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Maroon, then sky blue, then snitch golden—and just as free. Then back to ashen brown.
She had kept her hair deliberately shaggy and above her shoulders for months now, with no intention of messing with that wolfish crop. But it was time—or so Fleur had insisted—to liberate her locks from the mousy brown she’d been favoring. Just for the party.
Pink and purple felt so like home that they’d stung in the mirror. Orange too close to the fire in her lungs. Silver too like the moon.
And then, without meaning to, just as she’d resigned herself to perhaps a Forbidden Forest green, her hair became the precise melted chocolate her late cousin had worn.
“Oh, that’s rich,” she deadpanned to the Sirius-Tonks in the mirror. But Tonks decided to take the dare her magic had given her. Be the ghost her lover mourned.
She tied a scarf to cover her hair and apparated to a spot further from the Burrow than necessary. A punishing slog as penance for the petty way she’d styled her hair.
She sloshed through the mud. Burried every footprint deep into the earth. With each clinging step, the wet squelch begged her to reconsider. The wind sung its judgment as it rustled through the nettles. Cruel. Too cruel.
Tonks had been raised to give gifts with a full heart. In truth, she knew no fuller heart than the one propelling her toward the door. Broken, surely. Scorned. But full. Full as the moon, she couldn’t help herself from thinking.
Tonks announced her arrival with a rhythmic knock before barreling in with all the false confidence her tall posture could provide. Only to topple over nothing.
“They’re our new Fall-Safe Tumble Tacks!” Fred said as he pulled her up.
“Just stick the tacks onto any surface, and you’ve got an adjustable, invisible, trippable menace!” George added, placing two silver tacks in her palm.
“A tester for your troubles,” they both said before launching off into a noisier back room where the party had congregated.
In this quieter room, however, Tonks was greeted by a banner: Happy 37th birthday, Remus! The 37 had been scorched and patched back up. Too old. Too many years between us. Too many memories to rewrite.
Also in this quieter room sat the birthday boy, relaxed into a wingback chair in the corner. The full moon was two weeks away. Too dangerous. Too sharp. Too likely to change.
Tonks strode toward him. Her boots kissed muddy marks onto the floorboards. She knelt beside the chair, her hands itching to rest on his knees. Instead she reached for his hands, and brought them to the silk knot that kept her scarf in place. Her hands still around his, around the silk, beneath her chin, Tonks looked up. She morphed her amber eyes to a cool gray.
“Happy birthday,” she said. “Pull.”