
He grinned and turned to watch, squeezing her hand tight in his.
She waved her wand and the branches danced in the wind with their silken pink ribbons.
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