Fic: No Absence of Pink
The fireplace grows, its stained cinderblock mouth enlarging to admit a man, licked at by an emerald inferno tongue. His hair, caramel blond and gray (the ashes making it hard to distinguish exactly where the grey stops and the caramel color starts), is tousled haphazardly and dust billows around him as he pats ashes from his heavy tweed robes. The flames dissipate until they are nothing but jade embers and he steps past the threshold of grey brick. He removes his sooty robes, revealing a duo of a white shirt and khaki trousers.
It’s rather peculiar, really, because his white shirt, perfectly kept as it may be, is noticeably sewn-up near the cuffs and threadbare at the elbows. The khakis, starched and unwrinkled, are clearly worn in the knees and slightly too short.
He is thankful that he was able to stop at the Burrow to wash and shower before making his commute to the Black house.
The man hangs his robes on the last open hook near the fireplace, silver metal showing where the black paint has chipped away. It is easy to tell who else is accompanying him tonight at Grimmauld Place. He walks down the line of robes, jackets, and bags, deciphering who is there for the meeting based on their belongings.
Crimson Auror robes so long that they pool like blood on the floor, aside which is a leather briefcase: Kingsley. Tatty moss-green robes and a pair of fluffy, knitted, ivory mittens: Arthur and Molly, but he knew they had left their house before him. Red tartan robes and matching earmuffs: Minerva. And at last he spies the bright hues he has been anticipating. Bright yellow robes with navy stars embellished along all the hems, a dragon-hide satchel, and a pair of rainbow-striped Wellies. Although he would normally be slightly repelled by the clashing of such vibrant hues, he is drawn to them, and he knows very well why.
The silk top coat of her robes slips through his feel swiftly and delicately, he fingers one of the small blue stars on the cuff of one trumpet-like sleeve and realizes how very long it has been since he has seen her last.
He remembers the fall, the leaves had begun to turn burgundies and oranges and many other incomprehensible warm shades. When he had left, when he had broken his heart and somehow broken hers in the process.
He cringes because the understatement is blaring at him. He didn’t just break his heart, he shattered hers with his own frigid, brittle one. And damage to hers is as well as damage to his, if not tenfold. But, it is a war, damage is inevitable.
He wants to forget the last few weeks, but he is cursed with a more than sufficient memory He swears it was an asset at one point in his life. He wants to forget last season because those warm burgundies and oranges where the only thing he had found comfort in out there. Every night after he had eaten whatever meager meal he could scavenge he would sit under the same vast willow. He would look up at the familiar ceiling of leaves and the light would be tainted by the leaves and would filter through them with each shiver of the tree’s limbs.
The leaves had all fallen and been swept away with the wind because it is winter now. The burgundies and oranges are replaced with white crystalline sheets and nothing can filter through them but cold and the occasional downy flake. There is nothing more for him to do out there, Dumbledore said to come back before the winter.
He closes his eyes and takes a breath, and accidentally inhales her aroma; it’s virtually rolling off her robes. He doesn’t know if it has anything to do with the lunar cycle, but his sense of smell is somehow heightened, because he can almost taste the raspberry lotion he knows she puts on every night before bed.
He is hoping so desperately that she has forgiven him in his absence.
He opens his blue eyes and decides that he should probably attend to the Order meeting taking place in the kitchen. So he walks across the decrepit Black living room and strides down a narrow hallway that leads to the kitchen. He pushes open the swinging door and the hinges creak and everyone’s attention snaps to the doorway.
The people gathered around the rectangular dinner table smile genuinely, their eyes kind and affectionate. Then their smiles turn down at one side and their eyes turn concerned because hie is slight and sallow. He is glad to be back, but hopes the sympathy will evaporate, like it normally does after awhile.
He is surprised because he doesn’t see any pink tufts, no outlandish use of eye make-up (because he knows she secretly likes to wear make-up instead of morphing). She is not here, but she must be somewhere within this Ancient and Most Noble house. He sits next to Molly, who is gesticulating for him to take a seat between her and Emmeline. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek while Emmeline gives him a cordial glance through her thick eyelashes.
He sees that Mad-Eye is sitting diagonal him and is not surprised that he did not see Moody’s things on the hooks next to the fireplace. Someone would probably put a curse on his robes just to spite him and his quest for constant vigilance.
The seat in front of him is empty and he stares ahead at the dusty blue walls of the kitchen. He pours all of his attention into blocking everything else out, except that one spot of wan color.
The hinges on the door creak again and he is annoyed because he was doing so well. He feels all the eyes in the room shift to the doorway and doesn’t feel like fighting the mob mentality.
He shifts his eyes to the doorway and is too late, because he sees pink sit in the seat in front of him. But, the pink he’d intended to see is not in the hair, it’s smeared on the cheeks of Nymphadora Tonks. Above her colored cheeks, an unrelenting glare of concern, shock, horror, and something he suspects is trying to mask affection, is meeting him unabashedly. He supposes that the glare she is casting him is suppose to be vindictive, but it isn’t coming off as strong as he thinks she has planned; extremely belied by the pink and the hidden affection.
He knows he can’t match her glare with the shadowing under his tired eyes, so he lifts his gaze from hers and resettles it upon her shoulder-length brown locks. They aren’t completely atrocious but they aren’t flattering, either, with the heavy eye make-up and bright pink lipstick she wears. His heart urges, nearly unbearably, to know why she is wearing it like that, because he is almost certain she wouldn’t by choice.
He hopes that the straining in his chest isn’t visible and lift his gave to stare intently at Moody.
Alastor can feel someone looking at him so he peers around the room and stops dead when he realizes who it is. The glare is oddly soft and the face emanating it is resting dreamily in a calloused hand. Moody flicks his glare back to Minerva, who is at the head of the table, talking. Remus continues to stare and tries not to let the corners of his mouth rise when Moody’s magical eye slips a quick glance at him, then snaps back to Minerva’s presentation. The humorous side of himself won’t let him ignore the hilariously disturbed look that Moody’s swiveling eye casts him every few minutes.
The meeting passes generally the same: He feels her gaze rested on him so he cowardly settles his on Alastor. Minerva talks and he should probably be listening but the temptation to block it all out is far too great.
Soon everyone stands and pushes their chair in. They all begin to shake hands and Molly and Arthur try to exit, stopping frequently to chat up one Order member after another. Alastor gets up and exits hastily, without even saying goodbye. He can feel the majority of the Order filing through the door and he feels the absence of a peripheral spotlight, she must have left.
Molly’s soft hands clutch lightly at his shoulders and her mouth is lowered to give him a swift kiss on the cheek.
“Dear, are you going to stay at the Burrow tonight?” She asks happily, probably organizing in her mind the diet it would be best for him to adopt; He’s so skinny.
“No, actually, Molly. I was planning to stay the night here, if you don’t mind.” He says.
“No, I don’t mind if that is what you were planning,” She says, more icily than she probably means to. “But, dear, you know we’re always glad to have you.” She squeezes her hands over his shoulders supportively before lifting them and exiting the kitchen, the hinges squealing.
He stands and Arthur pats his shoulder and shakes his hand.
“Great to have you back, Remus. Don’t be afraid to come over for breakfast in the morning. But try to make it quite early; we have to go pick-up the kids from the Platform tomorrow. Molly is very excited about having Hermione and Harry over for the Christmas holiday. Well,” Arthur says, smiling kindly and clasping Remus’ hand within his one more time. “Have a good night.”
“Thank you.” Remus says appreciatively as he exits behind Arthur.
Remus follows Arthur down the narrow hallway and treks up the stairs, watching Molly and Arthur being admitted into the old fireplace.
All the belongings that were on the hooks are gone, except for bright yellow robes with navy stars embellished along all the hems, a dragon-hide satchel, and a pair of rainbow-striped Wellies.
He reaches the top of the stairs and spots a vacant, suitable, room. He turns to open the door but instead he hears a door creak open behind him. He turns around quickly to see pink. Pink on the tank top and plaid flannel pants she must have changed into before he had come up. All the make-up has been wiped from her face and it looks much more flattering with her brunette locks.
He sees her eyes are black; Black black. He remembers them from Sirius. There is desire, affection, worry buried in the depths of them.
“I’ve missed you,” She says, and before he can make coherent words, her lips meet his with undeniable urgency. His back is pushed against the wall and a deep-rooted happiness is released inside him. Her hand finds the nape of his neck and she holds his lips to hers.
He kisses her back and after weeks and weeks of dreaming about this, it feels so very good. Her hand leaves his neck and fumbles with the cold silver doorknob. She opens it and she guides them through, never losing contact. She kicks the ajar door closed with a slipper-clad foot.
He knows he isn’t going to make it to breakfast at the Weasleys'.