Fic - Best Kept Secrets
Title - Best Kept Secrets
Author -
joely_jo
Characters - Remus/Tonks, Andromeda
Rating - PG-13 (for some suggestion of adult content)
Prompts - Letter to Father Christmas/All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey
Word Count - 2,358 words
Summary - Andromeda finds herself in a difficult situation.
Author’s Notes - I don’t often write in the first person, but I decided it was about time I tried it with this fic. Oh, and I honestly don’t know when this is set. I just totally screwed around with the timeline in order to get what I wanted to happen happening. Call it AU after HBP, baby… ;)
It is an unfortunate truth that sometimes spells destruction when a person stumbles upon a matter of privacy. Never have I chosen to pry, or purposefully sought out the hidden things kept by the people in my life, but, like anyone with a desire to keep a home tidy, I have occasionally happened upon a secret or two. A cigarette pressed between the pages of a book, a bottle of contraceptive potion hidden inside a boot. And this afternoon was no different from the other times - I did not mean to find the letter; I didn’t even mean to read it. Oh no, it was entirely an accident, but the repercussions reached further than I ever imagined.
“See you on Christmas Eve, Mum,” Nymphadora calls from the hall as she dons her cloak and grabs up her bundle of shopping bags.
I step out into the hall and press a kiss onto Dora’s cheek. “Yes, of course, darling. Here,” I say, “don’t forget your mince pies. They’ll be nice and warming when you’re sitting at home on your own after work this week.” I grab a tin-foil wrapped parcel from the table under the hall mirror and Dora takes it, pushing the pies hurriedly into the heavyweight canvas satchel she calls a handbag.
“Oh no, no… How could I forget those? What a perfect solution.” She winks at her father, who is hovering in the doorway, and throws up the hood of her cloak. “Take care, Dad.”
“You too, sweetheart… Enjoy yourself,” he adds, as if he knows something.
And the door closes. Ted chuckles and disappears back into the living room, leaving me standing in the hall wondering what the little private joke between Nymphadora and her father was. They are always having little secrets together. I am about to go back to the living room and question him when something catches my eye: a piece of paper lies on the floor beneath the hat stand, its careless position suggesting that it has been dropped, and I bend to pick it up.
On closer examination, it is an envelope, the flap sealed closed. There is no name or address on the front, but it smells distinctly of perfume and so I immediately assume that it is from my daughter. Perhaps it is a Christmas card, I think, as I slide a nail underneath the seal and rip it open.
Inside, a lighter-weight piece of parchment is revealed - it is a letter - and I pull it out and unfold it. Automatically, my eyes fly to the first line: ‘Dear Dora,’ it begins, and I instantly realise that this is something I should not be reading. But, despite the knowledge that I am committing a dreadful act of betrayal in reading what is obviously a personal letter, I simply cannot draw my eyes away, and the second line melts into my head: ‘This year I have been a very good boy, but all I want for Christmas is you…’ the letter continues, and the shock of the true meaning behind the words sends the paper slipping from my hands, spiralling to the floor like a falling leaf.
Oh, Merlin…
In the living room, Ted clears his throat, the newspaper rustles, and I rush to secrete the evidence of my betrayal, pushing the letter and envelope up the sleeve of my robes. I dart into the kitchen and stuff the letter into a drawer, the realisation that I am going to have to return it to its rightful owner playing havoc with my morally upstanding mind. Openly handing it over to Nymphadora will immediately call into question whether or not I have read it, and the embarrassment for all is enough to render that option null and void.
No, there is no other possibility; the letter will have to be returned quietly. Very quietly.
****
My spare key turns in the lock of Dora’s flat. It is half past ten on Monday morning and it is a welcome comfort to know that my daughter will certainly be at work, so there is little chance of me being disturbed. It’ll be a quick in and out - just a minute or two to set the envelope into the pocket of a cloak. Nothing to it, I say to myself.
The post is still on the doormat and I step over it hesitantly, itching to move it to the kitchen table, but knowing that to do so would betray my presence. I click the door closed behind me with nary a sound as I move into the living room, my silence merely evidence of my guilt at being here uninvited. My eyes flit around me, falling on the discarded edition of the Daily Prophet by the armchair, the coffee mug and small plate on the side table and the wilting flowers in the vase on the windowsill. Just as I am starting to wonder where my daughter keeps her weekend cloak, I spy the familiar folds of black gabardine hanging from the bedroom door, and dart towards it, the envelope hot in my hand. My fingers curl around the cloak and I slip the envelope into the pocket.
Success.
But then, a sound. A sigh, followed by an indistinct moan, and I lift my head, freezing at the sight that greets my trespassing eyes.
Nymphadora lies on the bed before me, not at work, not alone and as naked as a newborn. With Remus Lupin. That werewolf Remus Lupin. The same one I overheard her talking about with Ted last week.
One look at Remus Lupin’s bare backside, hovering over my daughter’s body, and I gasp and back out of the room, running for the kitchen. “Shit!” I hear from the bedroom and then a hurried rustling and banging as they realise what has happened.
The kitchen is unfortunately tidy - else I would begin tidying it - so I stare at the sideboards, my face flushing with mortification, wondering what to do.
Eggs.
There’s a carton of eggs on the side. In a desperate search for a distraction, I grab up the frying pan from the cupboard underneath the stove and, with shaking fingers, begin cracking the eggs into a bowl. As I work, an awkward figure appears in the doorway, dressed in nothing but a pair of crumpled striped pyjama bottoms. Remus Lupin.
Oh, Merlin. Remus Lupin.
From the bedroom, Nymphadora’s voice calls, “Mum, hang on, I’ll be with you in a minute!”
Remus, meanwhile, stares at me, blinking like the proverbial idiot. His hair is rumpled and sleep-worn, his smell warm and stale, and his eyes shine with embarrassment. “Mrs. Tonks,” he says in a soft voice. “Mrs. Tonks, I’m so sorry…”
I swallow, then pull out a chair at the table. “Sit down, Remus,” I tell him and he does exactly that, a little too quickly for the movement to seem comfortable. “Tea?” I ask.
“Yes, that’d… that’d be nice. Thank you. But you don’t have to… really…”
I bite my tongue against the acerbic remark that snaps into my head and instead begin opening the cupboards, searching for the teabags. “Bottom right, beside the cereal,” he supplies in a sheepish tone.
Oh, really. So you do know my daughter’s flat well enough, then, Mr. Lupin? Good job, I think. At least that suggests that he has been here more than once and this was not just some throwaway one night stand. At least he knows my daughter better than that. Better! Ha! He knows her too bloody well.
Keeping my back to Remus’s bare chest, I charm the kettle to boil and set out three mugs on the sideboard, head down, working furiously in an effort to avoid having to say anything else. I grab milk and then turn to locate the teapot. Unable to find it, I spin to face him, glaring at him. His cheeks flush pink, and he ducks his head. My own colour has vanished, but my heart is still pounding.
“Where’s the teapot?” I ask sharply.
“Above your head,” he replies and points towards a cupboard. I open the door and there, indeed, is the teapot. I remove it and set it on the side, adding the bags to it with only a touch of irritation. I can hardly bring myself to turn around and look at him again. It’s not his lack of dress that is disturbing me - after all, I’m no prude and I’ve been married for twenty-five years - or the fact of what they had been doing… were quite clearly still doing… No, it’s more the fact that I had no idea that this was even happening. When did my daughter begin dating this man? What are his intentions? Is there marriage in his plans, or is this nothing but a whimsical fancy?
“I’m sorry I walked in like that,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“There’s nothing you need to be apologising for, Mrs. Tonks,” he replies.
Perhaps not, I think, but I’m going to anyway. And he should do the same to me. There is nothing a mother needs to see less than her daughter in bed with a naked man. “I didn’t mean to… I… I was just stopping by to drop something off.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I say nothing further, but beat my eggs a little harder. The pan is hot now and I slide the sloopy mixture in, watching as it immediately starts to bubble and cook. A wave of my wand and they’re turned perfectly out onto a plate. Behind me, Remus shifts in his seat and I hear him scratch his bristly chin.
“That was kind of you. Tonks… er… Dora took the day off work, though.”
Obviously, I think, as I pass him the plate, then pour him a mug of tea. “Here…” I say. He takes the plate with a nervous glance up at me. I meet his eyes, but am unable to prevent them falling to his chest. There are scars across his torso, some several inches long in places. I’ve never seen someone so damaged before. My mouth opens to say something, but he catches me looking and blushes again. Merlin, I can’t do anything right - I’m so embarrassed I think I might go up in flames.
Slowly, he lifts up his fork and takes a mouthful of egg. He makes an appreciative face, even though it’s so hot it is clear he’s burnt his tongue. A sip of tea soothes him momentarily, but when I flash my eyes back to him, he shrinks away, as if scalded once again.
In the bedroom, I hear the door of the wardrobe close with a bang, and then fix Remus with a serious gaze. I slip into the chair opposite this half-naked man - this half-naked werewolf - and try to keep my head clear. I have to know. It’s not prying, I tell myself… I just have to know. Motherly concern, that’s all it is. “Mr. Lupin, tell me you mean well by my daughter…”
He looks up at me and swallows. His eyes are dark and fathomless, searching my soul as if it’s laid out between us like a map. “I have nothing but the best of intentions with regards to your daughter, Mrs. Tonks,” he says, calmly. “I may not have been clear in the past with her, but I have been now, and I intend that to be the way of things from now on.”
I stare at him and, miraculously, find myself not wanting to hex him into next week. I wonder why my daughter never mentioned this before; it is quite clear that they have been involved for some time.
And then I stop, and pause, and realise. Oh, Merlin. Of course. My entire reaction is probably why she has not mentioned it before. Why she’s hidden the letters, why she’s never breathed a word about how happy she clearly is, why she’s taking her time getting dressed in the other room now instead of coming out here and facing me. The recognition of my sins hits me hard and my eyes fall to the table, where I stare guiltily at the grain of the wood.
Remus clears his throat and reaches across the table, his bare hand landing on mine with all the tenderness of a dear friend. I flinch. “We’re happy, Mrs. Tonks… if that’s what you’re worried about. Very happy. And I have never intended to take advantage of her. I love her.”
His face is an etching of honesty, almost pleading with me to understand, and suddenly I feel like a complete ogre. How awful of me to think that there was anything going on here except love?
A shuffle of feet draws my attention and I glance up to see Nymphadora walking into the room, dressed in her usual jeans and t-shirt, cheeks pink from a fresh scrubbing and a nervous smile tweaking her lips. She looks at Remus first, then at me, and my gaze follows hers. There is something pure and unfiltered on Remus’s face as he meets her eyes and I realise, with a smile, that it is the most honest form of love I’ve seen in years. Adoration, perhaps.
I clear my throat and climb to my feet, reaching back for the teapot to pour my daughter a mug. I hand it to her and she accepts it, smile growing. “Everything all right, Mum?” she asks, and there is no denying the undercurrent of worry in her voice.
I smile back at her, convinced. “Everything’s fine, darling.” I turn to Remus and shake my head. “Now, please go and put some clothes on, Remus…”
My daughter snorts with laughter and he looks down at his naked chest and gives a tiny humph, as if he had forgotten his state of undress. “Yes, yes,” he mutters. “Of course.”
She presses a kiss on his unshaven cheek and pushes him gently towards the bedroom. “Good job you came, Mum…” she says casually, and sinks into Remus’s vacated chair. “I think I must have left something at yours.”
The End.
Author -
joely_jo
Characters - Remus/Tonks, Andromeda
Rating - PG-13 (for some suggestion of adult content)
Prompts - Letter to Father Christmas/All I Want For Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey
Word Count - 2,358 words
Summary - Andromeda finds herself in a difficult situation.
Author’s Notes - I don’t often write in the first person, but I decided it was about time I tried it with this fic. Oh, and I honestly don’t know when this is set. I just totally screwed around with the timeline in order to get what I wanted to happen happening. Call it AU after HBP, baby… ;)
It is an unfortunate truth that sometimes spells destruction when a person stumbles upon a matter of privacy. Never have I chosen to pry, or purposefully sought out the hidden things kept by the people in my life, but, like anyone with a desire to keep a home tidy, I have occasionally happened upon a secret or two. A cigarette pressed between the pages of a book, a bottle of contraceptive potion hidden inside a boot. And this afternoon was no different from the other times - I did not mean to find the letter; I didn’t even mean to read it. Oh no, it was entirely an accident, but the repercussions reached further than I ever imagined.
“See you on Christmas Eve, Mum,” Nymphadora calls from the hall as she dons her cloak and grabs up her bundle of shopping bags.
I step out into the hall and press a kiss onto Dora’s cheek. “Yes, of course, darling. Here,” I say, “don’t forget your mince pies. They’ll be nice and warming when you’re sitting at home on your own after work this week.” I grab a tin-foil wrapped parcel from the table under the hall mirror and Dora takes it, pushing the pies hurriedly into the heavyweight canvas satchel she calls a handbag.
“Oh no, no… How could I forget those? What a perfect solution.” She winks at her father, who is hovering in the doorway, and throws up the hood of her cloak. “Take care, Dad.”
“You too, sweetheart… Enjoy yourself,” he adds, as if he knows something.
And the door closes. Ted chuckles and disappears back into the living room, leaving me standing in the hall wondering what the little private joke between Nymphadora and her father was. They are always having little secrets together. I am about to go back to the living room and question him when something catches my eye: a piece of paper lies on the floor beneath the hat stand, its careless position suggesting that it has been dropped, and I bend to pick it up.
On closer examination, it is an envelope, the flap sealed closed. There is no name or address on the front, but it smells distinctly of perfume and so I immediately assume that it is from my daughter. Perhaps it is a Christmas card, I think, as I slide a nail underneath the seal and rip it open.
Inside, a lighter-weight piece of parchment is revealed - it is a letter - and I pull it out and unfold it. Automatically, my eyes fly to the first line: ‘Dear Dora,’ it begins, and I instantly realise that this is something I should not be reading. But, despite the knowledge that I am committing a dreadful act of betrayal in reading what is obviously a personal letter, I simply cannot draw my eyes away, and the second line melts into my head: ‘This year I have been a very good boy, but all I want for Christmas is you…’ the letter continues, and the shock of the true meaning behind the words sends the paper slipping from my hands, spiralling to the floor like a falling leaf.
Oh, Merlin…
In the living room, Ted clears his throat, the newspaper rustles, and I rush to secrete the evidence of my betrayal, pushing the letter and envelope up the sleeve of my robes. I dart into the kitchen and stuff the letter into a drawer, the realisation that I am going to have to return it to its rightful owner playing havoc with my morally upstanding mind. Openly handing it over to Nymphadora will immediately call into question whether or not I have read it, and the embarrassment for all is enough to render that option null and void.
No, there is no other possibility; the letter will have to be returned quietly. Very quietly.
****
My spare key turns in the lock of Dora’s flat. It is half past ten on Monday morning and it is a welcome comfort to know that my daughter will certainly be at work, so there is little chance of me being disturbed. It’ll be a quick in and out - just a minute or two to set the envelope into the pocket of a cloak. Nothing to it, I say to myself.
The post is still on the doormat and I step over it hesitantly, itching to move it to the kitchen table, but knowing that to do so would betray my presence. I click the door closed behind me with nary a sound as I move into the living room, my silence merely evidence of my guilt at being here uninvited. My eyes flit around me, falling on the discarded edition of the Daily Prophet by the armchair, the coffee mug and small plate on the side table and the wilting flowers in the vase on the windowsill. Just as I am starting to wonder where my daughter keeps her weekend cloak, I spy the familiar folds of black gabardine hanging from the bedroom door, and dart towards it, the envelope hot in my hand. My fingers curl around the cloak and I slip the envelope into the pocket.
Success.
But then, a sound. A sigh, followed by an indistinct moan, and I lift my head, freezing at the sight that greets my trespassing eyes.
Nymphadora lies on the bed before me, not at work, not alone and as naked as a newborn. With Remus Lupin. That werewolf Remus Lupin. The same one I overheard her talking about with Ted last week.
One look at Remus Lupin’s bare backside, hovering over my daughter’s body, and I gasp and back out of the room, running for the kitchen. “Shit!” I hear from the bedroom and then a hurried rustling and banging as they realise what has happened.
The kitchen is unfortunately tidy - else I would begin tidying it - so I stare at the sideboards, my face flushing with mortification, wondering what to do.
Eggs.
There’s a carton of eggs on the side. In a desperate search for a distraction, I grab up the frying pan from the cupboard underneath the stove and, with shaking fingers, begin cracking the eggs into a bowl. As I work, an awkward figure appears in the doorway, dressed in nothing but a pair of crumpled striped pyjama bottoms. Remus Lupin.
Oh, Merlin. Remus Lupin.
From the bedroom, Nymphadora’s voice calls, “Mum, hang on, I’ll be with you in a minute!”
Remus, meanwhile, stares at me, blinking like the proverbial idiot. His hair is rumpled and sleep-worn, his smell warm and stale, and his eyes shine with embarrassment. “Mrs. Tonks,” he says in a soft voice. “Mrs. Tonks, I’m so sorry…”
I swallow, then pull out a chair at the table. “Sit down, Remus,” I tell him and he does exactly that, a little too quickly for the movement to seem comfortable. “Tea?” I ask.
“Yes, that’d… that’d be nice. Thank you. But you don’t have to… really…”
I bite my tongue against the acerbic remark that snaps into my head and instead begin opening the cupboards, searching for the teabags. “Bottom right, beside the cereal,” he supplies in a sheepish tone.
Oh, really. So you do know my daughter’s flat well enough, then, Mr. Lupin? Good job, I think. At least that suggests that he has been here more than once and this was not just some throwaway one night stand. At least he knows my daughter better than that. Better! Ha! He knows her too bloody well.
Keeping my back to Remus’s bare chest, I charm the kettle to boil and set out three mugs on the sideboard, head down, working furiously in an effort to avoid having to say anything else. I grab milk and then turn to locate the teapot. Unable to find it, I spin to face him, glaring at him. His cheeks flush pink, and he ducks his head. My own colour has vanished, but my heart is still pounding.
“Where’s the teapot?” I ask sharply.
“Above your head,” he replies and points towards a cupboard. I open the door and there, indeed, is the teapot. I remove it and set it on the side, adding the bags to it with only a touch of irritation. I can hardly bring myself to turn around and look at him again. It’s not his lack of dress that is disturbing me - after all, I’m no prude and I’ve been married for twenty-five years - or the fact of what they had been doing… were quite clearly still doing… No, it’s more the fact that I had no idea that this was even happening. When did my daughter begin dating this man? What are his intentions? Is there marriage in his plans, or is this nothing but a whimsical fancy?
“I’m sorry I walked in like that,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“There’s nothing you need to be apologising for, Mrs. Tonks,” he replies.
Perhaps not, I think, but I’m going to anyway. And he should do the same to me. There is nothing a mother needs to see less than her daughter in bed with a naked man. “I didn’t mean to… I… I was just stopping by to drop something off.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” I say nothing further, but beat my eggs a little harder. The pan is hot now and I slide the sloopy mixture in, watching as it immediately starts to bubble and cook. A wave of my wand and they’re turned perfectly out onto a plate. Behind me, Remus shifts in his seat and I hear him scratch his bristly chin.
“That was kind of you. Tonks… er… Dora took the day off work, though.”
Obviously, I think, as I pass him the plate, then pour him a mug of tea. “Here…” I say. He takes the plate with a nervous glance up at me. I meet his eyes, but am unable to prevent them falling to his chest. There are scars across his torso, some several inches long in places. I’ve never seen someone so damaged before. My mouth opens to say something, but he catches me looking and blushes again. Merlin, I can’t do anything right - I’m so embarrassed I think I might go up in flames.
Slowly, he lifts up his fork and takes a mouthful of egg. He makes an appreciative face, even though it’s so hot it is clear he’s burnt his tongue. A sip of tea soothes him momentarily, but when I flash my eyes back to him, he shrinks away, as if scalded once again.
In the bedroom, I hear the door of the wardrobe close with a bang, and then fix Remus with a serious gaze. I slip into the chair opposite this half-naked man - this half-naked werewolf - and try to keep my head clear. I have to know. It’s not prying, I tell myself… I just have to know. Motherly concern, that’s all it is. “Mr. Lupin, tell me you mean well by my daughter…”
He looks up at me and swallows. His eyes are dark and fathomless, searching my soul as if it’s laid out between us like a map. “I have nothing but the best of intentions with regards to your daughter, Mrs. Tonks,” he says, calmly. “I may not have been clear in the past with her, but I have been now, and I intend that to be the way of things from now on.”
I stare at him and, miraculously, find myself not wanting to hex him into next week. I wonder why my daughter never mentioned this before; it is quite clear that they have been involved for some time.
And then I stop, and pause, and realise. Oh, Merlin. Of course. My entire reaction is probably why she has not mentioned it before. Why she’s hidden the letters, why she’s never breathed a word about how happy she clearly is, why she’s taking her time getting dressed in the other room now instead of coming out here and facing me. The recognition of my sins hits me hard and my eyes fall to the table, where I stare guiltily at the grain of the wood.
Remus clears his throat and reaches across the table, his bare hand landing on mine with all the tenderness of a dear friend. I flinch. “We’re happy, Mrs. Tonks… if that’s what you’re worried about. Very happy. And I have never intended to take advantage of her. I love her.”
His face is an etching of honesty, almost pleading with me to understand, and suddenly I feel like a complete ogre. How awful of me to think that there was anything going on here except love?
A shuffle of feet draws my attention and I glance up to see Nymphadora walking into the room, dressed in her usual jeans and t-shirt, cheeks pink from a fresh scrubbing and a nervous smile tweaking her lips. She looks at Remus first, then at me, and my gaze follows hers. There is something pure and unfiltered on Remus’s face as he meets her eyes and I realise, with a smile, that it is the most honest form of love I’ve seen in years. Adoration, perhaps.
I clear my throat and climb to my feet, reaching back for the teapot to pour my daughter a mug. I hand it to her and she accepts it, smile growing. “Everything all right, Mum?” she asks, and there is no denying the undercurrent of worry in her voice.
I smile back at her, convinced. “Everything’s fine, darling.” I turn to Remus and shake my head. “Now, please go and put some clothes on, Remus…”
My daughter snorts with laughter and he looks down at his naked chest and gives a tiny humph, as if he had forgotten his state of undress. “Yes, yes,” he mutters. “Of course.”
She presses a kiss on his unshaven cheek and pushes him gently towards the bedroom. “Good job you came, Mum…” she says casually, and sinks into Remus’s vacated chair. “I think I must have left something at yours.”
The End.