Fic: Twelfth Night

[stereolightning.livejournal.com]

Author: stereolightning
Title: Twelfth Night
Rating & Warnings: PG
Word Count: 3122 words
Prompt: huldrejenta 's "New Year's resolutions.... stupid New Year's resolutions"
Summary: A few days after the New Year, Remus surprises Tonks by contacting her and asking for a favor. They meet in Hogsmeade, and the conversation turns to New Year's resolutions.
Notes: Well, I wasn't going to attempt HBP-year stuff, but I think I've found a way to keep it from being too depressing. Also - I totally cribbed shimotsuki's neat trick of switching perspectives.

Tonks pulled open the door to the Three Broomsticks, and the cold of the iron handle bit through her new mittens, hand-knitted by Mrs. Weasley and delivered two weeks prior by a very put-upon Errol. The pub was full of Hogsmeade regulars. She spotted Remus at the bar, his back turned, his travelling cloak patched, apparently saying something amusing to Madam Rosmerta, because the landlady was laughing as she took down the last of the Christmas decorations.

Joking. That was a good sign.

But when he turned around, Tonks saw that his face was thinner and his hair even greyer than it had been last summer. Was this what four moons with Greyback had done to him? He locked eyes with her, and his small smile melted into a flat, inscrutable line before reforming as an expression of cordial welcome.

Tonks hung up her coat by the door and removed her fuzzy purple earmuffs. She crossed the room, her boots sticking slightly in a patch of spilt butterbeer, and then swung her legs over the stool next to Remus' at the bar.

“The usual?” asked Madam Rosmerta, who by now knew Tonks' predilection for a hot toddy on a cold day.

“Thanks,” said Tonks, digging around in her pockets for a sickle.

“Thank you for meeting me,” said Remus. “And thank you for the other thing, too. I know it was short notice.”

Tonks supported her head in one hand, her elbow against the bar, and took in Remus' lined face, and the way his new Weasley jumper – a tweedy heather brown flecked with grey – hung loose on him. He seemed to sense her concern, and his smile warmed, as if to say, don't worry about me.

“Happy New Year,” he said.

“It's Twelfth Night,” she said.

“So it is,” he said.

Her hot toddy arrived and she clinked it against his tankard of butterbeer in a strangely solemn toast.

She felt like shouting at him. Maybe he knew that. Maybe that was why he had chosen to meet her at a crowded pub instead of at her tiny rented flat down the street. Now they were toasting politely like stuffy characters in some nineteenth-century drama. Any moment, they might start comparing country balls to town ones, or complaining about these newfangled modern broomsticks, like wizards usually did in that sort of thing. Merlin forbid they actually talk about their feelings.

She drank, and the lemon and whisky felt sharp and vivid in her mouth.

“You went to the Weasleys' for Christmas,” she said, without the lift on the last syllable that would have made it a question.

“I did,” he said. “Harry was there. Do you see much of him, now that you're stationed here?”

“Not really,” she said. “It's mostly the perimeter. The forest. The mountains. I see a lot of Hagrid, though. And I see Professor Sprout now and again.”

“Pomona was your head of house, wasn't she?”

“Yeah. She didn't think that much of me at the time, but she's changed her mind a bit since. She thought I was a bit of a... well, I think her exact words were 'obstreperous and incorrigible.'”

He chuckled quietly as his lips closed over the rim of his drink.

“What?” she asked, feeling half pleased that he had laughed and half indignant that he had laughed at her. She was out of practise at self-deprecating humour, these days.

“I don't think I've ever had a well-behaved friend,” he said. “I don't think I'd know what to do with one.”

“Play Gobstones, maybe. Or talk about the weather,” she said.

“It is quite cold today, isn't it?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, pretending to be annoyed, but failing spectacularly as she smiled and kicked her legs back and forth under the bar, like a kid on a swing.

“I'm sorry. I won't insult you by insinuating that you are in any way obedient.”

“Thanks,” she said, trying to channel her mother's cool irony, but this, like the charm that could fold her socks, was something of Andromeda's that Tonks had never quite mastered.

.*.*.

Remus took another small sip of his butterbeer, stretching it to make it last.

He felt immensely guilty, but he was determined that Tonks would remain his friend and nothing more. She was plainly still disappointed that he had rejected her romantic overtures (for her own good, if not his), but their friendly rapport was there, underneath everything, like indelible ink. She was smiling. So he hadn't ruined her, hadn't really broken her heart, though her lifeless, colourless hair suggested otherwise. She was all right. She would find somebody else, and they would always be friends. There were plenty of young men in the Auror department. One day she would realise that and stop fancying someone who could never give her –

Anyway.

They were friends. She was here. And she had done him a favour.

She pulled off her mittens and warmed her hands on the sides of her glass.

She looked a lot more like her mother, without her usual spiky pink hair. And a little like Sirius. All the Blacks had that exotic runway model look about them, with long legs and high cheekbones and a vaguely tragic something about the eyes, as if they all carried terrible secrets. Which, probably, most of them did.

“It's good to see you,” he said, because it was, although he realised as soon as the words were out of his mouth that she might take them entirely the wrong way.

“Really? I thought you were avoiding me,” she said, all lightness gone from her tone.

“I wasn't. I would have written before, but I couldn't risk it. I've only been able to get away a few times lately because Greyback has been visiting London.”

Her eyebrows shot skyward. “He's been visiting London? What for?”

“I've been trying to find out. He is not exactly... forthcoming.”

“It's probably on You-Know-Who's orders.”

“It might be. I've informed Dumbledore already.”

She frowned and swirled the stick of cinnamon in her drink, and then tapped the side of the glass with it. The liquid spun and formed an amber funnel. That reminded him of potions, and of the reason for their meeting.

“I hope I didn't inconvenience you too terribly by asking you to brew the Wolfsbane potion. And I will repay you for the ingredients as soon as I can. I might be able to visit my Gringott's vault, if I'm careful,” he said.

“It's no problem,” she said. “I'm happy you asked. I wanted to get you something for Christmas. I wasn't sure I'd get the chance. But if I can make one night easier for you, that's enough. Will you have to go somewhere else when you transform? Do you want someone to keep a lookout for you?”

“Oh. I'm sorry, it's not for me. It's for Viola.”

She set down her glass with unnecessary force. The surface of his own drink shuddered with the shock waves. “What?”

He realised instantly what she must be thinking, and he hurried to correct any false impression. “Viola is a ten-year-old girl who Greyback attacked three weeks ago. Her parents are devastated. I've made contact with them, though, and told them I would try to help. The potion can't undo the bite, of course, but at least they won't have to lock her up all night.”

Tonks' mouth fell open, and then she closed it, hard, and twisted her lips into a tight red helix. Finally she picked up her drink again, and muttered, “Bastard. Not you, I mean.”

He folded his hands and set them on the table. “It could have been a lot worse. This is Greyback we are talking about.”

She swore colourfully and then finished her drink. He finished his at the same time.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your day off with this,” he said.

“You're not ruining my day off, Remus. Merlin, I'm happy to see you, even though you look bloody awful and I wish you would let me help you.”

“You are helping me. More than I deserve.”

She stood up, scraping the legs of her stool against the floor, and actual fury coloured her heart-shaped face. She locked her jaw. Unspoken words burned in her dark eyes. Remus set down his empty tankard but did not look away from her.

Next moment, she seemed to master her anger. Her eyebrows squirmed and she sighed at the ceiling.

“Come on,” she said, not looking at him.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I never meant to upset you.”

“You never do,” she said, sighing again. “And I've just realised I'm a total idiot. I've left the whole cauldron at my place. It's not going to do anybody any good there. So come on. Walk with me.”

She held out her hand. She had stopped painting her fingernails with that absurd, harlequin-bright polish that Sirius had loved to tease her about; instead her nails were naked and pink and chewed down to angry circles.

He glanced at his shoes. Since when did Tonks forget anything? Then again, since when did her hair fall like wet straw around her face, as lifeless as the bare cheek of the moon? She really was out of sorts. And it was at least partly his fault. Now all he could hope for was that she would recover as soon as possible. She had to. She must. Otherwise, he was torturing her by being near her at all. Otherwise, they could not even be friends. And that possibility made his stomach turn over.

They paid and left.

.*.*.

Hogsmeade in winter was a perfect Christmas card of white snowbanks and warm lamplight. The path to Tonks' rental had been salted, and it crunched satisfyingly under her dragon-hide boots.

Remus seemed determined to keep the conversation light as they walked.

“Have you made any New Year's resolutions?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “A few.”

“Care to share any of them?”

“I'm going to try to get better at household-y spells. Tidy up after myself a bit better. But honestly, I make that resolution every year and it never sticks. This is me,” she said, gesturing at her front door – a short, green one with a brass knocker in the shape of a hippogriff.

“Oh,” he said, “this place used to be Sisal and Pyle's. They sold magic carpets, before they were banned.”

“That explains all the rugs in the broom closet,” she said, unlocking the door with a flick of her wand. She clicked on the lights, illuminating her spangly miniature Christmas tree, still not packed away after two weeks, plus a tornado of ripped wrapping paper and an avalanche of unwashed dishes.

She turned around. Remus had stopped at the welcome mat, which barked in a voice not unlike Alastor Moody's, “Oy, you going in or what?”

“Come in, Remus, it's freezing,” she said.

“I'm not so sure – ”

“Stop being ridiculous,” she said. “What do you think is going to happen? That I'll tackle you as soon as you cross the threshold?”

“No.”

“Then come inside, you prat,” reminding herself suddenly of Sirius, who had delighted in calling Remus affectionate little names like this, often with a positive result.

Remus gave a sheepish smile and complied, and then gracefully, balletically, stepped over the rainbow snowdrift of laundry heaped by the entrance.

“Hmm. Having trouble with your resolution already?” he asked, looking around at her precarious piles of belongings.

“Told you, it never sticks. Want a satsuma?”

She was already levitating one at him, and the fruit peeled itself as it went. He caught it and thanked her. She wondered how long it had been since he'd had anything decent to eat, but then she remembered he had been at the Weasleys', and she had no doubt that Molly had stuffed him full of sprouts and turkey and gravy. Thank god for Molly.

“Did you get a camera for Christmas?” Remus asked, pointing at her bookshelf, where she had placed a boxy black model with a lens like a cyclops eye.

“Dad gave me that,” she said. “It's an instant camera. 'For the witch with no time to lose,' he says.”

Tonks' cauldron smoked on the tiny kitchen table. She conjured a glass beaker, coaxed the potion into it, and then stoppered it with a tap of her wand.

“Here,” she said, pressing the beaker into Remus' hand. “You've got to expose it to oxygen every couple of hours, or it will curdle, yeah?”

“Thank you. I will repay you as soon as I can.”

“Don't,” she said. “I'm glad it's doing somebody some good, at least. I'm glad to be helping. Sometimes all this patrolling feels ruddy useless. We've never caught anyone sneaking around where they shouldn't be.”

“Well, that's better than the alternative,” he said, vanishing the peel of the satsuma.

They stood in silence for a long moment. He looked like he was puzzling over something. Her pots and pans clanged together in the sink.

“Would it be horribly condescending of me to show you a household-y spell? To thank you for brewing this? If it would help you with your resolution?”

She considered him as she began putting away her potion kit, stowing small silver spoons and pistol-handled knives into a folding leather case. “No. My Mum would be thrilled, actually. I'm an abysmal student, though.”

“I doubt that. Especially considering that you stuck with Potions for seven years. I quit after OWLs, myself. And some people seem to find Severus rather difficult.”

“Can't imagine why,” she said. “Such a charming, amiable person.”

She folded up a paper parcel of dried wolfsbane flowers and then crossed the room.

“All right. Go on. Show me,” she said.

He waited until she was standing next to him, and then he pulled up his sleeve so she could see better. He whipped his wand at her bookshelf, turning his wrist just slightly outward, and said “Pulviro.”

The books shuffled themselves like a deck of cards and coughed up a plume of dust, which popped and vanished.

Tonks pointed her wand at her nightstand, imitated his wand movement, and spoke the word. To her surprise, it actually worked fairly well – her alarm clock spun in place and her lampshade shook like a wet dog, both shaking off a cloud of dust that promptly disappeared. Mostly.

“Hey,” she said, “it's a Christmas miracle.”

“Or a Twelfth Night one, anyway,” he said.

He tucked the flask of potion into an inner pocket of his travelling cloak and shot her a genuine smile.

“I must get back. If I stay too long, they may guess that I've been among wizards. And I still need to deliver this,” he said, patting his pocket.

“Okay.”

He sidestepped her laundry again.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me take a picture, before you go.”

He winced. “Is that a good idea?”

“It's just for me. No one's going to see it. I just... want to remember.”

His eyes closed, bunching into two tight little xes. Then he opened them and gave her a rueful smile. “All right.”

She tiptoed around her discarded socks and t-shirts, nearly tripped over a pink trainer, tangled her foot briefly in its shoelace, righted herself before she could face-plant into Remus' chest, and then hopped on one foot until she was next to him. She caught him stifling a grin.

She summoned her camera and held it at arm's length. Remus inclined his head slightly toward her, and actually allowed himself to touch his shoulder against hers so that they were both in frame. Then she jerked her wand. The flash detonated, blindingly bright, and her vision swam with rectangular stars. The camera spat out a small, square instant photo, which was still pale yellow with developing potion. As she watched, it turned darker and darker, until two faces became clear.

A tired witch, and a careworn wizard, their hair almost the same shade of light brown, though his was shot through with silver. Both smiling. Guardedly. There were bluish circles under both of their eyes.

“We look like hell,” she said.

He did not reply.

She sent the camera zooming back to its spot on the bookshelf with another swipe of her wand. Remus opened the door, and a gasp of icy air sliced through the comparative warmth of her flat. He shivered.

“Goodbye, Nymphadora,” he said, burying his hands in his pockets against the chill.

“Goodbye, Remus,” she said.

She stifled the impulse to hug him, succeeding in passing off her instinctive movement as a casual shrug of her shoulders. He walked to the street with his back to her, the hem of his black cloak rippling around his ankles. The sky was turning a brilliant, alpine orange over the distant mountains.

“It really was good to see you,” she said.

He turned back and nodded, and the peachy sunset light illuminated his face, making him look less weary. He smiled. For a moment, he looked like that young man from the photo permanently adhered to the wall of Sirius' bedroom.

“It was,” he said.

The he turned and turned, in a swirl of black cloak and brown jumper, and he was gone, almost without any sound at all.

It was only when Tonks had dropped her hand to her side that she realised she had been waving goodbye. An elderly witch looked curiously up at Tonks as she passed, and Tonks gave her a smile and a cheerful 'happy new year' before shutting the door.

Tonks pulled off her wet boots and threw them onto the hopeless pile by the bookshelf. No amount of dusting spells was going to help with that. She flopped onto her bed without getting under the duvet. She stared up at the ceiling, which she had plastered with Holyhead Harpies posters when she had first moved in. Gwenog Jones dived, narrowly dodging a bludger, and caught the Quaffle one-handed, and a sea of fans in the background cheered, their arms punching the air.

Tonks hadn't told Remus about the other resolution. The one about not giving up on him, no matter what. And she had every intention of keeping that one.

Comments

[arctic-comet.livejournal.com]

This is sad, but at the same time not too depressing, if you know what I mean. Just the perfect mix.

“Oh. I'm sorry, it's not for me. It's for Viola.”

She set down her glass with unnecessary force. The surface of his own drink shuddered with the shock waves. “What?”

I actually snorted at this. Such a perfect reaction, I could totally see her acting like that :D

[stereolightning.livejournal.com]

:) Thanks! I always wondered about that "too old, too poor, too dangerous" speech - specifically I thought, okay, is Remus saying he would only date another werewolf his own age? And that left a door open for an interesting misunderstanding, so... that little fake-out happened.

Oh, and I'm glad you did not find it too depressing. HBP year is a sad year for them, but an interesting one, too.