The Persistence of Memory, PG-13
Title: The Persistence of Memory
Author: scullyseviltwin
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Prompt(s): pinecone,
“Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night.”
-”All Through The Night” Jane Siberry
Word Count: 3,050
Summary: "She feels him before she sees him; this still startles her, how intrinsically woven he’s become with her."
Author’s Notes: I know, I tend to muggle-ize them more than most, but hey, that's just the way I roll. My thanks to Dennis, because he keeps reading this nonsense for me.
...aw, can't tag by my user name. Oh well. Enjoy!
Prompt(s): pinecone,
“Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night.”
-”All Through The Night” Jane Siberry
Also, my thanks forever go to Dennis, who reads this muck that I come up with and just... he makes me laugh, you know?
---
She wakes from the world’s shortest sleep, a brief three hours filled with bursts of nightmare. In the world in which she lives, there is no time for sleep. Vigilance, constant and sure is all she knows and it fuels her waking hours, fringes her rest.
Tonks pulls herself from the mess of blankets she calls her bed; the linens haven’t been laundered in weeks but it’s no matter. She’s never in them long enough for that to bother her. Her routine takes her, muscle memory ushering Tonks into the tiny vestibule of a bathroom for a shower, to the closet where she pulls on the first clothing hands fall upon.
A brush passes through rapidly drying hair and she managed to remember to swipe on deodorant and a tab of the vanilla essence that her mother had given her last holiday. Weary, thoroughly exhausted, she takes a quick glance at herself in the mirror and notes-as she does every morning, routine and all-how much of herself she’s lost. How much she’s let get lost.
And with a sigh she shuffles into the hallway and plucks her heaviest winter cloak from a hook by the door. The wool feels too heavy on her shoulders.
With the dogged determination that she’s come to call her constant companion, she pulls on the sloppy hat, managing to fit the ear flaps properly before she bops the lopsided pompom that is sewn on top.
He’d knitted it for her during his months spent in captivity with Sirius, had presented it unceremoniously. Remus had simply plopped it on her head with an, “Oh good! It fits,” and left her standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place flummoxed by his odd sense of generosity.
It’s the only tangible thing she has of him; she doesn’t count the brilliant aching in her heart.
---
She’s a sucker, tried and true. This is a fact that she keeps tightly coiled within her, a slightly shadowed secret that-if discovered-she wouldn’t know how to explain.
Muggle films; she loves them.
It’s a frivolous interest, she’s well aware, but it doesn’t stop her from seeking out shiny, new, DVDs when they come on the market. Or, if she just happens to be on the dodgey end of the Kings Road, Tonks has been known to slip a fiver at a man who retreats into a back alley and produces a simple, stark disc.
Pirated.
She feels twice the adventurer, twice the urge to be of the utmost discreet on these particular occasions.
And there are crisps and a cheap bottle of wine-or tea, either will do-and she sits, eyes wide in front of the telly, soaking up all of the fiction that these nameless (some, well, she can name some) actors portray on her screen. She is rapt and wrapped up in the story, so much so that every time the screen goes black and the credits begin to roll she’s startled, looks around as though, “Have I missed something?”
In these moments, she laughs at herself, loads another disc, leans back on her elbows and just takes it all in.
Tonks is deeply invested in a romantic comedy when she hears the knock at the door. Suspecting a parcel, she stands and skips off, the dewy romance still shy and unfolding.
Unpaused.
Her eye meets the peephole, too relaxed to bother with a simple charm to detect the visitor and her heart is in her throat.
“I hear you there, Nymphadora,” he says slyly and the smile in his voice is entirely too much. She has no choice but to open the door to him, even as she feels for her wand in her pocket that is not there and thus is unable to do the first thing that comes to mind.
Shut off the Muggle idiot box.
Remus Lupin is smiling before her, windblown, a few rogue snowflakes melting on his shoulders and in the center of his part. Chances are she would think it quite gorgeous if her mind hadn’t been so thoroughly in the other room.
In his hand is a thick book and he holds it out to her-yes, she’d ask to borrow it in hopes that a meeting like this should take place-but he stops, mid-pass and asks, “What’s that I hear?”
He is faster than her and his sidestep leaves her playing catch up, tossing the door shut, moving her feet to stay upright as she chases him into the sitting room where she-
“Dear, dear, dear,” he tsk-tsks, grinning away, and she’s so caught up in the moment, she forgets to hope that she is the object of the ‘dear’ he speaks. But it’s simply a turn of phrase.
He is delighted with his discovery.
She is horrified.
Remus bends and snags the midline bottle of chianti, tips it towards her and asks, “Have you another glass?”
He knows her secret.
He keeps it.
Thus, is becomes their secret.
Tonks can’t help but believe that it’s better this way, especially when he appears on her doorstep not a fortnight later with an awful bottle of merlot and a copy of Casablanca.
---
She’s developing a furrow in her brow, a deep one. As a metamorphagus she surely could simply erase it from her visage daily, but that’s cheating. And besides, it’s a mark that she’s been working and worrying and eventually all of this is going to pay off.
In essence, she and the Order are going to save the world.
Heady thing, that, saving the world.
When she scrunches up her brow as new details of a gruesome nature are introduced-should be old hat by now-she catches Remus watching her. He raises a brow, questions silently about her well-being; they’re fluid in that moment and for the briefest of seconds, her world stills completely. She reassures him with a dim smile, a nod, a dip of her gaze.
This feels intimate.
She feels bare, even as Sirius details the torture and murder of a junior minister in the Improper Use of Magic Office. The chill that runs through her is entirely too palpable, as though her skin is crawling and Tonks spreads her palms out on the splintered table in an attempt to transfer the movement out of her body.
As the information began to sink into her mind, marinates, Tonks presses her lips together and sucks in a deep breath. This is entirely horrid, and a very real and present part of her still can’t fathom how wizards can do this to one another. A witness to the Cruciatus Cruse, one of the aurors summoned after the death of Cedric Diggory, she’s no stranger to the Dark Arts, of the cruelty and hate of the world.
She just can’t understand it.
“Perhaps we should take a short break,” Remus’s low voice intones and is met with hushed hums of assent. Molly, ever the busy body, finds herself bounding from her chair, puttering about preparing a fresh pot of tea for the unusually dismal group.
Tonks finds her feet, unsteady, but manages to avoid eye contact with Remus as she stands, declines Molly’s offer of a fresh cup and steps out the back door of Grimmauld Place.
The alleyway is nothing more than a few square feet, but it allows her enough fresh air to gather up her thoughts and attempt to organize and settle them. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she finds herself aimlessly questioning once again just why, and what, and how she fits into all of this.
Night air that is cool and crisp whips down into the tiny space and finds the slits in her cloak, chills her to the core. Apropos for the gravity of the moment, Tonks curls her fingers into the air, grasping at nothing.
She feels him before she sees him; this still startles her, how intrinsically woven he’s become with her.
“Brisk,” he says when he reaches her, stands just far enough away so that she doesn’t get ideas. Remus is wonderful like that, knows just what the situation calls for, and a distant sort of closeness is all she can handle at the moment.
Any closer, and she might break. Finally give in and just fracture.
All she can do is hum in agreement, and take a breath, withhold just how frightened she is and how very unsure she is that she has the stamina for this.
And though he is beside her, just far enough away, he breaks his own unspoken rule, reaches out and hooks a pinky with hers. There’s a levity then, in his touch, in the tiny alley, as they both stand in the knowledge that this is all so much bigger than them.
“You’re a brilliant witch,” he says with quiet conviction and releases her finger. Remus gazes at her from under his messy fringe, as though to make certain she understands this to be of the utmost truth.
Glancing up at the sky, she wants to saying nothing but how forever the galaxy is, and how did it happen that they’ve all ended up here, now, with the fate of everything resting in their hands. Instead, she whispers, “Funny thing, none of this magic business can fix anything.”
---
It was before some things and after some things, but what they both remember is that he’d worked up the nerve to kiss her. Eventually.
It had been sweet, chaste, and such a pleasant experience that Tonks had only given him a brief moment to catch his breath before she returned the favor.
With vigor.
---
“My intrepid and illustrious cousin, the firecracker, the shapeshifter, Nymphadora Tonks!” Sirius’s voice is warm with humor, though perhaps this wasn’t the most appropriate way to introduce her to the Order.
She bows her head, half in embarrassment, half to hide her amused grin. Before her is a table filled with witches and wizards whose abilities and reputation precede them. She is at once humbled and filled with pride; to join their ranks, what an honor and a thrill.
“Wotcher,” she greets the crowd and is met with various forms of welcome. Dumbledore takes it upon himself to summon a chair for her and as soon as she sits, they’re off to the races.
Tonks is flippant, she plays it cool, lingers long after the meeting and gets to know her new coworkers. She chats amiably, relying on her inherent talent to make meaningless conversation with whomever she meets. Could talk for hours, she could, even to Severus Snape, though he’s preoccupied speaking with the ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor in the corner.
When they bid goodnight, she is making her way to the sitting room, hoping to catch Sirius’s ear and perhaps a few fingers of Firewhiskey. Fingers on the jamb of the door, just about to swing into the room, she instead tumbles rather ungracefully into the prior object of Snape’s attention.
“Oy, of course!” Tonks says, with a laugh. “I’d made it this far this evening without tripping, knew it was too good to be true.” She balances back on her combat boots and meets the man’s eyes. Tumbling into someone sideways isn’t the best means of introducing one’s self.
“Pretty sure Sirius did me justice introducing me,” she says loud enough for her cousin to hear in the den and he returns a snort. “But if you please, I go by Tonks.” Thrusting her hand out, there’s nothing for the man to do but take it and shake.
Their grips match, solid; she appreciates this.
“Remus Lupin,” and he initiates a quick shake.
“So you’re the dark creature, eh?”
Something flashes in his eyes and the moment hangs, pregnant between them.
“One and the same,” Remus replies, his voice low, as though giving her the option, kindly, to be horrified or frightened. She is neither, simply nods, looks him up and down as though assessing him, his character.
“The dark creature,” she whispers under her breath and looks him over once more. Then she grins, leans a light hand on his shoulder and says jokingly, “I always had a thing for the bad boys.”
She saunters into the sitting room and he can’t help but follow, and the three members of the Order share Firewhiskey and anecdotes and somewhere between sober and intoxicated, she realizes that perhaps she’s falling for a man she just met.
But only a little.
---
Cards in the kitchen, because she feels a sense of camaraderie amongst this group of raucous and rowdy men. Charlie has a positively filthy mouth, she comes to discover. It rivals Sirius’s and when he catches onto this, they have a battle of the idiots. Kingsley, surprisingly, often lingers as well and indulges in a very quick hands.
Poker, Gin, Rummy, he bests them all.
Aside from that, the group is rounded out by her and Remus and they’re both positively shit at cards. See, he knows her tells, every damn time, and folds on the flop before she even has a chance to raise. There’s no point in playing when someone can see right through you.
And Remus, well, he’s not a gambling man, never has been and when you’re heart isn’t in the betting, there’s really no point.
Yes, they’re both shit at cards, so instead of paying attention to hands dealt, they pay attention to one another, catch each other’s gazes as they attempt to clandestinely decipher the other’s body language.
This, instead, is the game they play. Picking each other apart across the table, with soft eyes and hearts that are more open than either one intended.
---
“I do love chocolate,” he says wistfully as he holds up a particularly fidgety chocolate frog between his thumb and forefinger. The moonlight barely catches it through the thick of the trees of the Forbidden Forest.
He always seems to have chocolate on him-an unfortunate habit that he can’t shake from days when dementors were an imminent threat to students at Hogwarts-and she appreciates this. Their constant patrolling is made much easier by the fact that he always has a sweet treat on hand when she needs a pick-me-up.
Tonks looks up at the amphibious confection and throws caution to the wind, leans forward and sinks a deft hand into the folds of his cloak and roots around until she produces her own morsel of milk chocolate. There’s the heat from his body and the scent of his skin and the utter delicious sensation from being this close to him and it all runs through her in a rushed thrill.
There are no words as their eyes meet, hers devious, his shocked, unsteady. There are no sounds save from the swap of twigs and pinecones beneath the feet of distant forest creatures prowling.
“What?” she asks innocently as she slides the candy onto her tongue, so slowly, slower than necessary, really. “Can’t keep all of that for yourself, and I was done waiting for you to... give it to me.”
And her innocent visage is betrayed only by her saucy words. Remus has no idea how to respond, but takes a step closer to her. Their body heat mingles as she chews on the treat, her eyes never leaving his.
“Patience,” comes his reply, eventually, after he’s had his fill of glancing at her lips and listening to the increased pace of her breath.
Tonks finished chewing and takes a step back, focusing her gaze on the thick, endless darkness of the forest. “You say that now,” she says, her voice still holding a hint of devilishness though she is entirely serious.
“But there’s going to come a time when patience is no longer a virtue Remus, but a hindrance.”
His chuckle is warm and welcome.
She adds, as she begins walking her portion of the perimeter, “And for the record, I’m never very good at waiting.”
---
It’s the first time she’s seen him like this, dirty, broken, bloody and scarred and it terrifies her. Tonks is shaken to the core of her being when she discovers him on the dirty basement floor of Grimmauld Place.
There’s nothing to do but watch as he unfolds himself, moaning as his joints pop, as his skin pulls at wounds that are fresh. Too horrified to cry, to do much of anything, Tonks simply watches on as he wraps himself in a thick, wool blanket and prepares to stand.
But then he falls.
Not even an instant, faster than that and she is beside him, pulling him into her arms carefully.
Remus glances up at her, an eye partially bruises over.
He frowns.
He winces.
“Nympha-”
“Not a word,” she says angrily, though she’s not sure whom she’s upset with. The gods, she supposes, for bestowing upon this man, her man, damn it!, such utter horror. “Please, don’t speak.” And her voice breaks.
She breaks.
The next evening, when she makes love to him for the first time, it is with gentle aggression and silent pleas that he understand, please, what he means to her.
---
It is brisk, and she wears the hat pulled tightly over lavender hair.
“I remember what a chore it was to knit that,” Remus says, his mittened hand squeezing hers thoughtfully.
Tonks scrunches up her nose and with her free hand-also mittened-she rubs vigorously against the side of her head. “It’s itchy.”
“Well...” he replies and then... nothing.
She remembers, too, his giving it to her. She remembers everything about it, all out of order and all over the place, but what’s important is that she remembers, and she will never, never forget.
Tonks smiles over, up at him, “Well...”
Author: scullyseviltwin
Rating & Warnings: PG-13
Prompt(s): pinecone,
“Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night.”
-”All Through The Night” Jane Siberry
Word Count: 3,050
Summary: "She feels him before she sees him; this still startles her, how intrinsically woven he’s become with her."
Author’s Notes: I know, I tend to muggle-ize them more than most, but hey, that's just the way I roll. My thanks to Dennis, because he keeps reading this nonsense for me.
...aw, can't tag by my user name. Oh well. Enjoy!
Prompt(s): pinecone,
“Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night.”
-”All Through The Night” Jane Siberry
Also, my thanks forever go to Dennis, who reads this muck that I come up with and just... he makes me laugh, you know?
---
She wakes from the world’s shortest sleep, a brief three hours filled with bursts of nightmare. In the world in which she lives, there is no time for sleep. Vigilance, constant and sure is all she knows and it fuels her waking hours, fringes her rest.
Tonks pulls herself from the mess of blankets she calls her bed; the linens haven’t been laundered in weeks but it’s no matter. She’s never in them long enough for that to bother her. Her routine takes her, muscle memory ushering Tonks into the tiny vestibule of a bathroom for a shower, to the closet where she pulls on the first clothing hands fall upon.
A brush passes through rapidly drying hair and she managed to remember to swipe on deodorant and a tab of the vanilla essence that her mother had given her last holiday. Weary, thoroughly exhausted, she takes a quick glance at herself in the mirror and notes-as she does every morning, routine and all-how much of herself she’s lost. How much she’s let get lost.
And with a sigh she shuffles into the hallway and plucks her heaviest winter cloak from a hook by the door. The wool feels too heavy on her shoulders.
With the dogged determination that she’s come to call her constant companion, she pulls on the sloppy hat, managing to fit the ear flaps properly before she bops the lopsided pompom that is sewn on top.
He’d knitted it for her during his months spent in captivity with Sirius, had presented it unceremoniously. Remus had simply plopped it on her head with an, “Oh good! It fits,” and left her standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place flummoxed by his odd sense of generosity.
It’s the only tangible thing she has of him; she doesn’t count the brilliant aching in her heart.
---
She’s a sucker, tried and true. This is a fact that she keeps tightly coiled within her, a slightly shadowed secret that-if discovered-she wouldn’t know how to explain.
Muggle films; she loves them.
It’s a frivolous interest, she’s well aware, but it doesn’t stop her from seeking out shiny, new, DVDs when they come on the market. Or, if she just happens to be on the dodgey end of the Kings Road, Tonks has been known to slip a fiver at a man who retreats into a back alley and produces a simple, stark disc.
Pirated.
She feels twice the adventurer, twice the urge to be of the utmost discreet on these particular occasions.
And there are crisps and a cheap bottle of wine-or tea, either will do-and she sits, eyes wide in front of the telly, soaking up all of the fiction that these nameless (some, well, she can name some) actors portray on her screen. She is rapt and wrapped up in the story, so much so that every time the screen goes black and the credits begin to roll she’s startled, looks around as though, “Have I missed something?”
In these moments, she laughs at herself, loads another disc, leans back on her elbows and just takes it all in.
Tonks is deeply invested in a romantic comedy when she hears the knock at the door. Suspecting a parcel, she stands and skips off, the dewy romance still shy and unfolding.
Unpaused.
Her eye meets the peephole, too relaxed to bother with a simple charm to detect the visitor and her heart is in her throat.
“I hear you there, Nymphadora,” he says slyly and the smile in his voice is entirely too much. She has no choice but to open the door to him, even as she feels for her wand in her pocket that is not there and thus is unable to do the first thing that comes to mind.
Shut off the Muggle idiot box.
Remus Lupin is smiling before her, windblown, a few rogue snowflakes melting on his shoulders and in the center of his part. Chances are she would think it quite gorgeous if her mind hadn’t been so thoroughly in the other room.
In his hand is a thick book and he holds it out to her-yes, she’d ask to borrow it in hopes that a meeting like this should take place-but he stops, mid-pass and asks, “What’s that I hear?”
He is faster than her and his sidestep leaves her playing catch up, tossing the door shut, moving her feet to stay upright as she chases him into the sitting room where she-
“Dear, dear, dear,” he tsk-tsks, grinning away, and she’s so caught up in the moment, she forgets to hope that she is the object of the ‘dear’ he speaks. But it’s simply a turn of phrase.
He is delighted with his discovery.
She is horrified.
Remus bends and snags the midline bottle of chianti, tips it towards her and asks, “Have you another glass?”
He knows her secret.
He keeps it.
Thus, is becomes their secret.
Tonks can’t help but believe that it’s better this way, especially when he appears on her doorstep not a fortnight later with an awful bottle of merlot and a copy of Casablanca.
---
She’s developing a furrow in her brow, a deep one. As a metamorphagus she surely could simply erase it from her visage daily, but that’s cheating. And besides, it’s a mark that she’s been working and worrying and eventually all of this is going to pay off.
In essence, she and the Order are going to save the world.
Heady thing, that, saving the world.
When she scrunches up her brow as new details of a gruesome nature are introduced-should be old hat by now-she catches Remus watching her. He raises a brow, questions silently about her well-being; they’re fluid in that moment and for the briefest of seconds, her world stills completely. She reassures him with a dim smile, a nod, a dip of her gaze.
This feels intimate.
She feels bare, even as Sirius details the torture and murder of a junior minister in the Improper Use of Magic Office. The chill that runs through her is entirely too palpable, as though her skin is crawling and Tonks spreads her palms out on the splintered table in an attempt to transfer the movement out of her body.
As the information began to sink into her mind, marinates, Tonks presses her lips together and sucks in a deep breath. This is entirely horrid, and a very real and present part of her still can’t fathom how wizards can do this to one another. A witness to the Cruciatus Cruse, one of the aurors summoned after the death of Cedric Diggory, she’s no stranger to the Dark Arts, of the cruelty and hate of the world.
She just can’t understand it.
“Perhaps we should take a short break,” Remus’s low voice intones and is met with hushed hums of assent. Molly, ever the busy body, finds herself bounding from her chair, puttering about preparing a fresh pot of tea for the unusually dismal group.
Tonks finds her feet, unsteady, but manages to avoid eye contact with Remus as she stands, declines Molly’s offer of a fresh cup and steps out the back door of Grimmauld Place.
The alleyway is nothing more than a few square feet, but it allows her enough fresh air to gather up her thoughts and attempt to organize and settle them. Arms crossed tightly over her chest, she finds herself aimlessly questioning once again just why, and what, and how she fits into all of this.
Night air that is cool and crisp whips down into the tiny space and finds the slits in her cloak, chills her to the core. Apropos for the gravity of the moment, Tonks curls her fingers into the air, grasping at nothing.
She feels him before she sees him; this still startles her, how intrinsically woven he’s become with her.
“Brisk,” he says when he reaches her, stands just far enough away so that she doesn’t get ideas. Remus is wonderful like that, knows just what the situation calls for, and a distant sort of closeness is all she can handle at the moment.
Any closer, and she might break. Finally give in and just fracture.
All she can do is hum in agreement, and take a breath, withhold just how frightened she is and how very unsure she is that she has the stamina for this.
And though he is beside her, just far enough away, he breaks his own unspoken rule, reaches out and hooks a pinky with hers. There’s a levity then, in his touch, in the tiny alley, as they both stand in the knowledge that this is all so much bigger than them.
“You’re a brilliant witch,” he says with quiet conviction and releases her finger. Remus gazes at her from under his messy fringe, as though to make certain she understands this to be of the utmost truth.
Glancing up at the sky, she wants to saying nothing but how forever the galaxy is, and how did it happen that they’ve all ended up here, now, with the fate of everything resting in their hands. Instead, she whispers, “Funny thing, none of this magic business can fix anything.”
---
It was before some things and after some things, but what they both remember is that he’d worked up the nerve to kiss her. Eventually.
It had been sweet, chaste, and such a pleasant experience that Tonks had only given him a brief moment to catch his breath before she returned the favor.
With vigor.
---
“My intrepid and illustrious cousin, the firecracker, the shapeshifter, Nymphadora Tonks!” Sirius’s voice is warm with humor, though perhaps this wasn’t the most appropriate way to introduce her to the Order.
She bows her head, half in embarrassment, half to hide her amused grin. Before her is a table filled with witches and wizards whose abilities and reputation precede them. She is at once humbled and filled with pride; to join their ranks, what an honor and a thrill.
“Wotcher,” she greets the crowd and is met with various forms of welcome. Dumbledore takes it upon himself to summon a chair for her and as soon as she sits, they’re off to the races.
Tonks is flippant, she plays it cool, lingers long after the meeting and gets to know her new coworkers. She chats amiably, relying on her inherent talent to make meaningless conversation with whomever she meets. Could talk for hours, she could, even to Severus Snape, though he’s preoccupied speaking with the ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor in the corner.
When they bid goodnight, she is making her way to the sitting room, hoping to catch Sirius’s ear and perhaps a few fingers of Firewhiskey. Fingers on the jamb of the door, just about to swing into the room, she instead tumbles rather ungracefully into the prior object of Snape’s attention.
“Oy, of course!” Tonks says, with a laugh. “I’d made it this far this evening without tripping, knew it was too good to be true.” She balances back on her combat boots and meets the man’s eyes. Tumbling into someone sideways isn’t the best means of introducing one’s self.
“Pretty sure Sirius did me justice introducing me,” she says loud enough for her cousin to hear in the den and he returns a snort. “But if you please, I go by Tonks.” Thrusting her hand out, there’s nothing for the man to do but take it and shake.
Their grips match, solid; she appreciates this.
“Remus Lupin,” and he initiates a quick shake.
“So you’re the dark creature, eh?”
Something flashes in his eyes and the moment hangs, pregnant between them.
“One and the same,” Remus replies, his voice low, as though giving her the option, kindly, to be horrified or frightened. She is neither, simply nods, looks him up and down as though assessing him, his character.
“The dark creature,” she whispers under her breath and looks him over once more. Then she grins, leans a light hand on his shoulder and says jokingly, “I always had a thing for the bad boys.”
She saunters into the sitting room and he can’t help but follow, and the three members of the Order share Firewhiskey and anecdotes and somewhere between sober and intoxicated, she realizes that perhaps she’s falling for a man she just met.
But only a little.
---
Cards in the kitchen, because she feels a sense of camaraderie amongst this group of raucous and rowdy men. Charlie has a positively filthy mouth, she comes to discover. It rivals Sirius’s and when he catches onto this, they have a battle of the idiots. Kingsley, surprisingly, often lingers as well and indulges in a very quick hands.
Poker, Gin, Rummy, he bests them all.
Aside from that, the group is rounded out by her and Remus and they’re both positively shit at cards. See, he knows her tells, every damn time, and folds on the flop before she even has a chance to raise. There’s no point in playing when someone can see right through you.
And Remus, well, he’s not a gambling man, never has been and when you’re heart isn’t in the betting, there’s really no point.
Yes, they’re both shit at cards, so instead of paying attention to hands dealt, they pay attention to one another, catch each other’s gazes as they attempt to clandestinely decipher the other’s body language.
This, instead, is the game they play. Picking each other apart across the table, with soft eyes and hearts that are more open than either one intended.
---
“I do love chocolate,” he says wistfully as he holds up a particularly fidgety chocolate frog between his thumb and forefinger. The moonlight barely catches it through the thick of the trees of the Forbidden Forest.
He always seems to have chocolate on him-an unfortunate habit that he can’t shake from days when dementors were an imminent threat to students at Hogwarts-and she appreciates this. Their constant patrolling is made much easier by the fact that he always has a sweet treat on hand when she needs a pick-me-up.
Tonks looks up at the amphibious confection and throws caution to the wind, leans forward and sinks a deft hand into the folds of his cloak and roots around until she produces her own morsel of milk chocolate. There’s the heat from his body and the scent of his skin and the utter delicious sensation from being this close to him and it all runs through her in a rushed thrill.
There are no words as their eyes meet, hers devious, his shocked, unsteady. There are no sounds save from the swap of twigs and pinecones beneath the feet of distant forest creatures prowling.
“What?” she asks innocently as she slides the candy onto her tongue, so slowly, slower than necessary, really. “Can’t keep all of that for yourself, and I was done waiting for you to... give it to me.”
And her innocent visage is betrayed only by her saucy words. Remus has no idea how to respond, but takes a step closer to her. Their body heat mingles as she chews on the treat, her eyes never leaving his.
“Patience,” comes his reply, eventually, after he’s had his fill of glancing at her lips and listening to the increased pace of her breath.
Tonks finished chewing and takes a step back, focusing her gaze on the thick, endless darkness of the forest. “You say that now,” she says, her voice still holding a hint of devilishness though she is entirely serious.
“But there’s going to come a time when patience is no longer a virtue Remus, but a hindrance.”
His chuckle is warm and welcome.
She adds, as she begins walking her portion of the perimeter, “And for the record, I’m never very good at waiting.”
---
It’s the first time she’s seen him like this, dirty, broken, bloody and scarred and it terrifies her. Tonks is shaken to the core of her being when she discovers him on the dirty basement floor of Grimmauld Place.
There’s nothing to do but watch as he unfolds himself, moaning as his joints pop, as his skin pulls at wounds that are fresh. Too horrified to cry, to do much of anything, Tonks simply watches on as he wraps himself in a thick, wool blanket and prepares to stand.
But then he falls.
Not even an instant, faster than that and she is beside him, pulling him into her arms carefully.
Remus glances up at her, an eye partially bruises over.
He frowns.
He winces.
“Nympha-”
“Not a word,” she says angrily, though she’s not sure whom she’s upset with. The gods, she supposes, for bestowing upon this man, her man, damn it!, such utter horror. “Please, don’t speak.” And her voice breaks.
She breaks.
The next evening, when she makes love to him for the first time, it is with gentle aggression and silent pleas that he understand, please, what he means to her.
---
It is brisk, and she wears the hat pulled tightly over lavender hair.
“I remember what a chore it was to knit that,” Remus says, his mittened hand squeezing hers thoughtfully.
Tonks scrunches up her nose and with her free hand-also mittened-she rubs vigorously against the side of her head. “It’s itchy.”
“Well...” he replies and then... nothing.
She remembers, too, his giving it to her. She remembers everything about it, all out of order and all over the place, but what’s important is that she remembers, and she will never, never forget.
Tonks smiles over, up at him, “Well...”