The Glass Slipper By Gilpin25
Title: The Glass Slipper
Author: gilpin25
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for mild swearing and not quite so mild innuendo.
Prompt: The nights are colder now/ Maybe I should close the door/ And anyway the snow has covered all your footsteps/ I can follow you no more/The fire still burns at night/My memories are warm and clear/ But everybody knows it's hard to be alone/ At this time of year.
- A Winter's Tale - David Essex
Word Count: 5000
Summary: Cinderella shall go to the ball. And Remus is going with her... Set during OotP.
Author’s Notes: Part of this relates to a pantomime, which are a British tradition around Christmas time. A full explanation is for anyone unfamiliar with them can be found here, but, briefly, it's a musical play (I've skipped the musical bit, for which we can all be very thankful) loosely based on a famous fairy tale, such as Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast etc. They're popular with children and adults alike, fairly daft, and full of bad jokes (that's my excuse). Men frequently play female roles, and vice versa, and logic is absolutely not a pantomime's strong suit which may be another excuse for this. There should probably be an excess fluff warning, but I did want to be nice to R/T at this time of year. Feedback is always much appreciated and a Happy New Year to all. :)
The Glass Slipper
She taps the side of one black boot absently against the other, hearing the familiar chink of buckle meeting buckle. Thought meeting thought. It probably isn’t the best moment to be honest with herself but it’s been long overdue.
Remus Lupin is keeping her awake at night.
At least thinking about him is. It’s been far too easy to put the recent sleepless nights down to the unevenness of Christmas shifts, the not-so recent down to a strange unwillingness to ever stir from the warmth of Grimmauld’s fire, and the ones from the very start down to uncertainty over her place and worth in the Order which Remus, with those blue eyes which see much more than most, had made her feel was never in any question at all. She’d got used to Apparating home and sinking into bed, dimly aware that his voice and the image of him gently smiling at her in the flickering light, glass in hand and legs outstretched, is still with her, on her and, somehow, in her.
And now there’s this realisation. Made not in a romantic way (she doesn’t do romance, or it doesn’t do her), as their eyes meet across a crowded room, but a sudden dawning on her as she stands by Grimmauld’s ancient sink filled with cold leftovers from lunch, watching the snow flakes outside cling to the grimy window frame, and absently listening to Fred and George’s voices in the background wondering whether she’s ever going to pass the chocolate digestives over like she’d said she would.
She’s been keen on men before and got over it (usually when she realises they weren’t who she thought they were), but this already feels different and feels right. (She’s sure Remus is exactly who she thinks he is. Which is immensely likeable, reassuringly kind, and incredibly tricky because he’s not keen on letting anyone see beyond the first two.)
And now a simple Christmas tradition, and their far from simple responses to it, has made it clear that she wants to do something about this and he seems to think he shouldn’t. (Why is it romantic when the man chases the girl and smacks only of desperation when it’s the other way round?) So now she’s left with the unalterable fact that he hasn’t kissed her under the mistletoe and somehow it’s turned into A Very Big Issue for them both.
With an effort she brings her mind back to where it should be. Everyone’s keen to get going before the snow gets any heavier. She is too, in theory, as she’s planning to be up early to see her parents, and make a show of doing impress-your-mother type things with the sprouts while avoiding questions on a large range of subjects. Then to dash back here after dinner, when her dad’s nodded off and her mother has mellowed to older friend rather than anxious inquisitor, and spend the evening with Sirius and the kids.
And Remus. Who asked if she was coming back. He gave her that slow smile, which creases his face just so, and they might still have been stood there if Sirius hadn’t burst in to ask their opinion of the joke he was putting in Mad-Eye’s Christmas cracker. (Why wouldn’t Mad-Eye make a good teacher? Because he couldn’t keep his pupils in order.)
Of course, all this was before she’d had the pleasure of seeing this same Remus here in the kitchen, locked in a passionate embrace with yet another female under the-
“Merry Christmas, Tonks!” A wet kiss is planted unexpectedly on her cheek as she gazes up at the plant hanging from the beam.
A freckled face looks back at her with bright eyes. Fred’s. No, George’s. They’ve swapped their blue sweaters with the F and G on them round and are having fun causing endless, bleary-eyed confusion to Dung.
“Er, Tonks?” The bright eyes are looking at her with a rather touching flicker of uncertainty. “You were day-dreaming right under the mistletoe, you know.”
“So I was. That’ll teach me.” She grins at him and returns the kiss quickly on his flushed cheek. “Have a cool Yule yourself, George.”
Fred, sitting at the table, and watching his brother almost approvingly - she bets he dared him to do it - clears his throat.
“I’d say a Sickle for them,” he says, leaning over a pile of innocuous looking brown boxes, “but that tea’s been stewing for five minutes and you’ve hogged all the biscuits.”
“Oh, sorry.” She holds them out absent-mindedly, watching as the freckled hands eagerly swipe several each. “Hey!” She whisks the plate away. “These are for the workers upstairs, you know.”
“We’re working too, aren’t we, George?”
“We are indeed, Fred, and if Tonks wasn’t so distracted-“
“-must be something very important on her mind to be able to ignore us-“
“-and our best ever invention, which could well solve all her Christmas worries-“
“-especially if she wants a very special gift to show him how much she cares,” says Fred grinning slyly at her.
“What d'you mean?” Tonks bites the sharp words off. “I mean I am curious,” she says more carefully, “as to what is in those boxes you had hidden under the table earlier on. They look completely harmless so they’re obviously not.”
“Tonks, Tonks, Tonks.” George beams at her with approval. “As wise are you are witty. As sharp as you are sweet. As pink as you are-“
“Able to see through any amount of flannel, boys, so don’t waste your breath.” She adds indistinctly round a mouthful of biscuit, “As pink as I am perspicacious.”
“I’d have gone for pretty myself. Easier to spell too.” Remus’ head appears without warning round the door, an amused smile hovering round his lips. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, you just made me jump, that’s all.” Tonks swallows hastily. Pretty? She puts out a hand to casually lean against the sink in a relaxed pose, but as he walks towards her she misses the edge completely and puts it straight into the lunch leftovers.
“Sorry.” He delves into the cupboard to the side of her. “Dumbledore wants the dispatch box with the rosters in as he’s keen to wrap things up. He and Severus have got to get back to Hogwarts shortly. Everything ready to go?”
“Yes, it is.” Tonks resorts to the back of her jeans to surreptitiously wipe her hand. “Does everyone think I’ve absconded with the tea?”
Remus nods gravely. “I said we could probably find you by listening out for the guitar solos.” He lifts a hand and she thinks he’s going to touch her snowball earrings but he stops just short and smiles instead. She’s charmed them to play, very quietly, a medley of her favourite Christmas hits.
Of course, he had sat next to her during the meeting, like he usually does. But proximity, private jokes, and the tiny piece of parchment he’d found so they could play noughts and crosses under the table simply meant that he wanted to thrash her five times in a row (smug git), and was not some secret code for let’s get out of here and I’ll kiss you till neither of us can breathe.
“I was just,” she glances at the twins, who suddenly look a lot less certain. “About to find out what’s in those boxes Fred and George are trying to pretend don’t exist.”
“Really?” Remus looks intrigued. “I nearly picked one up earlier thinking it was the dispatch box and wondering why it was left lying around.”
“Cripes! Thank God you didn’t! We kept them ordinary-looking so mum wouldn’t spot them.” Fred looks at George who shrugs.
“Try me. My bark’s worse than my bite.” Remus suggests. “No, actually, that’s not true, is it?” He gives a soft chuckle and Tonks sees the watchfulness in his eyes, the momentary worry that one day people won’t join in and laugh with him.
“So,” Fred clears his throat, “it’s Christmas, and you know that can only mean one thing-“
“There’s never anything decent to listen to on the wireless?” puts in Tonks.
“-it’s panto time!”
“Pantomime time?” Remus puts his box down on the table. “Have you--?”
“Yes! We’ve been playing with the Daydream Charm and-“
“-created a seasonal one that lets you take part in your favourite fairy tale panto!” Fred pats the nearest box. “How much would Hagrid love being chased around by a lunatic, murderous giant in Jack and the Beanstalk? And can you imagine the look on, say, McGonagall’s face when she unwraps Puss ‘n’ Boots?”
“Yes, actually, I think I can.” Remus is very dry. “And how does this work then?”
George smiles proudly. “You simply open the lid and breathe in the smoke, and you’d swear you were Grumpy the dwarf without moving a muscle off your chair. It’ll cast you as the character you’re most suited to, it works for a number of people at once, and it lets you bring your own personality to the part. It’s wonderful family entertainment at a very realistic and reasonable price.”
“With notable reductions for friends,” Fred adds quickly.
“Any side-effects?” Tonks looks at them.
“We’ve had the odd, minor difficulty along with the drooling.” George pulls a face, looking slightly cagey.
Remus frowns. “Like what exactly?”
“Oh, it’s just a sad reflection of the times we live in, that’s all,” says Fred, quickly. “Wizards find it hard to announce that they’re looking for their one True Love and witches have trouble saying that some day their prince will come.” Fred purses his lips reflectively. “Perhaps not that surprisingly.”
Tonks can see Remus compress his lips out the corner of her eye. She’s fighting back a laugh herself when Fred goes on, “It’s all just tradition, anyway. Everyone manages to snog under the mistletoe without any fuss.”
Silence.
Tonks thinks dimly that it will be all right as long as one of them fills the gap right away. But right away has already passed. Fred and George are talking to each other - thank Merlin - but the seconds of silence are stretching on and on.
Remus will say something.
Or she will.
But Remus is gazing at her; eyes dark and unreadable and his face expressionless. It’s just like earlier on when Sirius had decided at the last minute to lick her wetly on the nose with his long tongue instead of giving her a cousinly Christmas kiss. She’d shoved him away, he’d chased her round and round the kitchen, and they’d eventually collapsed in an undignified heap on the sofa, pelting each other with the magical snow, while Remus looked over the top of his newspaper at them in apparent disbelief. But he was pleased to see Sirius in such a good mood, something more than pleased as he looked at her, and they were all laughing, right up until the moment when Sirius abruptly announced he was off, hauled himself to his feet, and pointed his wand at the mistletoe which shot across the room and fell neatly into Tonks’ lap.
“Make it count, Moony,” he’d said with an evil grin. “Seeing as you’ve been through every woman in the house and noticeably saved the best till last.”
Silence. Except for Sirius’ cackle as he went up the stairs.
What had Remus said? She couldn’t remember, only laughing to hide everything she really felt inside.
It’s odd to think that upstairs is a boy, scarcely more than a child, who carries the hopes of them all on his narrow shoulders. They all believe in Harry. (She thinks even Snape must, otherwise why would he take such risks?) And it seems even more appropriate to believe at this time of year in a child to save the world.
So why can’t she tell the man in front of her that she believes in him just as much as the still centre of her ever-spinning one? Somehow in the telling, the words will be twisted and misunderstood, or he’ll only hear those of his own that he’s told himself for so long.
She looks down, catching sight of her heavy boots. She’s jazzed them up with silver buckles (currently inscribed with ‘I’ve been naughty and nice, Santa’) but there’s no getting away from the fact that they reek of practicality and war. There’s an emergency potion kit hidden under a buckle, for a start.
She doesn’t do romance, does she? It certainly doesn’t do her.
“Let’s get cracking,” she says. “I don’t want to be hanging around here wasting my time.” She sends the tray on its hurried way with a brutal flick of her wand.
“Of course.” Remus holds out a hand, which for a second doesn’t seem quite steady. “Fred, the dispatch box please.”
“What? Oh right.” Fred, who’s been muttering low-voiced to his brother, takes his elbow off the box he’s leaning on and passes it across.
Tonks whips up the stairs with Remus some paces behind and George watches them go with a puzzled frown.
“Bit odd, don’t you think?” he says to Fred.
“Were they?” Fred isn’t interested. “Look,” he says, “they’re perfectly safe.”
George shrugs. “Maybe we should have tested them a bit more and- What’s up?”
Fred is moving the boxes from one side of the table to the other, and looking hurriedly underneath them with a frown, which has turned to amusement by the last one. “You might be about to get your wish,” he says.
“What? Bloody hell, Lupin’s never gone and got the wrong box? Which one-“
“-it’s quite funny really-“
“-we’ve got to stop them!”
“Yeah. I suppose, at first thought, we should.” Fred leans back and stretches his legs out, grinning at his brother who’s half risen out of his chair.
“We … can’t.” But George stays where he is, neither up nor down.
“We certainly can’t from here,” Fred nods after a long minute while the faintest trace of smoke makes its way down the stairs and into the kitchen. “But we can always get the Extendable Ears out.”
There’s a blue haze in front of her eyes, a knocking sound in the distance, and a heavy feeling in her head, as though she’s slept far too well and far too long.
The feeling is strangely familiar and she knows there’s something she must remember, something that she can’t quite put her finger on, but there’s no sense of worry or panic and as the haze clears in front of her she remembers the one thing she has to.
Once upon a time, there lived a pretty young girl called Cinderella...
What a bloody awful name, she thinks. Her mother must have been drunk or something.
Oh crap, it’s mine, isn’t it?
The knocking sound comes again, along with the realisation that there’ll be hell to pay if her stepsisters come down and she hasn’t dusted, swept, or scrubbed anything, simply because she’s been daydreaming again.
She knows she shouldn’t complain about her lot in life, but if she could just have some sort of fulfilling and independent career (law enforcement rather appeals), a sexy, sensitive boyfriend (an older man, perhaps?) and something decent to wear besides dull hair and the street urchin look…
“Cinderella! Gawd blimey, ‘ave you gone deaf or somethin’? Get the bleedin’ door!”
With a guilty start - her oldest stepsister hates to have to shout like that with her smoker’s voice - she runs to the door and opens it to reveal a pale, tired-looking man, wearing a rather faded brown uniform.
“Wotcher,” she says, wondering if he’s a salesman or something, though all he seems to have tucked under one arm is what looks like a slightly soggy and lumpy newspaper.
“Good morning!” He smiles brightly at her. “I’m looking for three ladies by the name of Stepsister One, Stepsister Two and-“ he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card, edged in purple, “-Cinderella Hardup?”
“Yeah, I’m…” She stops, frowning.
He raises an eyebrow. “You are?”
“Yeah, I’m … the last one you mentioned.”
“Excellent. Well, Cinderella, I’m here to-“
“Don’t call me Cinderella.”
He stops, the other eyebrow showing signs of joining the first, and she adds, hastily, “I’m not keen on my name, you see. Didn’t like it when I first heard it.”
“Oh, I see.” The smile suggests gentle amusement and she realises he’s not as old as she first thought he was. “What shall I call you then?”
“Who are you?” she asks, killing time.
“I’m The Royal Messenger.” He says it calmly but the smile’s gone.
“Oh, but I thought they wore-“ She stops, cursing her wayward tongue. She’s always being told to know her place and she never does.
“I’m not entitled to wear colours. I’m an outsider, am therefore considered ‘contaminated’ in many quarters, and only have the job through being an old school friend of the Prince’s. I have to identify myself as such by only wearing brown or grey so that people know they don’t have to afford me any particular courtesy or consideration.”
“But that’s not fair!”
He gives a soft chuckle at her indignation, making her feel rather naive. “Please,” he passes her the card. “This is for you.”
It takes her a moment to focus:
Prince Siriusly Charming, of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Charming, invites you to a ball tonight where he hopes to meet a lovely young lady for True Love, a prenuptial agreement and living Happily Ever After. Low-cut dress required and bring a bottle!
N.B Free motorcycle parking is available round the back.
“I still don’t know what to call you,” the Messenger says softly.
“How about … Tonks?” she asks, wondering where on earth that’s come from, but they’re interrupted by the clattering of some very big feet and the arrival of both her stepsisters at once.
“What have we here then, Cinderella? Attempting to keep secrets from us again, are we?” The tone is the usual sneering one and the invitation is snatched from her by a familiar hand, stained with potion ingredients.
“’Ere, let’s have a butchers at it.” A pointed elbow from the other side jabs Tonks in the ribs. “Bleedin’ ‘ell! Does this palace ‘ave lots of antiques, like, and a back entrance you can get out of quick?”
“The Charming Palace has everything a young lady could desire.” The Messenger looks at her with interest and Tonks thinks the pipe hanging out of the side of her eldest stepsister’s mouth probably isn’t helping her cause.
“I may have to-“ Her other stepsister is rubbing her hooked nose in thought. “Wash my hair.”
“It would certainly give you a head start,” says The Messenger politely.
Both sisters look at him with instant dislike.
“’Ere, you’re one of them …outsiders. Who decent folk won’t pick their noses with.”
“I’m very fortunate in a lot of ways.” The Messenger suddenly sniffs the air as the stepsisters take a menacing step towards him. “Is that the smell of a burning Face Pack Potion?”
Both sisters shriek and run upstairs in a flurry of skirts and green pipe smoke while he looks at Tonks. “Did I go too far? It is a useful little trick though.”
“Not far enough,” Tonks is still laughing. “Hey - you’re not going?”
“You were my last delivery.” He hesitates on the doorstep. “And by far the most pleasant.”
“Well, can’t you hang on a bit? I mean, I could fix you a sandwich or something,” she finishes lamely.
Silence.
It's much too long as well.
Then he holds the soggy bundle of newspaper out to her like a very tentative offering, which is being made against his better judgement. “I, er … don’t suppose you’d like to share my chips?”
“Why yes,” she says, and after a long moment where they both stare at each other as if not entirely sure what they’re doing, or why they're doing it, leads him out into the garden, to the creaky bench where they’ll be undisturbed as her stepsisters loathe fresh air and it’s certainly fresh enough now with the clouds heavy with the threat of snow.
“Where do you live?” she asks while he keeps offering her chips, and as they’re piling up in her hand she eats them and it turns out they both like them really salty.
“Prince Siriusly lets me rent a property in the palace grounds. It’s new as he doesn’t like ancient houses but it’s built round a tiny cottage so it’s got an old heart.”
She can see him so clearly in this little house on the edge of woodland, filled with uneven bookshelves and those dreams he never gets to say out loud.
“What’s it called then, your home?”
The faintest trace of a smile touches his mouth as he licks the salt off his thumb boyishly. “Lupin’s Place,” he says.
“Is that your name?” She’s already thinking that she likes it.
“Do you really want to marry a prince?” His eyes, which have never left hers, are suddenly asking quite another question altogether.
“Fred.” George pulls on the thread attached to his twin’s Extendable Ear to get his attention. “We’ve got to stop this.”
“Why? It’s getting interesting.”
“Interesting? I don’t remember the story of Cinderella that well, but I’m pretty sure The Messenger just delivers the invitation and clears off! This is never right!”
“Yeah, so it’s interesting.” Fred looks at his watch. “The Charm only lasts an hour so we’re certainly going to have to whiz through something or other.”
“Like the entire bloody ball?” George asks, sarcastically.
“Cripes, I hope not.” Fred looks aghast. “That’s my favourite bit.”
Tonks isn’t sure which is the most surprising; the fact that a Fairy Godmother has appeared in the fireplace, or just her appearance in general.
The very long beard is rather … unexpected. But then her stepsisters don’t seem to have much of a feminine side either.
“What a lovely dress,” says the Fairy Godmother appreciatively, looking down at all the lace. “I’ve always wanted to try something like this on but there’s never been quite the right occasion. I do wonder where I’m supposed to keep my spectacles though. And,” she adds, looking behind her, “no room for the Sherbet Lemons either, it seems.”
“Er,” Tonks starts, but the Fairy Godmother holds up a large hand.
“Yes, quite right, no time to waste. You did well making dresses out of the curtains for your stepsisters but I’ve something else in mind for you.”
“Blimey,” Tonks says, taking in first the mirror that appears in front of her, and then the pink satin dress.
“Yes, I’ve always had an eye for fashion, if I say so myself. Even nicer when you’ve found a little more True Love in the world and can make your hair match. These glass slippers are for you too.”
“I’ll just keep my boots on while I get the pumpkin-“
“No time.” The Fairy Godmother shakes her head and beard firmly. “Fortunately I’m very good at manipulating events and people for a higher purpose so when you next blink you’ll be at the ball.”
Apparently this was quite true. She was also face to face with a tall, dark and haggardly handsome man in a leather jacket.
“Thank God. A decent one at last.” He looks her up and down. “Fancy a waltz or do you tango on the first date?”
“You’re … Prince Siriusly Charming?”
“At your service.” He grimaces. “What a bloody awful night! I tell you, I had more exciting conversations in prison.”
“You’ve got a prison record?”
He grins endearingly at her. “Fancy a go at reforming me?”
“Only if I was interested.” Which should make it clear she’s not. “You don’t really want to get married, do you?”
“God, no. Only doing this to shut mum up.” He jerks his head in the direction of a plump, red-haired woman, who seems to be organizing the buffet queue. “She thinks everyone should have seven kids and a second mortgage by thirty.” He looks at her more closely. “Why are you here then, if not to get all my money?”
“I’ve come to see Lupin.”
“Have you now… Well - He’s behind you!” He propels her round to see Lupin standing quite alone and watching her.
Their eyes meet across the crowded room as a clock starts to chime.
Prince Siriusly claps Lupin on the shoulder. “Try not to dip your quill in the royal ink, mate. I think I might retire with Motorcycle Weekly to the loo for a bit. Some of these women are downright scary.”
Tonks stares at Lupin, not even noticing the prince leave.
“Your hair… It’s pink.” He reaches out a hand towards her face.
“Yes,” she says. “I need to tell you-“ She stops, aware that the air is that much colder and the room is growing hazy.
There’s a clock chiming somewhere…
“No.” He’s fading away as well but she knows how this works, how to fix things.
Her hand touches not the elegant glass slipper but a thickly laced boot.
Impossible to get it off in time.
“You should marry a prince,” he says softly, his hand dropping back to his side. “Live Happily Ever After.”
He’s letting her go. She’s got to make him see-
“Remus!”
The last feeling is the gentle kiss of a snowflake - but not of her prince - upon her lips as the blue smoke engulfs her.
“I’m really sorry, Tonks,” George says for the third time, and she tells him not to worry and that she’s got to dash. Fred’s apologised as well, but Sirius is still laughing so much he can hardly speak and wants to place an order at once. Snape has stormed off and Dung is swearing never to drink again while knocking back a large brandy to help get over the shock.
Dumbledore seems to have taken it all remarkably well too; his only apparent regret is that he didn’t get to sing Bibbity Bobbity Boo.
Which just leaves her then.
And Remus.
She’s too busy leaving to look at him because what she can’t get over is that he just let her go. All right, it was a charm, it was a fairy tale, and a completely ridiculous one at that, but it seems to her to have summed up everything she’s felt ever since she realised he was avoiding kissing her under the mistletoe.
Of course, she doesn’t do romance, or it doesn’t do her. Romance is for schoolgirls who dream and she’s packing all that in right now.
“Tonks!”
What she does do is slog through the thickening snow, making her way grimly towards the Apparation point, in those excellent, practical boots of hers, vowing silently to spend the entire day tomorrow with her parents, eating all the damn sprouts, listening to their favourite violin concerto on the wireless and not even once thinking about-
A pale, long-fingered hand catches her arm and spins her around without warning.
“Are you deaf?” he demands as she opens her mouth to ask him just what he thinks he’s doing.
“Can’t hear anything in my horse and carriage,” she says sarcastically. “Just out for an evening stroll, are you?”
“Why didn’t you wait?” He ignores the question as the snowflakes gather in his hair. “You must have known that I wanted to talk to you.”
She all but gapes at him. “No,” she finally manages, “no, now you mention it - I didn’t. I thought you’d be off to snog someone else under the mistletoe.”
She didn’t just say that.
Did she?
Why is it so bloody humiliating when the girl chases the man and the man really doesn’t want to know?
“I didn’t kiss anyone,” he says finally, very quietly.
“Why you-“
“They kissed me. There’s a difference.”
She starts to argue and then has a sudden vision of Emmeline offering him a smooth white cheek, Hestia (the tart) all but grabbing him, amid giggles, in front of everyone else, and Molly hugging him fiercely and affectionately as she walks in on them both.
Remus’ face showing relief and gratitude.
Relief that they want to be that close. Gratitude that they like him.
Silence.
“You plonker,” she says at last, and grins.
“Bit pathetic.” But he smiles slowly too.
“So,” she swallows, wondering if she can actually say this. But then she never did know her place. “Was there anyone you were thinking you might actually like to, er, kiss yourself, at any particular time?”
“Well I wasn’t entirely sure I was being fair to her, but seeing as I’ve run through the snow in search of my one True Love, who unfortunately has turned out to be as deaf as a post-“
“I am not-“
Did he just say-?
Soft, warm lips meet hers, and suddenly she’s in his arms, while he’s kissing her with a tenderness and passion that is everything she’s dreamt of through all those sleepless nights.
And more.
“I’m no good at all this,” he says when at last he lets her go, but there’s wonder in his voice as he adds, “You know you just rewrote an entire fairy tale for us both when you invited me in, don’t you?”
“There’s always room for you at my inn.” She grins again.
But he was the one who made it happen when he said yes. She reaches up to pull his face down to hers again, being very careful not to show she’s as joyfully demented as she feels right now, but he steps gently back, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the palm, folding her fingers upon the kiss, and bending down to her feet in the snow.
She stares at him. What on earth-?
“Get your boot off then, Cinderella Tonks.” He smiles mischievously up at her, his long fingers on the laces. “Let’s see if it fits perfectly and then we can make a start on the Happily Ever After.”
Author: gilpin25
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 for mild swearing and not quite so mild innuendo.
Prompt: The nights are colder now/ Maybe I should close the door/ And anyway the snow has covered all your footsteps/ I can follow you no more/The fire still burns at night/My memories are warm and clear/ But everybody knows it's hard to be alone/ At this time of year.
- A Winter's Tale - David Essex
Word Count: 5000
Summary: Cinderella shall go to the ball. And Remus is going with her... Set during OotP.
Author’s Notes: Part of this relates to a pantomime, which are a British tradition around Christmas time. A full explanation is for anyone unfamiliar with them can be found here, but, briefly, it's a musical play (I've skipped the musical bit, for which we can all be very thankful) loosely based on a famous fairy tale, such as Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast etc. They're popular with children and adults alike, fairly daft, and full of bad jokes (that's my excuse). Men frequently play female roles, and vice versa, and logic is absolutely not a pantomime's strong suit which may be another excuse for this. There should probably be an excess fluff warning, but I did want to be nice to R/T at this time of year. Feedback is always much appreciated and a Happy New Year to all. :)
The Glass Slipper
She taps the side of one black boot absently against the other, hearing the familiar chink of buckle meeting buckle. Thought meeting thought. It probably isn’t the best moment to be honest with herself but it’s been long overdue.
Remus Lupin is keeping her awake at night.
At least thinking about him is. It’s been far too easy to put the recent sleepless nights down to the unevenness of Christmas shifts, the not-so recent down to a strange unwillingness to ever stir from the warmth of Grimmauld’s fire, and the ones from the very start down to uncertainty over her place and worth in the Order which Remus, with those blue eyes which see much more than most, had made her feel was never in any question at all. She’d got used to Apparating home and sinking into bed, dimly aware that his voice and the image of him gently smiling at her in the flickering light, glass in hand and legs outstretched, is still with her, on her and, somehow, in her.
And now there’s this realisation. Made not in a romantic way (she doesn’t do romance, or it doesn’t do her), as their eyes meet across a crowded room, but a sudden dawning on her as she stands by Grimmauld’s ancient sink filled with cold leftovers from lunch, watching the snow flakes outside cling to the grimy window frame, and absently listening to Fred and George’s voices in the background wondering whether she’s ever going to pass the chocolate digestives over like she’d said she would.
She’s been keen on men before and got over it (usually when she realises they weren’t who she thought they were), but this already feels different and feels right. (She’s sure Remus is exactly who she thinks he is. Which is immensely likeable, reassuringly kind, and incredibly tricky because he’s not keen on letting anyone see beyond the first two.)
And now a simple Christmas tradition, and their far from simple responses to it, has made it clear that she wants to do something about this and he seems to think he shouldn’t. (Why is it romantic when the man chases the girl and smacks only of desperation when it’s the other way round?) So now she’s left with the unalterable fact that he hasn’t kissed her under the mistletoe and somehow it’s turned into A Very Big Issue for them both.
With an effort she brings her mind back to where it should be. Everyone’s keen to get going before the snow gets any heavier. She is too, in theory, as she’s planning to be up early to see her parents, and make a show of doing impress-your-mother type things with the sprouts while avoiding questions on a large range of subjects. Then to dash back here after dinner, when her dad’s nodded off and her mother has mellowed to older friend rather than anxious inquisitor, and spend the evening with Sirius and the kids.
And Remus. Who asked if she was coming back. He gave her that slow smile, which creases his face just so, and they might still have been stood there if Sirius hadn’t burst in to ask their opinion of the joke he was putting in Mad-Eye’s Christmas cracker. (Why wouldn’t Mad-Eye make a good teacher? Because he couldn’t keep his pupils in order.)
Of course, all this was before she’d had the pleasure of seeing this same Remus here in the kitchen, locked in a passionate embrace with yet another female under the-
“Merry Christmas, Tonks!” A wet kiss is planted unexpectedly on her cheek as she gazes up at the plant hanging from the beam.
A freckled face looks back at her with bright eyes. Fred’s. No, George’s. They’ve swapped their blue sweaters with the F and G on them round and are having fun causing endless, bleary-eyed confusion to Dung.
“Er, Tonks?” The bright eyes are looking at her with a rather touching flicker of uncertainty. “You were day-dreaming right under the mistletoe, you know.”
“So I was. That’ll teach me.” She grins at him and returns the kiss quickly on his flushed cheek. “Have a cool Yule yourself, George.”
Fred, sitting at the table, and watching his brother almost approvingly - she bets he dared him to do it - clears his throat.
“I’d say a Sickle for them,” he says, leaning over a pile of innocuous looking brown boxes, “but that tea’s been stewing for five minutes and you’ve hogged all the biscuits.”
“Oh, sorry.” She holds them out absent-mindedly, watching as the freckled hands eagerly swipe several each. “Hey!” She whisks the plate away. “These are for the workers upstairs, you know.”
“We’re working too, aren’t we, George?”
“We are indeed, Fred, and if Tonks wasn’t so distracted-“
“-must be something very important on her mind to be able to ignore us-“
“-and our best ever invention, which could well solve all her Christmas worries-“
“-especially if she wants a very special gift to show him how much she cares,” says Fred grinning slyly at her.
“What d'you mean?” Tonks bites the sharp words off. “I mean I am curious,” she says more carefully, “as to what is in those boxes you had hidden under the table earlier on. They look completely harmless so they’re obviously not.”
“Tonks, Tonks, Tonks.” George beams at her with approval. “As wise are you are witty. As sharp as you are sweet. As pink as you are-“
“Able to see through any amount of flannel, boys, so don’t waste your breath.” She adds indistinctly round a mouthful of biscuit, “As pink as I am perspicacious.”
“I’d have gone for pretty myself. Easier to spell too.” Remus’ head appears without warning round the door, an amused smile hovering round his lips. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, you just made me jump, that’s all.” Tonks swallows hastily. Pretty? She puts out a hand to casually lean against the sink in a relaxed pose, but as he walks towards her she misses the edge completely and puts it straight into the lunch leftovers.
“Sorry.” He delves into the cupboard to the side of her. “Dumbledore wants the dispatch box with the rosters in as he’s keen to wrap things up. He and Severus have got to get back to Hogwarts shortly. Everything ready to go?”
“Yes, it is.” Tonks resorts to the back of her jeans to surreptitiously wipe her hand. “Does everyone think I’ve absconded with the tea?”
Remus nods gravely. “I said we could probably find you by listening out for the guitar solos.” He lifts a hand and she thinks he’s going to touch her snowball earrings but he stops just short and smiles instead. She’s charmed them to play, very quietly, a medley of her favourite Christmas hits.
Of course, he had sat next to her during the meeting, like he usually does. But proximity, private jokes, and the tiny piece of parchment he’d found so they could play noughts and crosses under the table simply meant that he wanted to thrash her five times in a row (smug git), and was not some secret code for let’s get out of here and I’ll kiss you till neither of us can breathe.
“I was just,” she glances at the twins, who suddenly look a lot less certain. “About to find out what’s in those boxes Fred and George are trying to pretend don’t exist.”
“Really?” Remus looks intrigued. “I nearly picked one up earlier thinking it was the dispatch box and wondering why it was left lying around.”
“Cripes! Thank God you didn’t! We kept them ordinary-looking so mum wouldn’t spot them.” Fred looks at George who shrugs.
“Try me. My bark’s worse than my bite.” Remus suggests. “No, actually, that’s not true, is it?” He gives a soft chuckle and Tonks sees the watchfulness in his eyes, the momentary worry that one day people won’t join in and laugh with him.
“So,” Fred clears his throat, “it’s Christmas, and you know that can only mean one thing-“
“There’s never anything decent to listen to on the wireless?” puts in Tonks.
“-it’s panto time!”
“Pantomime time?” Remus puts his box down on the table. “Have you--?”
“Yes! We’ve been playing with the Daydream Charm and-“
“-created a seasonal one that lets you take part in your favourite fairy tale panto!” Fred pats the nearest box. “How much would Hagrid love being chased around by a lunatic, murderous giant in Jack and the Beanstalk? And can you imagine the look on, say, McGonagall’s face when she unwraps Puss ‘n’ Boots?”
“Yes, actually, I think I can.” Remus is very dry. “And how does this work then?”
George smiles proudly. “You simply open the lid and breathe in the smoke, and you’d swear you were Grumpy the dwarf without moving a muscle off your chair. It’ll cast you as the character you’re most suited to, it works for a number of people at once, and it lets you bring your own personality to the part. It’s wonderful family entertainment at a very realistic and reasonable price.”
“With notable reductions for friends,” Fred adds quickly.
“Any side-effects?” Tonks looks at them.
“We’ve had the odd, minor difficulty along with the drooling.” George pulls a face, looking slightly cagey.
Remus frowns. “Like what exactly?”
“Oh, it’s just a sad reflection of the times we live in, that’s all,” says Fred, quickly. “Wizards find it hard to announce that they’re looking for their one True Love and witches have trouble saying that some day their prince will come.” Fred purses his lips reflectively. “Perhaps not that surprisingly.”
Tonks can see Remus compress his lips out the corner of her eye. She’s fighting back a laugh herself when Fred goes on, “It’s all just tradition, anyway. Everyone manages to snog under the mistletoe without any fuss.”
Silence.
Tonks thinks dimly that it will be all right as long as one of them fills the gap right away. But right away has already passed. Fred and George are talking to each other - thank Merlin - but the seconds of silence are stretching on and on.
Remus will say something.
Or she will.
But Remus is gazing at her; eyes dark and unreadable and his face expressionless. It’s just like earlier on when Sirius had decided at the last minute to lick her wetly on the nose with his long tongue instead of giving her a cousinly Christmas kiss. She’d shoved him away, he’d chased her round and round the kitchen, and they’d eventually collapsed in an undignified heap on the sofa, pelting each other with the magical snow, while Remus looked over the top of his newspaper at them in apparent disbelief. But he was pleased to see Sirius in such a good mood, something more than pleased as he looked at her, and they were all laughing, right up until the moment when Sirius abruptly announced he was off, hauled himself to his feet, and pointed his wand at the mistletoe which shot across the room and fell neatly into Tonks’ lap.
“Make it count, Moony,” he’d said with an evil grin. “Seeing as you’ve been through every woman in the house and noticeably saved the best till last.”
Silence. Except for Sirius’ cackle as he went up the stairs.
What had Remus said? She couldn’t remember, only laughing to hide everything she really felt inside.
It’s odd to think that upstairs is a boy, scarcely more than a child, who carries the hopes of them all on his narrow shoulders. They all believe in Harry. (She thinks even Snape must, otherwise why would he take such risks?) And it seems even more appropriate to believe at this time of year in a child to save the world.
So why can’t she tell the man in front of her that she believes in him just as much as the still centre of her ever-spinning one? Somehow in the telling, the words will be twisted and misunderstood, or he’ll only hear those of his own that he’s told himself for so long.
She looks down, catching sight of her heavy boots. She’s jazzed them up with silver buckles (currently inscribed with ‘I’ve been naughty and nice, Santa’) but there’s no getting away from the fact that they reek of practicality and war. There’s an emergency potion kit hidden under a buckle, for a start.
She doesn’t do romance, does she? It certainly doesn’t do her.
“Let’s get cracking,” she says. “I don’t want to be hanging around here wasting my time.” She sends the tray on its hurried way with a brutal flick of her wand.
“Of course.” Remus holds out a hand, which for a second doesn’t seem quite steady. “Fred, the dispatch box please.”
“What? Oh right.” Fred, who’s been muttering low-voiced to his brother, takes his elbow off the box he’s leaning on and passes it across.
Tonks whips up the stairs with Remus some paces behind and George watches them go with a puzzled frown.
“Bit odd, don’t you think?” he says to Fred.
“Were they?” Fred isn’t interested. “Look,” he says, “they’re perfectly safe.”
George shrugs. “Maybe we should have tested them a bit more and- What’s up?”
Fred is moving the boxes from one side of the table to the other, and looking hurriedly underneath them with a frown, which has turned to amusement by the last one. “You might be about to get your wish,” he says.
“What? Bloody hell, Lupin’s never gone and got the wrong box? Which one-“
“-it’s quite funny really-“
“-we’ve got to stop them!”
“Yeah. I suppose, at first thought, we should.” Fred leans back and stretches his legs out, grinning at his brother who’s half risen out of his chair.
“We … can’t.” But George stays where he is, neither up nor down.
“We certainly can’t from here,” Fred nods after a long minute while the faintest trace of smoke makes its way down the stairs and into the kitchen. “But we can always get the Extendable Ears out.”
There’s a blue haze in front of her eyes, a knocking sound in the distance, and a heavy feeling in her head, as though she’s slept far too well and far too long.
The feeling is strangely familiar and she knows there’s something she must remember, something that she can’t quite put her finger on, but there’s no sense of worry or panic and as the haze clears in front of her she remembers the one thing she has to.
Once upon a time, there lived a pretty young girl called Cinderella...
What a bloody awful name, she thinks. Her mother must have been drunk or something.
Oh crap, it’s mine, isn’t it?
The knocking sound comes again, along with the realisation that there’ll be hell to pay if her stepsisters come down and she hasn’t dusted, swept, or scrubbed anything, simply because she’s been daydreaming again.
She knows she shouldn’t complain about her lot in life, but if she could just have some sort of fulfilling and independent career (law enforcement rather appeals), a sexy, sensitive boyfriend (an older man, perhaps?) and something decent to wear besides dull hair and the street urchin look…
“Cinderella! Gawd blimey, ‘ave you gone deaf or somethin’? Get the bleedin’ door!”
With a guilty start - her oldest stepsister hates to have to shout like that with her smoker’s voice - she runs to the door and opens it to reveal a pale, tired-looking man, wearing a rather faded brown uniform.
“Wotcher,” she says, wondering if he’s a salesman or something, though all he seems to have tucked under one arm is what looks like a slightly soggy and lumpy newspaper.
“Good morning!” He smiles brightly at her. “I’m looking for three ladies by the name of Stepsister One, Stepsister Two and-“ he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card, edged in purple, “-Cinderella Hardup?”
“Yeah, I’m…” She stops, frowning.
He raises an eyebrow. “You are?”
“Yeah, I’m … the last one you mentioned.”
“Excellent. Well, Cinderella, I’m here to-“
“Don’t call me Cinderella.”
He stops, the other eyebrow showing signs of joining the first, and she adds, hastily, “I’m not keen on my name, you see. Didn’t like it when I first heard it.”
“Oh, I see.” The smile suggests gentle amusement and she realises he’s not as old as she first thought he was. “What shall I call you then?”
“Who are you?” she asks, killing time.
“I’m The Royal Messenger.” He says it calmly but the smile’s gone.
“Oh, but I thought they wore-“ She stops, cursing her wayward tongue. She’s always being told to know her place and she never does.
“I’m not entitled to wear colours. I’m an outsider, am therefore considered ‘contaminated’ in many quarters, and only have the job through being an old school friend of the Prince’s. I have to identify myself as such by only wearing brown or grey so that people know they don’t have to afford me any particular courtesy or consideration.”
“But that’s not fair!”
He gives a soft chuckle at her indignation, making her feel rather naive. “Please,” he passes her the card. “This is for you.”
It takes her a moment to focus:
Prince Siriusly Charming, of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Charming, invites you to a ball tonight where he hopes to meet a lovely young lady for True Love, a prenuptial agreement and living Happily Ever After. Low-cut dress required and bring a bottle!
N.B Free motorcycle parking is available round the back.
“I still don’t know what to call you,” the Messenger says softly.
“How about … Tonks?” she asks, wondering where on earth that’s come from, but they’re interrupted by the clattering of some very big feet and the arrival of both her stepsisters at once.
“What have we here then, Cinderella? Attempting to keep secrets from us again, are we?” The tone is the usual sneering one and the invitation is snatched from her by a familiar hand, stained with potion ingredients.
“’Ere, let’s have a butchers at it.” A pointed elbow from the other side jabs Tonks in the ribs. “Bleedin’ ‘ell! Does this palace ‘ave lots of antiques, like, and a back entrance you can get out of quick?”
“The Charming Palace has everything a young lady could desire.” The Messenger looks at her with interest and Tonks thinks the pipe hanging out of the side of her eldest stepsister’s mouth probably isn’t helping her cause.
“I may have to-“ Her other stepsister is rubbing her hooked nose in thought. “Wash my hair.”
“It would certainly give you a head start,” says The Messenger politely.
Both sisters look at him with instant dislike.
“’Ere, you’re one of them …outsiders. Who decent folk won’t pick their noses with.”
“I’m very fortunate in a lot of ways.” The Messenger suddenly sniffs the air as the stepsisters take a menacing step towards him. “Is that the smell of a burning Face Pack Potion?”
Both sisters shriek and run upstairs in a flurry of skirts and green pipe smoke while he looks at Tonks. “Did I go too far? It is a useful little trick though.”
“Not far enough,” Tonks is still laughing. “Hey - you’re not going?”
“You were my last delivery.” He hesitates on the doorstep. “And by far the most pleasant.”
“Well, can’t you hang on a bit? I mean, I could fix you a sandwich or something,” she finishes lamely.
Silence.
It's much too long as well.
Then he holds the soggy bundle of newspaper out to her like a very tentative offering, which is being made against his better judgement. “I, er … don’t suppose you’d like to share my chips?”
“Why yes,” she says, and after a long moment where they both stare at each other as if not entirely sure what they’re doing, or why they're doing it, leads him out into the garden, to the creaky bench where they’ll be undisturbed as her stepsisters loathe fresh air and it’s certainly fresh enough now with the clouds heavy with the threat of snow.
“Where do you live?” she asks while he keeps offering her chips, and as they’re piling up in her hand she eats them and it turns out they both like them really salty.
“Prince Siriusly lets me rent a property in the palace grounds. It’s new as he doesn’t like ancient houses but it’s built round a tiny cottage so it’s got an old heart.”
She can see him so clearly in this little house on the edge of woodland, filled with uneven bookshelves and those dreams he never gets to say out loud.
“What’s it called then, your home?”
The faintest trace of a smile touches his mouth as he licks the salt off his thumb boyishly. “Lupin’s Place,” he says.
“Is that your name?” She’s already thinking that she likes it.
“Do you really want to marry a prince?” His eyes, which have never left hers, are suddenly asking quite another question altogether.
“Fred.” George pulls on the thread attached to his twin’s Extendable Ear to get his attention. “We’ve got to stop this.”
“Why? It’s getting interesting.”
“Interesting? I don’t remember the story of Cinderella that well, but I’m pretty sure The Messenger just delivers the invitation and clears off! This is never right!”
“Yeah, so it’s interesting.” Fred looks at his watch. “The Charm only lasts an hour so we’re certainly going to have to whiz through something or other.”
“Like the entire bloody ball?” George asks, sarcastically.
“Cripes, I hope not.” Fred looks aghast. “That’s my favourite bit.”
Tonks isn’t sure which is the most surprising; the fact that a Fairy Godmother has appeared in the fireplace, or just her appearance in general.
The very long beard is rather … unexpected. But then her stepsisters don’t seem to have much of a feminine side either.
“What a lovely dress,” says the Fairy Godmother appreciatively, looking down at all the lace. “I’ve always wanted to try something like this on but there’s never been quite the right occasion. I do wonder where I’m supposed to keep my spectacles though. And,” she adds, looking behind her, “no room for the Sherbet Lemons either, it seems.”
“Er,” Tonks starts, but the Fairy Godmother holds up a large hand.
“Yes, quite right, no time to waste. You did well making dresses out of the curtains for your stepsisters but I’ve something else in mind for you.”
“Blimey,” Tonks says, taking in first the mirror that appears in front of her, and then the pink satin dress.
“Yes, I’ve always had an eye for fashion, if I say so myself. Even nicer when you’ve found a little more True Love in the world and can make your hair match. These glass slippers are for you too.”
“I’ll just keep my boots on while I get the pumpkin-“
“No time.” The Fairy Godmother shakes her head and beard firmly. “Fortunately I’m very good at manipulating events and people for a higher purpose so when you next blink you’ll be at the ball.”
Apparently this was quite true. She was also face to face with a tall, dark and haggardly handsome man in a leather jacket.
“Thank God. A decent one at last.” He looks her up and down. “Fancy a waltz or do you tango on the first date?”
“You’re … Prince Siriusly Charming?”
“At your service.” He grimaces. “What a bloody awful night! I tell you, I had more exciting conversations in prison.”
“You’ve got a prison record?”
He grins endearingly at her. “Fancy a go at reforming me?”
“Only if I was interested.” Which should make it clear she’s not. “You don’t really want to get married, do you?”
“God, no. Only doing this to shut mum up.” He jerks his head in the direction of a plump, red-haired woman, who seems to be organizing the buffet queue. “She thinks everyone should have seven kids and a second mortgage by thirty.” He looks at her more closely. “Why are you here then, if not to get all my money?”
“I’ve come to see Lupin.”
“Have you now… Well - He’s behind you!” He propels her round to see Lupin standing quite alone and watching her.
Their eyes meet across the crowded room as a clock starts to chime.
Prince Siriusly claps Lupin on the shoulder. “Try not to dip your quill in the royal ink, mate. I think I might retire with Motorcycle Weekly to the loo for a bit. Some of these women are downright scary.”
Tonks stares at Lupin, not even noticing the prince leave.
“Your hair… It’s pink.” He reaches out a hand towards her face.
“Yes,” she says. “I need to tell you-“ She stops, aware that the air is that much colder and the room is growing hazy.
There’s a clock chiming somewhere…
“No.” He’s fading away as well but she knows how this works, how to fix things.
Her hand touches not the elegant glass slipper but a thickly laced boot.
Impossible to get it off in time.
“You should marry a prince,” he says softly, his hand dropping back to his side. “Live Happily Ever After.”
He’s letting her go. She’s got to make him see-
“Remus!”
The last feeling is the gentle kiss of a snowflake - but not of her prince - upon her lips as the blue smoke engulfs her.
“I’m really sorry, Tonks,” George says for the third time, and she tells him not to worry and that she’s got to dash. Fred’s apologised as well, but Sirius is still laughing so much he can hardly speak and wants to place an order at once. Snape has stormed off and Dung is swearing never to drink again while knocking back a large brandy to help get over the shock.
Dumbledore seems to have taken it all remarkably well too; his only apparent regret is that he didn’t get to sing Bibbity Bobbity Boo.
Which just leaves her then.
And Remus.
She’s too busy leaving to look at him because what she can’t get over is that he just let her go. All right, it was a charm, it was a fairy tale, and a completely ridiculous one at that, but it seems to her to have summed up everything she’s felt ever since she realised he was avoiding kissing her under the mistletoe.
Of course, she doesn’t do romance, or it doesn’t do her. Romance is for schoolgirls who dream and she’s packing all that in right now.
“Tonks!”
What she does do is slog through the thickening snow, making her way grimly towards the Apparation point, in those excellent, practical boots of hers, vowing silently to spend the entire day tomorrow with her parents, eating all the damn sprouts, listening to their favourite violin concerto on the wireless and not even once thinking about-
A pale, long-fingered hand catches her arm and spins her around without warning.
“Are you deaf?” he demands as she opens her mouth to ask him just what he thinks he’s doing.
“Can’t hear anything in my horse and carriage,” she says sarcastically. “Just out for an evening stroll, are you?”
“Why didn’t you wait?” He ignores the question as the snowflakes gather in his hair. “You must have known that I wanted to talk to you.”
She all but gapes at him. “No,” she finally manages, “no, now you mention it - I didn’t. I thought you’d be off to snog someone else under the mistletoe.”
She didn’t just say that.
Did she?
Why is it so bloody humiliating when the girl chases the man and the man really doesn’t want to know?
“I didn’t kiss anyone,” he says finally, very quietly.
“Why you-“
“They kissed me. There’s a difference.”
She starts to argue and then has a sudden vision of Emmeline offering him a smooth white cheek, Hestia (the tart) all but grabbing him, amid giggles, in front of everyone else, and Molly hugging him fiercely and affectionately as she walks in on them both.
Remus’ face showing relief and gratitude.
Relief that they want to be that close. Gratitude that they like him.
Silence.
“You plonker,” she says at last, and grins.
“Bit pathetic.” But he smiles slowly too.
“So,” she swallows, wondering if she can actually say this. But then she never did know her place. “Was there anyone you were thinking you might actually like to, er, kiss yourself, at any particular time?”
“Well I wasn’t entirely sure I was being fair to her, but seeing as I’ve run through the snow in search of my one True Love, who unfortunately has turned out to be as deaf as a post-“
“I am not-“
Did he just say-?
Soft, warm lips meet hers, and suddenly she’s in his arms, while he’s kissing her with a tenderness and passion that is everything she’s dreamt of through all those sleepless nights.
And more.
“I’m no good at all this,” he says when at last he lets her go, but there’s wonder in his voice as he adds, “You know you just rewrote an entire fairy tale for us both when you invited me in, don’t you?”
“There’s always room for you at my inn.” She grins again.
But he was the one who made it happen when he said yes. She reaches up to pull his face down to hers again, being very careful not to show she’s as joyfully demented as she feels right now, but he steps gently back, raising her hand to his lips and kissing the palm, folding her fingers upon the kiss, and bending down to her feet in the snow.
She stares at him. What on earth-?
“Get your boot off then, Cinderella Tonks.” He smiles mischievously up at her, his long fingers on the laces. “Let’s see if it fits perfectly and then we can make a start on the Happily Ever After.”