The library was nearly deserted that April afternoon, save for the soft scratching of quills, the gentle rustle of parchment, and the occasional creak of the shelves as the castle settled around them. The enchanted windows filtered the spring sunlight into long golden shafts that dappled the wooden tables with amber light. Dust danced lazily in the air, caught in the late-afternoon glow.
Tonks sat curled at a desk in the far corner, beneath the oversized tapestry of famous magical duels through the centuries. Her textbooks lay open before her—"Advanced Hex Reversals" to one side, a heavily annotated copy of "Counter-Curses: A Theoretical Approach" balanced precariously on top of her satchel. Her notes were half-written, her quill abandoned beside a cooling cup of tea.
She was supposed to be revising for her Defence Against the Dark Arts theory exam. Instead, she found herself staring at the ink as it glimmered in the sunlight, her mind drifting once again—again—to the man she absolutely wasn't supposed to be thinking about.
Remus Lupin.
It had become a kind of treachery, the way her thoughts betrayed her the moment her focus slipped. One minute she was reciting spell patterns, the next she was remembering the way he had looked that night in the Muggle café—sleeves rolled to his elbows, eyes creased with quiet amusement, mouth tilted in that small, thoughtful smile that made her stomach twist unpleasantly in the best way.
She liked the way he thought before he spoke. The way he made room for silence in a conversation, without rushing to fill it. She liked how tired he looked sometimes, as though he carried a weight most people never noticed. She liked his voice, low and even and deliberate. She liked how he kept his hands folded when he was uncomfortable, how he seemed to retreat into himself the moment anyone got too close.
And she hated—absolutely hated—that he wouldn't look at her properly anymore.
Not since that night on the Astronomy Tower.
At first, she'd thought maybe it was just nerves. Maybe he needed time. But then the days passed, and the distance between them grew. He still smiled when they passed in the corridors—polite, distant—but it was never the same. No more impromptu detours into conversation. No more "accidental" meetings near the greenhouses. No more glances across the classroom that lasted just a heartbeat too long.
He was retreating. Again. And the worst part was—she understood, or thought she did.
Tonks let out a long breath, pressing her fingers into her temples. She wasn't someone who pined quietly. She was all elbows and unfiltered honesty. She said what she meant and meant what she said. But with Remus, she kept second-guessing herself, caught in the uncertainty of it all. Caught in how much it mattered.
Enough, she thought, stuffing her notes into her satchel with more force than necessary. She needed fresh air. Or chocolate. Or both.
As she stepped out of the library, she nearly ran straight into Chiara.
"Whoa—sorry, Tonks!" Chiara grabbed her arm to steady her, blinking. "You all right? You look like someone's hexed you."
"Not hexed," Tonks muttered, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Just… frustrated."
Chiara's eyes narrowed in amusement. "About Remus Lupin, by any chance?"
"Honestly, is it that obvious?" Tonks groaned.
"Only when you look like you're trying to murder a textbook with your eyes," Chiara said cheerfully. "Come on. Penny and Badeea are down by the courtyard. Let's go before you explode."
Tonks didn't protest.
By the time they reached the courtyard, Penny was perched on the edge of the fountain with a scroll of Arithmancy calculations spread out across her lap, and Badeea had a sketchpad balanced on her knees, frowning intently at a pencil drawing of a dragon skeleton.
"Look who I found," Chiara announced, flopping down beside Penny. "Fresh from a library meltdown."
"Oh dear," Badeea said mildly. "Was it the Transfiguration essays?"
"No," Tonks muttered, dropping her bag with a thud and sitting cross-legged on the grass. "It was Remus. Again."
Penny exchanged a look with the others. "He's still being weird, then?"
"He's being… distant," Tonks said, tugging up handfuls of grass and letting them fall between her fingers. "Ever since—well. Since the café. And the tower. He's gone back to being all careful and proper, as if I might spontaneously combust if he says my name."
"Maybe he's scared," Badeea offered gently.
"Of what?" Tonks said, frustration bubbling in her voice. "Of me? Of himself?"
Penny looked thoughtful. "Of getting attached, maybe. He's older, yeah, but not by loads. And he's had a rough life. Everyone knows that."
Tonks bit her lip. "I know. I do. I just wish he'd talk to me like he used to."
"Have you tried asking him?" Chiara asked.
Tonks hesitated. "No. Not yet."
"Well, maybe he's waiting for you to," Penny said with a small shrug. "Boys are weird. Sensitive boys are weirder. Sensitive boys who teach History of Magic and look like they haven't slept since 1982? Absolute nightmares."
Tonks gave a snort of laughter, despite herself.
"Look," Badeea said, carefully tearing a scrap from her sketchpad and folding it into a paper bird, "you told him how you felt. That's something. That's huge. And maybe it scared him—but it matters. Even if he doesn't know what to do with it yet."
Tonks watched the paper bird flutter clumsily through the air before it landed on her knee. She brushed it aside gently.
"I don't want to scare him," she said, quieter now. "I just… I miss him. I miss how easy it was before everything got serious."
"Then maybe don't make it serious," Chiara said simply. "Go talk to him. Be your ridiculous self. Make him laugh. Remind him why he let himself get close in the first place."
Tonks sat with that for a long moment, fingers knotting in the grass.
"All right," she said at last. "Later. After class. I'll talk to him."
"Good," Penny said firmly. "And if he's a prat, we'll hex his shoes to squeak for a week."
Tonks grinned. "Tempting."
The staff room was quiet that evening, lit only by the flickering light of a few hovering lanterns and the pale dusk pressing against the tall, mullioned windows. Outside, the wind had begun to whistle faintly under the eaves.
Remus sat hunched at the long table near the fireplace, parchment strewn around him. His robes were creased from the long day's wear, his collar bent out of shape, and his tie loosened just enough to suggest fatigue rather than carelessness. A half-drunk cup of tea had long since gone cold beside his elbow. He hadn't touched it in over an hour.
He held his quill loosely, occasionally dipping it into the inkwell with mechanical precision, but his attention was wandering. The essay in front of him was halfway marked. He wasn't really reading it. His thoughts had long since drifted somewhere else. Somewhere they had no business being.
He didn't hear the door open. He only noticed her when it clicked shut again.
He looked up.
There was a heartbeat—a single, suspended second—where everything in him froze.
And then, of course, there she was. Tonks. Standing just inside the room, not fidgeting, not smiling, not joking. Her hair was its usual pink, though darker than usual—deeper at the roots—and her face was serious in a way that instantly told him she hadn't come here by accident.
Something stirred in his chest. Not surprised. Not annoyance. Something quieter. Something he didn't dare name.
"Tonks," he said, softly, setting the quill down.
"You've been avoiding me," she said, with no preamble, her voice calm but pointed.
Straight to the point. No disguise. No buffer. That was her all over.
He let out a slow breath. "I haven't—"
She raised an eyebrow. "Don't lie. You're not very good at it."
A faint huff of breath escaped him, humourless. He looked down at the parchment before him and then away, pushing it aside.
"It's not personal," he murmured, though he already knew how hollow it sounded.
She crossed the room in two steps. Still not too close. Just enough that he could feel her presence prickling at the edge of his defences.
"It feels personal."
He shut his eyes briefly, wincing. Her voice was softer now, but it still cut straight through him.
"That's precisely why I'm keeping some distance," he admitted.
Her arms folded across her chest, and he could see the stubbornness set in her jaw. "Because I'm a student."
"Yes."
"Because I'm young."
"Yes."
She took another step closer, her gaze unwavering. "Because you think you're not allowed to want anything."
That did it. He met her eyes then. The weight of it settled in the space between them, heavier than anything he could put into words.
He didn't answer.
"I'm not here to trap you into anything," she said, her voice gentler now, as though she could see just how much of him was fraying at the seams. "I just… I miss you."
Something broke in him at that. Not loudly, not visibly. But inwardly, he felt it. A shift. A tremor.
"Tonks…" His voice cracked slightly. "Please…"
"I'm not asking you to declare your undying love or risk expulsion or whatever it is you're terrified of," she said. "I just need to know I didn't imagine it. The way you looked at me. The way you still do, even now."
Remus stood, slowly, as though any sudden movement might startle something between them into flight.
"I never meant to," he said, and his voice—his heart—ached with it.
"But you did."
A beat of silence passed. He swallowed hard.
"You have no idea what it's like," he said, voice raw. "Wanting something that much. And knowing—knowing—that if you reach for it, you could ruin it. Ruin everything. It could break you. Or worse… you could break them."
She was so close now. He could see every freckle on her face, the slight tremble in her fingers where they hung by her sides. Her hair caught the lantern light and shimmered faintly with a stubborn sort of hope.
"I'm not asking you to reach," she said, quietly. "Just don't run."
He closed his eyes. The pressure in his chest was unbearable now. It felt as though he were standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable. Something with teeth.
"I don't know how not to," he whispered.
Then—her fingers brushing the back of his hand.
Just that. Just a whisper of contact. But it was enough. Enough to send a jolt through him, a soft, aching reminder of what it felt like to be seen. Not as a professor. Not as a risk. Not even as a man carrying too much. Just as himself.
"You're not alone anymore, Remus."
Her voice was steady. Certain. Not pleading. Not demanding. And for a brief, impossible moment, he believed her.
Then—she stepped back.
"I'll go," she said, and though her words were composed, he saw the tightness in her throat, the breath she had to take just to get them out. "But I meant what I said. And I'm not sorry for it."
And just like that, she turned and walked to the door. No theatrics. No dramatics. Just a quiet, aching departure.
The door clicked softly shut behind her.
Remus stared at the place her hand had been.
The door had long since closed behind her, but Remus remained where he was, frozen, his hand hovering over the cold quill. The staff room felt heavier, the shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls, curling around the stacks of parchment. He hadn't bothered to light the fire. The cold seeped into him, but that was nothing new.
Tonks's words still hovered in the air. You're not alone anymore, Remus.
It was a lie, wasn't it?
He sank into the chair, slow and deliberate. His hands trembled slightly—not from cold, he told himself, but from the relentless pressure building behind his eyes. The tumour had been quiet for months. Quiet, manageable. He'd convinced himself he could ignore it, keep functioning, keep controlling… but lately, the headaches had returned, sharper and more insistent. Sometimes a word on the tip of his tongue would vanish entirely, leaving him staring blankly at whoever he was speaking to. At other times, his vision blurred briefly, a flicker of shadow in the corner of his eye. He'd brushed it off as exhaustion. As stress. But deep down, he knew.
He was losing control.
Tonks had no idea. No idea that the warmth in her presence made his chest ache for a reason far beyond affection. No idea that part of him wanted to protect her from the real Remus—the one who might collapse mid-conversation, who might forget a word, a name, even her face, if the tumour progressed too quickly.
And still—still—he wanted her.
It was unbearable.
He ran a hand down his face, pressing his fingers into the hollow of his temples. The dull throb behind his eyes was already rising into a pulse, subtle but insistent, an almost imperceptible warning that the tumour was stirring again. His stomach clenched, and he felt that familiar, suffocating weight—the sense that anything he reached for could break apart in his hands. Or worse, that he could hurt someone he cared about.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the floor, startling him more than it should have. He couldn't stay here. Couldn't linger in the aftermath of her words. Her faith in him was too much, and he couldn't give her what she deserved—not while he was unravelling from the inside.
He gathered the essays in a messy pile, shoved them into his satchel with trembling fingers, and left the staff room. His footsteps echoed in the corridor, too loud, too certain, though his thoughts spun wildly: Keep your distance. Don't let her in. Don't let her see this.
He didn't go to his quarters. Instead, he drifted through the castle, winding corridors he knew would be empty and silent, where no one would notice if he paused to press his forehead to the cold stone to steady the pain that was beginning to thrum behind his eyes.
By the time he reached a stained-glass window near an abandoned corridor, the first fat raindrops of a spring shower streaking the glass, he stopped. He pressed a palm to the stone and let his forehead rest against it. The cold grounded him. It reminded him that he was still here, still functioning, still capable of something.
But it wouldn't last.
He could feel the tumour beginning to assert itself. The dull ache blossoming into pressure, the occasional flicker of blurred vision—he hadn't told anyone. Not Dumbledore. Not a healer. Not Tonks. How could he? How could he risk involving her in the reality of what he had become?
He had to protect her from him.
Every time he thought of her—her laugh, her hair catching the lamplight, the way she made him feel seen—he felt the cruel tug of guilt. He wanted to reach for her, to let her hand brush against his, but the truth was a knife in his chest: if he let himself get close, she might see him fail. And he couldn't bear that. Not to her.
So he walked. Slowly. Mechanically. Around the silent corridors, past the forgotten suits of armour, past doors long locked and rooms long empty. He kept his hands in his pockets, head bowed, pretending to be calm, pretending the pain behind his eyes was nothing more than fatigue.
Better to be alone. Safer.
Hope was dangerous. Affection was dangerous. Life, as he knew it, was dangerous. And he was the danger.
He stopped at a dark corner, pressed himself into the shadow, and let the rain patter against the windows without looking out. The world moved on. Students would laugh and fall in love and live and forget. He would keep walking these corridors, untouchable, unreachable, and unbroken—or at least trying not to shatter completely.
Because if he reached for Tonks now… if he let her in… she would get caught in the fragments of him, too.
And he could not allow that.
The corridor outside the History of Magic classroom was bathed in the waning amber light of early evening, the sconces on the walls flickering hesitantly against the stone. The last echoes of footsteps had faded minutes ago. Supper had begun in the Great Hall; the usual babble of students was far away now, muffled by distance and thick stone.
Remus stood by the tall window, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His robes were crumpled from a day spent sitting far too long, and his collar, as ever, had begun to sag beneath the weight of too many quiet hours. His reflection was barely visible in the glass—just the outline of a man who had ended his class fifteen minutes early with the vague excuse of a headache. It wasn't a lie, not entirely.
He'd been having them more often lately—the headaches. A dull pressure behind the eyes that would swell slowly until even the low murmur of conversation began to sound like rushing water. And he knew what it meant. He knew what was growing, unchecked, behind his temple.
But tonight, it wasn't just the pain that sent him fleeing the classroom early.
It was her.
Nymphadora Tonks. That wild-haired, sharp-eyed, maddeningly brilliant girl who had somehow managed to upend the careful fortress of solitude he had spent years constructing around himself.
Merlin help him.
She was seventeen. Far too young. And alive in ways he no longer felt he could be. Her laughter could fill a corridor; her silences, somehow, said even more. There were times—between lessons, between patrols, in the brief moments their eyes caught across the courtyard—when he found himself breathing more easily, as though something inside him recognised her presence before he did.
And so, of course, he had pulled away.
It was the only responsible choice. He was her professor. He was not well. He was not whole. He was not safe.
A sound behind him—a gentle footfall—drew his attention. He turned, his body stiff, and saw her coming up the corridor, a book held loosely under one arm, her hair its natural brown, untransfigured, unstyled. There was something tender in the way it fell into her eyes.
She froze when she saw him.
"Oh," she said, in that disarmingly casual tone of hers. And then, a little softer, "Hi."
Remus swallowed. "Evening," he managed, voice hushed and low.
She didn't move. Nor did she walk away.
"I thought you'd gone down to dinner," she said after a beat.
"I… wasn't hungry," he replied.
A mistake. The wrong answer. Her expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Not hurt, but something adjacent. She'd caught the edge of it—the evasion in his tone.
And yet she stepped closer, eyes steady on his.
"Are we going to pretend forever?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated. "Pretend what?"
"That you don't want this," she said, simply.
Her words landed in his chest with the weight of truth. He tried not to let it show, but his breath caught slightly.
"It's not about what I want."
"It never is with you, is it?" she said, almost gently. "You think wanting something is dangerous. That letting yourself feel anything means you'll come undone."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
She stepped closer again. He could smell parchment and lilac, faint on her robes. She must have come straight from the library. He could picture her there, bent over some obscure history text, brow furrowed, hair in disarray. A lump rose in his throat.
"I'm not asking you to make some great declaration," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm not asking you to risk your position. Or your pride. Or your peace. I'm just asking you to stop pretending I imagined it all."
His voice came rough and hesitant. "You didn't imagine it."
She let out a breath. "Then why are you running?"
He turned away. Not from her. From the truth behind her eyes.
"I'm not," he said, the words brittle in his mouth.
A faint tremble passed through him, but he straightened his shoulders.
"I've no right to ask you for anything, Tonks."
"You're not asking me for anything," she said. "I'm the one standing here."
She stepped in again, and this time, her fingers touched his wrist—light, but certain.
He went utterly still.
"I'm not asking for forever," she said. "I'm asking for the truth. For a moment. For the chance to decide for myself what this could be."
He looked at her.
And what he saw was not foolishness. Not infatuation. But clarity. Steadiness. And something that frightened him far more than desire.
Real affection.
His hand reached for hers before he could think better of it. Her skin was warm, her fingers cool from the evening air. His other hand—hesitant, trembling slightly from the day's dull pain—came to rest against her cheek. She leaned into it without hesitation.
And in that suspended moment, he gave in.
He kissed her.
It wasn't graceful. It wasn't confident. It felt unfamiliar and tender and frightening in its simplicity. But she returned it—fully, warmly—her free hand curling against the front of his robes, anchoring him in a way he hadn't felt in years.
When they pulled apart, he kept his forehead against hers, eyes closed, breath unsteady.
"I shouldn't have done that," he whispered.
She smiled faintly. "No. But I'm glad you did."
He opened his eyes slowly. Studied her face. Committed every detail to memory.
"I—" He hesitated. "Would you… perhaps… come to dinner? My quarters. Just the two of us."
Her lips parted in surprise. "Dinner?" she said, with a small, startled laugh. "I mean—yes. I'd love to."
He gave a short nod, trying to remain composed. And for the first time in weeks, he felt something almost like relief settle in his chest.
He should have been afraid. He was afraid.
But for once, the fear felt worth it.
Even if the pain behind his eyes was starting to return.
The walk to his quarters stretched on with a quiet, measured weight. Not physically arduous, no—but heavy in its own way. Every step echoed too loudly against the flagstones. Each turn in the corridor gave him another opportunity to turn back, to find some excuse, some justification, some perfectly reasonable reason to cancel the invitation he had extended. He didn't.
He wasn't sure whether that was bravery or foolishness.
Tonks walked beside him without a word, her energy simmering just beneath the surface—untamed, but softened now. There was something in her stride that suggested ease, and yet her glances sideways betrayed her own nerves. It should have made things easier, knowing she was uncertain too. It didn't.
What surprised him, more than anything, was the warmth beginning to thread its way through the tightness in his chest. He liked seeing her this way. Bright. Eager. Still wearing the awkwardness of adolescence in her gait, but no longer careless with it. She was growing into herself. And the thought made his throat feel strangely tight.
Remus stopped before the worn oak door to his quarters, muttered the password under his breath, and felt the latch yield beneath his fingers.
He hesitated—just for a breath—and then stepped aside, allowing her to enter first.
"A bit less glamorous than the Great Hall, I'm afraid," he murmured, attempting a smile that felt thinner than he meant it to.
Tonks stepped through without hesitation, her gaze sweeping the space.
At the round table by the window, two bowls had been set—one already steaming, the other still cooling. There was a crusty half-loaf of bread, a chipped teapot whose floral pattern had long since faded, and a jug of cream that looked older than both of them combined.
"I hope you weren't expecting a grand feast," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly conscious of how threadbare his sleeves had become. "Soup, bread, and tea… that's about the extent of what I can manage these days."
Tonks turned to him, and her smile did something to him that was both maddening and entirely disarming.
"Honestly, that sounds perfect," she said.
There it was again—that glimmer of something in her, always just beneath the surface. Affection without pretence. She had a way of saying things that made it difficult to maintain the invisible wall he'd spent years reinforcing. And yet… he didn't want to reinforce it just now. Not tonight.
He cleared his throat awkwardly and motioned to the table. "Well. Best sit before it goes cold."
They ate in easy companionship, and slowly, he felt himself begin to settle. The tightness in his chest, the ever-present unease of letting anyone in—it didn't vanish, but it receded enough for him to breathe more freely.
Tonks chose the floor instead of the chair, curling onto the rug beside the fireplace with her knees drawn up and her tea balanced beside her on a stack of books. He watched her as she talked, her voice light but not careless—there was always a softness underneath her bravado, something quiet that tugged at him and made him listen more closely.
"You remember that Potions disaster I told you about?" she asked suddenly, nudging his foot with hers. "The belladonna incident?"
He glanced down at her, his arm draped lazily over the side of his chair. "The one with the melted cauldron or the one with the—what was it—exploding root powder?"
"The melted cauldron," she said, laughing. "Although now that you mention it, the root powder was just as bad. But this one—Merlin, Remus, I swear it wasn't even my fault this time."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is it ever?"
She swatted at his leg, mock-offended. "Oi, I'll have you know I've been innocent on several occasions. This time it really wasn't me. Some overenthusiastic seventh-year in the back row decided to 'improve' the labelling system. I thought I was adding valerian root. Turns out it was dried belladonna."
Remus winced. "That's not an improvement. That's an act of war."
"Exactly. The moment it hit the cauldron, everything went mental. Purple smoke. The whole room stinking of burnt socks and treacle. I swear I saw Snape visibly age."
"And you?"
She pointed at her hair. "Lost half my fringe. Singed straight off. Looked like I'd tried to cut it with a blunt wand while blindfolded."
Remus chuckled, the sound rumbling low in his chest. "I think I remember you walking in with half an eyebrow missing. You insisted it was a fashion statement."
"Because it was," she said indignantly. "Penny and Chiara said it made me look edgy. Badeea tried to draw the other one back on with eyeliner, but it kept smudging whenever I laughed."
"And since you're incapable of going five minutes without laughing—"
"Exactly," she said triumphantly, pointing at him. "So there I was, eyebrowless and full of dignity, and Snape gives me this look. You know the one. Like he's trying to decide whether I'm more likely to explode again or simply drop dead from idiocy. Took thirty points from Hufflepuff and didn't say a word."
"Could've been worse," Remus mused, sipping his tea. "He could've said something."
"Oh, he did. After class. Pulled me aside and told me to 'consider other careers, perhaps something less dependent on your ability to distinguish deadly toxins from soup ingredients.'"
Remus laughed quietly, shaking his head. "He always did have a way with encouragement."
"I wore a hat for a week after that," she said mournfully. "A hat, Remus. I looked like I was doing a terrible impersonation of a Beauxbatons exchange student."
"I liked the hat."
"No, you didn't," she said, narrowing her eyes. "You said you liked the hat. But your mouth twitched."
He leaned back slightly in his chair, lips twitching again in amusement. "I was trying to be polite."
"You thought I looked ridiculous."
"I thought you looked—" he paused, then said more quietly, "endearing. You always do."
That brought her up short. Her gaze softened, and the grin faded to something more thoughtful. The fire cracked behind her, casting shadows along the side of her face. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Remus swallowed, feeling the familiar tension return—not the cold, guarded sort, but something warmer, harder to ignore. He'd told himself again and again that moments like this were dangerous. But in her presence, that logic felt less like truth and more like habit. An armour that had grown too tight.
She looked at him for a beat longer, then smiled gently and leaned back against the arm of the sofa, tea in hand.
"Well," she said, nudging him again, "next time I accidentally blow something up, I expect sympathy. Not mockery."
"I'll consider it," he said dryly.
"You'd better. Or I'll show up to class with both eyebrows drawn on and make you explain it to Dumbledore."
He smiled faintly, letting himself watch her a moment longer than was strictly proper.
Tonks leaned back on her hands, her fingers splayed against the worn rug as she let out a long, contented sigh.
"It's funny," she said, voice soft now, almost as though the moment itself had coaxed it out of her. "Even when things go wrong—when potions explode or I trip over nothing or get scolded by professors who barely reach my shoulder—telling you about it makes it feel… less awful. More like a story worth keeping than a proper disaster."
Remus turned slightly, resting his elbow on the arm of his chair and propping his chin in his hand. He studied her, though he told himself not to. Her eyes were still bright with laughter from earlier, but beneath that was something quieter. A kind of honesty most people guarded more fiercely.
"You tell it well," he said gently.
"That's because you listen well," she replied without hesitation, glancing up at him. "And you never laugh at the wrong moments."
"I've had years of practice," he said, his mouth tugging upwards at the corner.
But that wasn't quite the truth. It wasn't just practice. It was her. Something in her voice, her presence, made him want to stay. To listen. To let himself be seen for longer than was safe.
She tilted her head, the gesture thoughtful. "Still… I don't think I've ever talked to someone the way I talk to you. It's just… easy. Even when I'm making a proper fool of myself."
"You're not a fool," he said. It came out more firmly than he'd intended, and he cleared his throat. "You're brave. And warm. And completely honest. That's rare."
Her smile faltered a little then—not out of discomfort, but something closer to shyness. It wasn't often she heard her qualities stated plainly, without a trace of mockery or teasing.
"You're the only person who says that like it's a good thing," she murmured.
"It is a good thing," he said, voice low.
And he meant it. He'd met countless people who wore masks with such ease they forgot what their real face looked like. But not her. She led with her heart, and if she bruised it along the way, she did so without apology.
Remus shifted in his seat, drawing one leg up and resting his forearm over his knee. He cast her a sidelong glance, a crooked half-smile appearing as if on its own.
"Well," he said slowly, "if we're trading embarrassing school stories…"
Her eyes lit up immediately, mischief dancing in them. She leaned her chin against her shoulder, expectant. "Oh, we absolutely are."
He let out a quiet huff of laughter. "Seventh year. James decided it would be 'morally negligent' not to enchant the Slytherin common room door to sing Celestina Warbeck lyrics every time someone walked past."
Tonks clapped a hand over her mouth. "You didn't."
"We did," he said ruefully. "Every time someone walked within six feet, the whole thing started belting out ′You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me'. It echoed all the way down to the dungeons. Nearly gave Slughorn a fit."
She was laughing now, full and unrestrained, her hair shifting hue with every breath. "That's brilliant."
"Well, it was something," he muttered. "The next morning, I wandered into Defence, still half-asleep, sat down, and promptly dozed off. When I woke up, I'd drooled on my essay."
Tonks gave a delighted gasp of horror.
"Oh, I did," he said, lips twitching. "Right across the last two pages. Professor Arlo picked it up, looked at the stain, and said—deadpan, I might add—'An unusually fluid analysis, Lupin.'"
That did it. Tonks tipped sideways into his shoulder, cackling.
"You're joking."
"I wish I were," he said. "James called me 'Fluid Lupin' for weeks. I think even Flitwick joined in once."
"That's amazing," she said, eyes brimming. "How have I never heard this before?"
He looked at her then, more fully, the firelight catching the curl of her grin. "You never asked."
They ate slowly after that. The soup was average at best, but she didn't complain once. Instead, she narrated each bite as though they were at a five-course banquet at the Ministry.
He watched her more than he should've. The way her nose wrinkled when she found a sprig of something she couldn't identify. The way her fingers fiddled with the spoon when she was thinking. She caught him at it once, and her brow arched, amused.
"Something wrong with the soup?"
He coughed, glancing down. "No, it's fine. You… remind me of someone. A little."
Her expression turned mock-dramatic. "Let me guess—a lost love from your tragic youth?"
He snorted. "Merlin, no. I'd remember someone with that haircut."
She stuck out her tongue at him. "You're cruel, Professor Lupin."
They both reached for the same spoon she'd dropped on the floor. Their fingers brushed.
It wasn't much. Barely anything. But his heart stuttered. Not the leap of a teenager in love, not quite—but a quiet, sudden thud that caught him off-guard.
She laughed it off with a small shake of her head. "Suppose I owe you a new spoon."
He blinked, his voice a shade hoarser than before. "I think the spoon will recover."
The moment passed, but the warmth lingered.
When the dishes were cleared and stacked carefully beside the sink, she returned to the rug without invitation, curling herself into a comfortable tangle before the hearth. She leaned into the sofa behind her, entirely at ease, and without looking up, patted the space beside her.
He hesitated.
Then—almost against his better judgement—he lowered himself slowly, feeling the usual stiffness in his limbs, the weariness that had settled into his bones more acutely these days.
She leaned against his shoulder. Just a little.
The contact was unassuming. It wasn't bold. Not pushy. But it undid something in him all the same.
She was warm.
And Merlin help him; he hadn't realised how long it had been since someone had been this close, without expectation, without agenda. Just present.
He breathed out slowly.
Tonks had grown quiet, her chin tilted slightly as she took in the little sitting room. Her gaze wandered—over the threadbare rug, the slanted pile of well-thumbed books, and the battered kettle still steaming on the table.
Then her eyes caught on something near the desk. She sat forward a little, blinking, then pointed.
"What's 'fourteen'?" she asked, gesturing to a small wooden block nestled atop a disordered stack of parchment. The number had been carved by hand, its edges worn down over time. "Today's the seventeenth, isn't it? April seventeenth. So it's not the date."
Remus followed her line of sight.
Ah.
His stomach gave a strange little twist. He hadn't meant to leave that out. Usually he kept it tucked beneath a paperweight or slid between the pages of a book.
He looked away before answering, his voice quieter now.
"It's… something I keep," he said, shifting slightly in his chair. "A reminder."
Tonks turned her head, curiosity brightening her expression. "Of what?"
There was a beat of hesitation before he replied.
"Of things I don't want to forget," he said. "Not necessarily dates. Just… moments. Promises. Small things that mattered, once. Or still do."
She tilted her head, studying him. The expression she wore was not mocking nor pitying. Just soft. Intent.
"That's rather sweet," she said eventually, her voice gentler now. "And very… you. Quiet. Thoughtful. A bit melancholic."
He let out a low huff of laughter, more breath than sound. "You say that like it's a character flaw."
"Not at all," she said firmly. Then, more softly, "I think it's kind. Not just the clever professor everyone's a bit wary of."
He went still at that—not visibly, perhaps, but inwardly. Something shifted in his chest, a slow, unfamiliar thaw. He'd grown used to being observed at a distance, known for his patience, his calm, and the faint undercurrent of severity that came from years spent keeping himself in check. But she saw through that. Not in a way that felt invasive—just… clear.
It unnerved him a little.
"You're still young," he said quietly, though there was no condescension in it. "You've not yet lived long enough to start hoarding little keepsakes from the past."
"I've lived enough," she said. Her tone wasn't defensive—just matter-of-fact. Her eyes didn't waver. "And I think keeping reminders of good things isn't such a bad habit."
He gave a small, noncommittal shrug, but something about her words stuck.
"I suppose," he said at last, "there's a sort of selfishness to it. Clinging to the things you can't go back to. Even when they're over."
Tonks frowned thoughtfully. "Is it selfish to want to remember the good things? To keep them close? I think it would be sadder to forget them altogether."
Remus hesitated. His fingers brushed lightly against his own sleeve, a grounding motion.
"It might be," he murmured. "But I've been worse things."
There was a moment's silence. Not heavy—just… open.
Then her hand shifted on the rug beside his. Her fingers stilled a breath from his own—close enough to notice, but not quite touching. Deliberate. Waiting.
"You could share some of those reminders with me," she said, her voice no louder than the fire behind them. "If you wanted to."
He turned to look at her.
Her expression held no agenda. No expectation. Just a quiet offer—a hand held out, not demanding to be taken, only waiting to be considered.
And he felt something inside him give. Not all at once, not catastrophically, but with that rare and dangerous softness he so often held at bay.
A quiet yielding.
"Perhaps," he said softly. "In time."
She didn't press. Only nodded once and let her hand remain there, near his.
They lingered by the fire for a little while longer, speaking in soft tones that never quite ventured too deep but never skimmed the surface either. Eventually, Tonks stood, brushing imaginary dust from her robes, stretching her arms overhead with a soft groan.
"I should head back," she said, glancing toward the window, where the black sky hung undisturbed. "Before Filch catches me and demands to know which dungeon I crawled out of."
Remus smiled faintly, standing with her. "Tell him I assigned you extra reading. On magical disasters involving poor footwear choices."
Tonks grinned. "He'll believe it, too."
She stepped towards the door but didn't open it. Her fingers hovered near the handle. Then she turned back to him, her expression softer now, her usual brightness edged with something steadier.
"Thank you. For the soup. And… the stories. And listening to me ramble like a lunatic."
Remus shook his head. "You never ramble like a lunatic."
"Liar," she said fondly. "But thank you anyway."
There was a pause—longer than strictly necessary. Then she leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick, warm, and barely there. Just the faintest press of her lips against his skin.
His breath caught.
And then she was gone, the door closing gently behind her, leaving only the fire's glow and the faint scent of her—something faintly citrussy and far too alive for a room as tired as his.
Remus stood still for a long while, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, his mind ticking.
Then, slowly, he sat.
The silence returned, not unpleasantly. It was the sort of quiet he'd grown familiar with over the years—room-temperature loneliness. Not suffocating. Just settled.
His eyes drifted back to the desk.
The block sat precisely where Tonks had noticed it: a small, square piece of wood, the number "14" still carved cleanly into its face. She'd taken it as something sentimental. A marker of nostalgia. She'd said it was sweet.
It wasn't.
It had never been anything so tender.
Remus stood, crossed to the desk, and picked it up.
Fourteen days. That was what it had meant when he first carved it. Fourteen days left since the Healer at St Mungo's had confirmed what he'd already suspected—a small mass, but in the wrong place, threaded into parts of his mind that governed memory, language, and the self.
A tumour.
Magical medicine had examined it, dissected it in theory, and even given it some long-winded name that Remus had no interest in remembering. It didn't matter. They'd been very polite. Very professional. They'd called it manageable.
Manageable, he thought grimly, fingers tightening on the block. For now.
He hadn't asked about surgery. He hadn't even let them finish describing it. The word "experimental" had been used once too often, and that was enough for him.
He hadn't told anyone. Not Dumbledore. Not Madam Pomfrey. Certainly not Tonks.
He hadn't meant to lie to her. Not directly. But what had he said?
"A reminder. Of things I don't want to forget."
And in a way, it had been true. It was a reminder. Not of moments cherished—but of moments numbered.
A countdown.
He no longer reset the block daily. At first, he had. The day after the diagnosis, he'd turned it until it stopped meaning anything sensible. Now he changed it when the symptoms worsened—when his vision blurred for half a second too long, or when a headache turned strange and weighty and refused to fade. When words slipped out of reach mid-sentence, and panic flared in the quiet recesses of his mind.
Those were the days he adjusted the number.
He set the block back down. Carefully. Precisely.
He still hadn't made any plans. No arrangements. No letters. No preparations for what would happen if the countdown reached something final. He supposed he ought to. But each time he came close to considering it, his mind recoiled—not out of fear, but out of quiet, stubborn resignation.
Let it come, then. Let it do its worst. He'd lived longer than he was meant to anyway. It had all carved time out of him piece by piece. If this was how it ended, perhaps it would be a mercy. A slow fading, instead of another violent goodbye.
And yet.
Her voice still echoed faintly in the space she'd left behind.
"You could share some of those reminders with me."
It had been said lightly, yes—but there had been something behind it. Something he didn't quite know how to meet.
He closed his eyes, pressing a palm to his temple. The ache had been soft all day, just beneath the surface. Bearable. But it hadn't left.
He needed sleep.
And still, as he moved toward his bedroom, he paused once more at the desk. Without entirely meaning to, he turned the wooden block to the next number.
"13."
Then he extinguished the lamp with a flick of his wand and walked into the dark.