I am more than a little hung over during classes, but I work through it anyways. I've done harder while worse. Granted, this was how I lost my hand, but I'm only teaching. Hunting Dark Wizards is something I plan on letting other people do.
McGonagall gives me a sharp look at lunch, since I still have a headache, and has me come to her office that evening.
"I don't normally like seeing my teachers hung over," she states, stern, overbearing, and slightly motherly.
"Sorry. Only time of the year I do drink. Avoid the stuff otherwise."
"And just how much did you drink?" she asks.
"Entire bottle of Glenfiddich. Muggle whisky."
"I am entirely knowledgeable about good Scottish Whisky, Miss Evans. What possible reason do you have to drink an entire bottle?"
"My son was murdered on Halloween." It's a low blow, but it's the honest truth. Let it never be said that Voldemort didn't know the theatre of terror.
Weird fact? A medical diagnostic spell says I gave birth. Not sure what I'm supposed to say to that. I know I'm not a virgin, but I know Jessica didn't give birth. Was it the potion? The basilisk scar on my arm suggests it was. I'll have to look into it.
McGonagall is of course horrified. I think she's building some sort of horror story of my life, but I don't want to correct any of it. Really, my actual life was much worse.
0x0x0x0
I hand only the recipe of the potion to Severus, and ask him a single question.
"What, exactly, does this do?"
He stares at it for a long moment, makes a few notes on a piece of parchment, before answering.
"It permanently ages you into who you are supposed to be," replies Severus. "I would guess this is a class two dark potion, possibly class three, likely punishable with five to ten years in Azkaban for brewing it. Why, sick of looking younger than your students, Evans?"
"Nah, it'd be too obvious. Besides, why bother taking a few years off my own life for the sake of my ego?"
At this, Severus nods, but I let him keep the recipe, even if he hasn't already memorized it.
0x0x0x0
"Umm... Professor Evans?" asks a nervous Harry Potter.
"Yes, Mister Potter?" I ask, barely looking up.
"Do you think you could help me with an essay?"
I have to think for a moment. I don't recall assigning the second years any essays this week, but it could have slipped my mind.
"Sure, what's it about?"
"Well... it's a charms essay."
I blink a moment. He's coming to me about this? I'm surprised he's not asking Sirius. Or Flitwick. I know Babbling's the current Gryffindor head, and she's not an idiot when it comes to charms. Please don't tell me he has a crush on me. Please.
"Sure, what's the problem?"
He shows me his essay. It reads like a shotgun blast of ideas. I dig through my desk for my comb-bound book on essays, and drop it on the desk. Harry stares at it, surprised, and completely unsure of the existence of the material known as plastic.
I spend an hour with him, not fixing his essay, but teaching how to write one of the bloody things. I also point him in Hermione's direction if he wants to get a few ideas for how to organize his thoughts or brainstorm ideas.
He stays in my classroom and writes a new essay, as Sally-Anne shows up. She's surprised to see Harry, but I wave him off, and we work on her meditation.
0x0x0x0
It's mid-December. Everything's going as well as expected.
The Weasley twins are continuously attempting to break into my office. Personal suspicion says the Mutt is backing them. I treat it as an outside learning experience, and begin to vary the defences, to see how quickly they learn curse breaking. The Mutt has attempted several pranks against me. My ability to detect magic has, alongside reaction times just this side of precognition, prevented anything embarrassing from happening. I allow the occasional less-than-embarrassing curse through to prevent things from escalating, however. About once a week, I spend the entire day with some random ailment that's easily ignored.
Harry has become a regular visitor, working on homework in my classroom. He hasn't hit it off with any of the various students that stop by, but they all seem a little surprised to see him. I have him occasionally helping Neville with Transfiguration and Charms.
I rarely see Devin.
Sally-Anne is progressing quickly. It didn't take long for Flitwick to come to me when her grades began turning around, and he was gobsmacked when he first realised that she was casting silently.
"Skill," I replied, having a bunch of things from his shelves circle overhead with a twirl of my finger.
"Will you be teaching her to do that, as well?"
"I doubt it," I reply. Silent seems enough, although if she asks, I'll comply. I didn't learn this method. Instead, I learned because of the Elder Wand.
The Elder Wand is, certainly, an unbeatable wand. But it's also Death's wand. It can perform shield charms that block the Killing Curse, not that very many people ever realised it. Not the Imperius or the Cruciatus, but definitely the Killing Curse. And it isn't just that. I've mentioned it's permanence in conjuration, but it also ties itself into your magic. It awakens it, calls it forth, sets you in tune with it, and then sets your magic, and you, in tune with something else entirely. Dumbledore and Voldemort are both well above my league in terms of power, and yet I can perform feats of magic that could leave them quaking in fear.
I remember feeling the hairs of my neck raise with the power Voldemort expended in chasing after me and Hagrid. The black mist flowing, the sheer bloody power that rolled off him as he flew under his own strength. And yet, for me to do it? Nigh effortless, unnoticeable by those around me. Magic comes easier to me, my body conducts it and works it with ease. It was less "this is how wandless magic works" and more "huh, I just did wandless magic without thinking about it."
I still learned the techniques I'm teaching her, but mostly for the sake of the animagus transformation. I learned it in my forties, part of getting my life back together again after a fifteen year drunken binge. I was not in a pleasant place after Ginny and James' murder.
Grindelwald likely learned some of this, during his time with the wand. Perhaps he only experimented with it near the end, when he knew Albus was coming for him. Albus, after all, was in a league of his own.
There are few words to describe the power Albus Dumbledore wielded. I've seen the memories, witnessed the power and devastation he could wield. There's a reason the Wizengamot gave him the position Chief Warlock. He was the big stick that Britain wielded against the rest of Europe. If Albus ever well and truly lost it, all of Europe would be in flames before he was stopped.
It's for this reason I'm thankful he never tried to learn. Grindelwald could hold his own against Albus. If Albus had learned… I shudder at the very thought. So I think of other things.
Pomona is also ecstatic about Sally-Anne's sudden spike in grades.
She's a sweet kid, and the fact that she's willing to head back to the foster home she lives at says quite a bit about the place. I've already told her I'll be visiting.
Which leads me to what I'll be doing over the Christmas Holidays.
It's taken me a fair amount of time to decide what to do about the Dursleys. It's also taken this long for me to decide not to murder them all. Instead, I've come up with a cruel, ruthless, and horrible vengeance upon them. It'll take time, but that's what's best about revenge.
I also send back an RSVP for the Potter Christmas party, saying I will be unable to attend.
As amusing as it would be to watch Andi lay into Sirius some more, I don't want to trouble Lily and James' marriage. It's obvious James doesn't like me. And to see Tonks again... no. Besides, I do have business to attend to over the holidays.
Namely, vengeance.
0x0x0x0
I take a break to visit said foster home. It's a rather nice place, not exactly the greatest neighbourhood, but clearly the place is well cared for. I consider it for a long moment. Not too well cared for, though. I nod at that, and walk up the shovelled walk to the door. I actually remember to touch the doorbell, and wait a moment for someone to open it.
A surly-faced teenager, I'd put him at about fifteen, opens the door and glares up at me.
"Who're you?" he grumbles.
"My name's Jamie Evans. I'm one of Sally-Anne's teachers," I reply, glaring down at him. He flinches, as he turns to call over one of the two foster parents I spoke with on the phone.
I say hello to the mother, before I hear the soft pitter-tapping of socked feet.
"You came," says Sally-Anne, stopping at the doorway into the front hall.
"Well, why do you think I asked for your address and phone number?" I ask.
"To send me a gift," she replies easily.
"Well that's no good. It's always better to see someone's face when they receive the gift. You already open presents?"
"We did, very early this morning," supplies her foster father, gripping a cup of coffee like it was a lifeline.
"Well then you can open this one now," I say, handing her a box I've seemingly pulled out of thin air. Really, it's just a disillusionment charm, but I know how it looks.
"So you're really a magician?" asks one of two other foster kids. "Does that mean you can pull a rabbit out of your hat?"
"No, sorry, I don't pull rabbits out of hats," I say. "I can, however, conjure a hat," which I promptly do with an imaginative swirl of my suddenly appearing wand, "and turn it into a rabbit." I transfigure the hat into a nice, normal, non-venomous rabbit. The wand disappears back into my quick-draw holster, and I hand the boy the rabbit.
He blinks at it, then at me, with awe.
"Don't ask me to do card tricks, though," I say with a smile. "That's something I was never any good at."
Sally-Anne smiles at me, and finally removes the wrapping.
There are a few things in the box. Right on top are two sets of books. She's a foster child, and she talks about visiting the library a lot, so I figured she should have her own set of the important works of literature.
A hardbound, illustrated copy of The Chronicles of Narnia, in the Right and Proper Order, starting with The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I once had an argument with Hermione about it, before she died. She stood by the Chronological Order, starting with The Magician's Nephew, citing some letter by Lewis himself. The argument, according to Ron, was legendary, and we didn't speak for a week, afterwards. It was nice to argue about little things, rather than the big things, at least.
Sally-Anne's eyes go wide at the next gift. It took a bit of digging, but I also managed to hunt down her other favourite set of books in hardcover. Dealer's rooms in American science fiction conventions are useful for something, at least. The Song of the Lioness are her, by far, favourite books. She found them in a public library, and fell in love with them there.
She gives me a hug for both sets of books.
"You shouldn't have given me so much," she says.
"Hey, I don't have many people to give gifts to, so I have to make up for both quality and quantity. Which reminds me, there's a little bit more in there."
She nods, and finds an incense holder. A sterling silver incense holder, in fact. And incense. None of it is Severus' special incense, but a fair amount of it is high quality. There's also an envelope containing a magical lighter with a muggle-repelling charm on it.
The usual conversation ensues over Christmas Dinner, about how young I am, how qualified I am (when I explain a Mastery is equivalent, roughly, to a Doctorate, they begin to understand). When they ask questions about Dumbledore, I decide to be up-front and honest.
"Dumbledore is an old war hero. He defeated the magical equivalent of Hitler. At about the same time, as well."
"Hitler?" asks the foster mother. "And he was a teacher?"
"At the time. They practically forced him to be the figurehead for the Wizarding House of Lords, and also the Secretary General of the Wizarding UN. I'm sure there were a few other titles in there, but I don't think he cared much about them either."
"For defeating Hitler?" asks the foster father.
"For personally defeating Hitler. The Wizarding World has a lot of expectation dumped on their heroes."
This naturally leads into a whole discussion of Harry Potter, of all people. I deflect it all onto Remus Lupin. This whole discussion, that whole aspect of Remus Lupin creeps me out on some level, how he loved Harry that much… but didn't visit me at all after James and Lily died. Could that have been what caused it all? A slightly different Remus Lupin? I could ask…
I shake it off. It's best not to ask those sorts of questions. Let the dead remain so.
Sally-Anne also asks just what some of those titles really mean, which brought us to the term "Warlock." She knew I was one, because she'd heard Severus reference me as such.
The title itself doesn't have a happy history, at least as muggles are concerned. Largely believed to represent a male witch, older connotations included back-stabber, oath-breaker, and the devil himself. Warlocks, by and large, were not good people. They aren't good people today, either.
Warlocks are witches and wizards trained for war. They are tempered in the fires of adversity, whether through the defeat of a magical creature or the fires of war itself. Predominately, that means men, since it's mostly men being sent off on quests or to war, but it varies from country to country. There's also a basic skill-set of spells required, and an inherent power requirement to cast those spells. Different countries have different opinions on what those spells are, but none of them are very pleasant, and all of them will make muggle militaries pause, even today.
The Warlocks that reach old age are also the most underhanded, backstabbing bastards that ever did exist. We have to be. Otherwise we die.
Hence the bad history, really.
The rest of the meal and evening is nice, pleasant even. I chat with Sally-Anne's foster parents, make sure she doesn't have any questions about her essays, and then fade away into the night.
0x0x0x0
New Years, I've always felt, should be spent in celebration of Tom Riddle's death, which is why I'm at a specific Veela Brothel in Southern France. I have, quite successfully, paid for a day and a night with the matron of the Brothel, Bernadette.
The fact that I requested her by name intrigues her, and we start with a nice cup of tea, and a few hours talking.
Bernadette is a full-blooded Veela. She looks to be about twenty-five, which in Veela terms, pegs her around fifty. She's got another two hundred or so years in her. I met her for the obvious reason, namely, I was the paid gentleman for her brothel.
Save Veela from a Dark Wizard, and they will do everything in their power to keep you. They'll start with the allure, and attempt to make you some sort of bouncer/bodyguard. Failing that, they'll hire you.
The allure didn't work on me. When they realised that, they asked for something far more important (in their minds) to do. Veela brothels, especially high class ones, are very good at what they do. So good in fact, that what the Veela do is never as enjoyable for them as for their customers. They like to keep a gentleman or two on hand to… take care of them, as it were. Long story short?
I was paid to make love to Veela.
Only me.
Bernadette was pretty much the only Veela I never touched, because she bats for the other team. An extraordinary rarity with them, but it happens. Given that I'm now on that team, I thought it might be nice to catch up. Or, as the conversation went, for me tease her, while she got more and more amused by the sixteen year old girl treating her like an old friend.
"You are a time traveller, yes?"
At this, I smile. She's the matron of a brothel. It means she's not an idiot.
"It is the only explanation that makes sense. You know me, but I do not know you. Although, perhaps you only have memories of someone?"
"No, you are right. I've also found a few problems adjusting to my new gender, as well."
She holds her hand to her heart.
"Little wonder you tease me so much!" she replies. "I must have regularly tortured you."
"I can resist your allure like no other, my dear. Even of the entire brothel."
"You were a gentleman, then?"
I nodded. She tests me, from the tight reigns of just her beauty, to the full blast of her naked body. I'm impressed by how fast the clothing disappears, I'd suspect a vanishing charm if she weren't full-blooded. Instead, I pick up my tea cup, and calmly take another sip.
"You do not play with the boys?" she asks, smiling as she takes away my tea cup.
"Would I play with boys if I were here?" I ask.
She takes a seat in my lap.
It's a long, tiring day.
0x0x0x0
Somewhere after dusk, we lie in bed. We're holding each other, staring into each other. It isn't love. It's more a mutual lust, a mutual curiosity in each other. I know she's married to her work, and I've just started my own. We might be occasional lovers, after this. Friends with benefits, as the Americans say.
As I slip away to do some business in the lavatory, I recall the other bit of business I wanted to discuss with her.
I take it out of its pouch, and shiver a little in pleasure as it slides in. It's still a strange feeling, having "Slot B" instead of "Tab A," but the perks have been pretty good so far. Except for the cramps, I could have done without those. Granted, Bellatrix was extremely helpful with knowledge in that respect.
"And what, dare I ask, is that?" asks Bernadette. She's only half-awake, and she's looking between my legs with half-lidded eyes.
"A prototype, I think is the word, a working one that needs proper testing. Something you might be interested in."
She nods, inviting me back into the bed.
It's a tricky bit of magic, getting the rune combinations right. I still haven't managed a good combination for the cleaning, but I'm using medical silicon as a base material, so I'm not overly concerned about that, yet.
"Proper testing?" she asks.
"You can only test so much on your own," I reply, smiling.
"Then we will have to test it properly."
It's a delightful experiment. I take the time to adjust the runes, the power, and effect, until it feels just that right sort of delightful. A little different from how it should be, but delightful.
"May I?" she asks, her hand on it.
I nod, not paying much attention and fairly wiped from the, ahem, physical exercise, and the fact that it's nearing midnight.
She takes it out, and I shiver again from the experience of it being removed.
"Sensitive?" she asks, amused.
I nod again, and watch as she slides it into herself. She hisses with pleasure as it connects to her, and she groans as she touches it, feeling its length and breadth. I admit, I picked an average size, but it still looks big as I realise I've never done this before. Images from Jessica's nightmares (I try not to admit to myself they're memories) try to bubble up, but I clamp down on them, and cast them back into the pit where they belong.
I'm guessing she likes the feedback. I worked on balancing the sensations I remember with what I could feel. It's the reason I took so long testing it. Really, it is.
Still, she takes her time getting ready, and I don't have the slightest problem with that. Really. It's my first time. I'm not nervous in the slightest.
She's kind. She's sweet. She takes her time. It doesn't hurt, overly much. Some sick and twisted part of me realises it's because Jessica was raped so many times. It's a wonder I feel anything at all. I figure it must have been the potion, and just succumb to the feelings down there, the fullness, the sweetness of her lovemaking.
I will say this though; it's just as good to receive, as it is to give.
0x0x0x0
So it takes a little bit of haggling the next day, and maybe a few more "tests," but I now have an income outside of being a teacher. Somehow, I don't think this is what McGonagall thought I'd be doing in my spare time.
It does, however, give me a few ideas for Miss Perk's fake leg, though.
0x0x0x0
"The house-elves fed you two idiots, right?" I ask, as I step into my office for the first time in two weeks.
The Weasley twins are suspended from the ceiling, staring at the gaping maw of the basilisk skull. The mount that's holding it may be enchanted to move the jaw a little, and make very faint hissing noises. Or it might be their imaginations.
I ignore them both, and instead pick up the piece of parchment on the ground. I play with it for a little bit, watch as it talks and insults back. I leave the parchment on my desk, and then turn to the twin troublemakers.
"Why, exactly, are you so stupidly in my office?"
I don't even pay any attention to whatever bullshit they produce. Most of it is probably true, by this point. The wards on my office tell me they've been up there for two days. I'd like to think I wouldn't crack, if I were hanging upside-down with a creepy basilisk skull for a few days, but that's a load of horseshit.
I let them down, eventually, and inform them they'll be serving a very long and humiliating detention with me next week.
0x0x0x0
It's two days later that both Lily and James stop by after the evening meal.
"Good evening, Miss Evans," says Lily. It's kind of funny how formal the three of us are. I suppose meeting before a murder does that.
"Mr. and Mrs. Potter," I reply, not looking up.
"I was wondering why you turned down the invitation."
"I was busy over the holidays, Mrs. Potter. I also don't do well with social functions," I say, giving a subtle look towards James. Lily doesn't catch it, but James does. I feel a touch of Legilimency, and I shove forward thoughts of troubling his marriage. I figure it's rocky enough.
"You're also avoiding everyone with the last name Black or Tonks," says James, covering for me. I suppose it's his way of thanking me. He promptly gets elbowed in the ribs by Lily.
"Which she's allowed to do," adds Lily with a glare. At this, James rolls his eyes. "And really, it's best to rub Sirius' nose in his mistakes."
I snort.
"He seems the type," I add. "Was there something academic I could help you with?"
"Minerva's worried about you," says Lily. "She says you're being almost as anti-social as Severus."
"Mrs. Potter, I assure you, I am not being anti-social. I spent Christmas with one of my student's foster family, and New Years with an old friend."
"And the rest of the holiday?"
"I was away on business," I replied. In Little Whinging, Surrey, not that I'll mention that out-loud... for a little while. I'm still finishing up a few details and interviews. I also spoke with Severus. The man knew everything, it seems. He'd made the mistake of making an Unbreakable Vow of Loyalty to Dumbledore. Albus, after all, trusted him for a reason, didn't he?
"Really? And just what sort of business were you on?"
At this, I merely smile. A shiver runs down each of their backs. Lily changes the conversation over to Harry, while James sits in a hateful silence. I don't try to draw him into the conversation, and act like nothing's wrong, while Lily tries.
I wish I could just out and out say it's not working. I also wish I knew her well enough to figure out why she's trying to so hard. I know it's not because she thinks I'm family. Maybe she's one of those people who are just that caring. If she is... I feel all the worse that I'm doing this to her, and all the worse that I'm coming between her and James.
She takes a minute to use the bathroom.
I lean back in my chair for a minute.
"She doesn't realise you hate me, does she?" I ask James.
"Hate's a strong word," says James.
I give him a look. He glares back.
"You remind me of an old friend of hers. He betrayed her at the worst possible time."
I nod. I remind him of Severus. The poor abused child, taken under Lily's wing. It probably doesn't help I'm using her last name, either. That can't be everything, though. Hedwig's a better judge of character than I am, and she joins us for the rest of the conversation, sharing some of her observations of Harry's character.
Harry himself doesn't have a lot of good friends. Devin's sort of just there, much like Ron, while all the purebloods hold him at arm's length. I look at him and I don't see myself. I see Neville Longbottom. A metric tonne of expectations dropped on his shoulders, and he's floundering to keep up with all of them.
I don't know whether or not to give them my honest opinion on Harry, so I outright ask them.
They seem surprised, but Lily does.
They both wince when I say he'd probably have done better in Hufflepuff for all the work he does. I'm probably his favourite teacher because I treat him like every other student, and don't expect him to know the answer in the unlikely event I call on him. Lord knows all the others have high expectations. I recollect a staff meeting focused almost entirely on him.
Flitwick and Sirius were having an argument about his grades. As near as I could understand it, they were arguing which class Harry was better at, DADA or Charms. I stayed out of it, mostly because they seemed to be acting like who was holding Harry to a higher standard than the rest of the class. Flitwick tries to drag me into this, figuring I'll side with him because I hate Sirius so damn much.
"You're both fucking idiots. He's a regular student, and you're just making him hate your subject."
"That's entirely untrue. Harry's doing splendidly in Charms," replies Flitwick, while Sirius is smart enough to not say a damn thing to me.
"Splendidly? Did that opinion form about a month and a half ago?"
"Well, I don't know about the exact time..."
"Perhaps because his essay-writing has improved?"
"Yes, it certainly has."
"Because he's been coming to me, because he's worried about what you'll say when he comes to you, let alone anyone else?"
"He can come to me," says Sirius, annoyed.
"Shut the fuck up, Black," I automatically say. Minerva looks annoyed, but doesn't say anything, while the other teachers look on. "He's been coming to me because, near as I can tell, I'm the only teacher here that treats him how he wants to be treated."
"And what's that, a pampered prince?" Severus asks lazily. I can tell his heart's not in it. He's phoning it in, now that Albus is gone. He still does a decent job when it comes to Sirius, though.
"No, like any other student," I reply.
"But- he's the Boy-Who-Lived," replies Flitwick. I want to smack the ever-loving shit out of him. This is the same idiot that let people steal Luna's things for five years. Flitwick is not someone high on my list.
"No, he's Harry," I reply. "You're expecting Merlin from a second year. He's been taught to defend himself from people who would murder him, not some obscure charm to clean his arse so people can kiss it. Give him a chance to be normal."
James chuckles at that, while Lily looks aghast. She glares at James, who immediately resumes his disdainful, one might even say Snape-like, glower at me.
"So how is he doing?" asks Lily. "Now, that is."
"Flitwick's treating him mostly the same. Severus, as I understand, hasn't been his usual self, but that's because his Dark Mark isn't acting up as much. Pomona listened to me, but only because I'm working with one of her students. Sinistra couldn't care less, and Black is his usual idiot self. I understand why Black is pushing him so much in Defence, but Harry comes to me to complain about it."
"And in your class?" asks James, his voice noticeably icy. Lily gives him (another) a cold look, while I gave Lily an apologetic one.
"Practically, I could have him in third year. His theory's a little lacking, so I have him tutoring Neville Longbottom," I reply. "And so that he's close to someone who's in very much the same position."
"The same position?" asks James, wary.
"Dame Longbottom has her own expectations of Frank Longbottom's son," I tell him.
James closes his eyes, and then nods in understanding.
"Expectations?" asks Lily.
"That he be exactly like Frank, because he's Frank's son," replies James. "I was afraid of that. She didn't take what happened to Frank and Alice well."
"He's also using Frank's wand."
Both of them show signs of resignation.
"Augusta isn't someone who changes easily," says James. "And I don't like what you're saying about us."
"You? Oh hell no. You've been amazing. The pair of you raised your son to be upright and understanding young man. Quite frankly, I expected your son to be the light's version of Malfoy until I spoke with Tonks."
James and Lily stare at me in horror.
"What? He's the most famous wizard in the world? Who wouldn't turn into a giant prick because of it? Lording his bloody hyphenated title over all?"
Lily gives me an odd look at that statement.
"Instead, he's a humble, forthright young man who works for everything he does. He wants to be Harry Potter, not the Boy-Who-Lived. And I will do my damnedest to make sure he's Harry Potter, not the Boy-Who-Lived."
To say I'm proud of James and Lily is an understatement.
"It'd have been better if he'd grown up with his sister," says James.
I sigh. And thus, we find the real reason. I now understand why Snape hates James, as well.
"I honestly thought the worst of you when I found Jessica," I reply. "I thought you'd purposely abandoned her there. I should've realised it was Dumbledore's fault, but, well... You had the Boy-Who-Lived. Why keep his younger sister?"
A shudder goes through both of them, and they don't defend themselves. Guilt and shame.
"I'm sorry, that was cruel."
"I... can understand where that thought comes from," says Lily. "It's hard to see the best in people, given what Tonks said about you."
"Is there anything else?" I rather pointedly ask.
They get the hint that Tonks is a sore topic, and soon take their leave.