Chapter Text
Number Twelve Grimmauld Place is not so much a house as a tomb; Tonks hates it instantly. Upon entering, it reeks of disgusting mothballs, grime, and the ancient, purulent disease of a family that died out in all the worst ways.
But then there is all of a sudden Sirius, with his bright dog-like laugh, throwing an arm around a pall, lanky man in patched tweed, his eyes the color of faded autumn.
"Oi, Dora! Get over here for a sec. There's someone I want you to meet." Sirius waves her over, and Tonks goes, filled with curiosity. "This right here is Remus. One of the best mates I ever had. Mind him, he’s a bit of a library book, but he’s much sharper than he looks."
Remus steps forward. Close up, he looks even more battered than his clothes. He is thirty-five, Sirius had mentioned. Handsome, Tonks supposes, if one likes melancholy men with plenty of scars. And this one right here does have many of them—sharp, silver tracks across his nose and jaw and who knows wherever else—his robes frayed at the cuffs. Yet, when he smiles at her, even the gloom of the Black family home seems to recede by an inch. The curve of his lips is serene. Welcoming.
"Don't listen to him, Nymphadora," Remus says, his voice a low, pleasant rumble that somehow vibrates straight through the soles of her boots, before the strange, fizzy aftershock of it settles around her ribcage. "Sirius is known for exaggerating. He hasn't changed since we were fifteen."
"It's Tonks. Just Tonks, please," she corrects, and because she is twenty-two and incapable of standing still when she is excited, her hair shifts. It flashes from its morning shade of ordinary brown to a vibrant, bubbly bubblegum yellow in a single, breathless second. "Unless you want me to accidentally knock over that umbrella stand and wake up Mrs. Black in revenge."
Sirius gives a sardonic snort, but Remus only chuckles. It is a beautiful sound, somehow. So natural. So unhurried.
"Tonks it is," he agrees smoothly.
He offers his hand, then. Tonks takes it, expecting a polite, fleeting grip. Instead, his palm is incredibly warm, rough with calluses, and his fingers close around hers with a gentle firmness.
An electric spark, sudden and sharp, zaps between their skin. Tonks feels it move right through her, her hair instantly deepening into a fiery, sunset orange at the sheer, unexpected jolt of it. She has had flings before, obviously—quidditch players with loud laughs, fellow Auror trainees who liked the novelty of a Metamorphmagus—but none of them had ever made her blood feel like fizzing champagne with a single touch.
She expects him to drop her hand, look away, like that's done and dusted, let's move on, shall we.
But Remus doesn't pull away.
His eyes widen just a fraction, a brief, fascinated light kindling in the hazel depths. He keeps her hand in his for one beat too long, two beats too long, two and a half... His thumb brushes against her knuckles by accident, as if assessing the burst of tension rolling off her in waves. He looks at her yellow-and-orange hair, not with the exhausted curiosity of the other Order members, but with a quiet, genuine wonder. Like he has been trapped in the dark for a decade, and someone just threw open the shutters.
"A pleasure to meet you, Tonks," he murmurs, his smile turning a little softer, a little more personal.
"Likewise," she beams, her clumsy boots completely forgotten, feeling for the first time that this awful, dusty house might actually hold something thoroughly interesting.
The heavy oak door of the kitchen swings open and shut, over and over, as the house fills with the muffled chaos of the Order’s arrival. Molly Weasley is already dominating the hearth, her wand waving furiously as pots of thick stew bubble and pans rattle on the iron stove. The scent of roasted garlic and rich gravy begins to fight the smell of dust.
Across the room, Ron and Hermione are huddled together by the pantry, speaking in urgent, low whispers about Harry, their faces pale with worry. Near the head of the long table, Sirius is pacing with the volatile energy of a man imprisoned too long.
"We're sitting on our hands, Arthur!" he snaps. "He’s my godson. He’s stuck out there with those lunatics while Voldemort is gathering strength!"
Arthur Weasley sighs, placing a steady, calming hand on Sirius’s sleeve. "Dumbledore was explicit, Sirius. We leave Harry where he is until the protections are ready. Rushing in will only jeopardize the plan and give the Ministry an excuse to lock you back up."
Remus and Tonks listen to the rising voices, but they are standing a bit apart, left in a quiet corner where Sirius had abandoned them. The physical distance isolates them, creating a small, fragile bubble. A tiny bit of awkwardness lingers—the ghost of that electric handshake still vibrating between them—but Tonks is too lively to let silence win.
She leans against the stone wall, tilting her head. Her hair has settled into a friendly, bright magenta by now.
"So," she says, her eyes dancing. "A library book, eh? Sirius made you sound terrifying. I half expected you to start sorting me by the Dewey Decimal system."
Remus lets out a soft, dry chuckle. "Sirius prefers fiction. I assure you, I am far less orderly. And far more boring."
"Doubt that," she shoots back, grinning easily.
He folds his hands loosely in front of his patched robes, his posture entirely relaxed, self-effacing and warm.
"What about you?"
Tonks shrugs. "Newly minted Auror. Fresh out of Mad-Eye Moody’s tender, loving care."
Remus’s eyebrows rise in amusement. "Moody? You must be remarkably skilled to have survived his training. Or remarkably patient."
"Mostly just clumsy," she jokes, waving a hand casually. "I nearly failed Stealth and Tracking twice. I have this brilliant habit of tripping over absolutely nothing. If You-Know-Who ever catches me, it’ll be because I knocked over a priceless antique vase while trying to spy on him."
Remus smiles, an earnest expression that reaches the corners of his scarred eyes. "In my experience, the most dangerous wizards are often the ones you never hear coming. But a little noise probably keeps people on their toes. It’s a good trait."
Tonks feels a slow, pleasant warmth blooming in her chest. He is so easy to talk to, so steady... She looks at him, curious, wanting to know more.
"Sirius said you two were in the original Order." Her voice drops, softening. "Over fifteen years ago. What was it like? During the first war?"
The change in Remus is instantaneous. It is subtle, but Tonks catches the way his smile thins and shadows leap into his eyes, turning them dark for a heartbeat. The memory of James and Lily Potter, of a brotherhood shattered in a single night, hovers overhead like ghosts.
Tonks instantly feels a sharp stab of regret. Idiot, she chides herself. Of course it was awful.
"I'm sorry," she blurts out. "That was stupid of me. You don't have to—"
"No, it's quite alright," Remus interrupts gently. "It was a lifetime ago. We were young, and we were frightened, but we had each other. That was enough."
He looks at her, his gaze completely focused on her. "Seeing you here, seeing all the new blood... it makes me realize the fight is worth it. It brings hope and light back into the world."
The slow burning fire within suddenly flares into something hotter, deeper inside her. He is entirely magnetic in his humility. She wants to keep this connection alive. Wants an excuse to see him again, away from the grim meetings and the danger of their missions.
"Well." She clears her throat, a sudden idea forming in her head. "If you want to keep the light around, you might need to help me stay alive. Haven't had the chance to use any defensive spells since graduating."
"Oh?"
"Yeah." She steps closer, just an inch. "I was thinking... maybe you could spar with me in a dueling session every now and then? Just for fun. To keep me sharp. Heard you were the greatest DADA teacher at Hogwarts and all."
An Auror who needs remedial defense lessons. Brilliant, Tonks.
If Mad-Eye Moody could see her right now, he would probably hex her into next week for undermining the pride of the Auror Office. She had passed her Defense Against the Dark Arts N.E.W.T. with top marks, and she hadn't survived a grueling three-year training gauntlet just to act like a helpless schoolgirl who couldn't handle a basic Shield Charm. She is good at her job. Damn good, even if she does occasionally take out a stack of top-secret files with her elbow.
Still, a tiny, completely harmless little fib is entirely justified. If pretending she is a bit rusty is the only way to get him in a room alone with her, then so be it. Kingsley always says an Auror has to be adaptable to their environment. This isn't lying. Besides, a little extra practice never hurt anyone. And if she happens to "accidentally" lose her footing and trip right into his arms during a fluid defensive drill... well, everyone knows she is a walking disaster anyway.
Remus glances at her, assessing her. For a moment, the heavy weight of his own life seems to lift. He doesn't look away.
"I would be honored." The corner of his mouth twitches. "Though you must promise to go easy on an old man."
"Dinner's ready!" Molly's voice booms across the hall, shattering their bubble.
Tonks beams at him, her heart doing a strange, happy flip. "It's a deal."
An abandoned drawing room on the third floor of Grimmauld Place becomes their arena. Dark, heavy curtains block out most of the late June sun, but beams of golden light still pierce the gloom, illuminating the dust motes dancing between them.
"Expelliarmus!" Tonks cries.
Her spell is fast, but Remus deflects it with a fluid flick of his wrist. He doesn't even break a sweat. He moves with a quiet grace that completely contradicts his shabby old cardigan and tired eyes.
"Good speed, Tonks. But you're telegraphing your movement. Your shoulder drops right before you cast."
"Does it?" Her hair is a fiery, energetic streak of turquoise today, damp around her temples. She smirks, moving closer, her boots squeaking on the floorboards. "Maybe I'm just trying to make you look good."
"I assure you, my vanity doesn't require the charity," Remus replies, amused.
He steps into her guard to adjust her stance. His hand touches her elbow, his fingers warm and firm through her thin shirt. The physical contact sends a sudden, electric jolt straight through the air. She doesn't pull away, just leans into his space a fraction, her breathing shallow, eyes locked onto his scarred face.
"Better?" she whispers, her lips curving into a playful smile.
Remus doesn't step back. He knows he should. For Merlin's sake, he is a thirty-five-year-old werewolf with nothing to offer, but the thrill of her attention—this intoxicating warmth of being wanted, or even just liked after a decade of complete isolation—is too tempting to simply resist. He allows himself to linger in her orbit for a second longer than strictly necessary. He tilts his head, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a forbidden second before returning to her eyes.
He can pretend this is just teaching. He can tell himself he is merely helping a young Auror. It is a beautiful, dangerous lie.
"Much better," he murmurs.
His voice drops an octave, into a low, hoarse register that makes her pulse race.
Merlin’s pants, girl, pull it together, she thinks. You are an Auror. You hunt Dark wizards for a living. You do not melt into a puddle because a man touched your elbow.
And yet, reason has little room right here in this shared electric space where they trade breaths and lock eyes. Because this is Remus, she reminds herself, brilliant, devastatingly patient, completely unavailable Remus. She wants to stop staring at his mouth. Wants to stop leaning in toward him, practically begging him with her eyes to—
A loud, deliberate cough breaks the spell from the doorway.
Sirius is leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his face. He holds a glass of firewhisky, his dark-grey eyes glittering with absolute amusement. He has been watching.
"Am I interrupting a masterclass? Should I come back when you two have finished rewriting the duelists' handbook?"
Remus immediately drops his hand from Tonks's arm, his expression smoothing into perfect politeness. He tucks his wand into his pocket. "We were just finishing, Sirius. Tonks has excellent reflexes."
Sirius barks out a laugh. "Oh, I'm sure she does."
He walks into the room. He looks between Remus’s carefully blank face and Tonks’s violently purple hair. He lives vicariously through the electric sparks in front of him; trapped in this house, the bubbling tension is the most alive thing he’s seen in years.
Sirius nudges Remus’s shoulder. "You're a dark horse, Moony. I don't remember you being this dedicated to 'tutoring' back in school..."
"I am merely assisting a fellow Order member," Remus replies, his voice entirely flat. The perfect lie.
"Right. Of course," Sirius grins, turning to Tonks. "Don't let him bore you to death, cousin. He used to read dictionary definitions aloud when he was stressed."
"I think he's fascinating," Tonks shoots back easily, casting a sideways glance at Remus. She winks, her hair shifting back to a confident, bubbly pink. "And his technique is flawless."
Remus clears his throat, a faint flush creeping up his neck into his cheeks. He looks away, but the small, secret smile at the corner of his lips gives him away completely.
"Anyway. Duty calls. Kingsley expects me at the Ministry in twenty minutes, and if I’m late, he’ll make me organize the cauldrons or do something similarly fun..." She flings her jacket over her shoulder and bounces down the stairs, throwing one last, lingering smile over her shoulder.
She is not looking at Sirius when she leaves. She is looking solely at Remus.
The heavy silence of the third-floor drawing room returns the moment Tonks is gone. Sirius doesn't even wait for the sound of her footsteps to fade in the hallway before he lets out a loud whistle.
"Assisting a fellow Order member, huh?" He tilts his head to the right, scrutinizing his old friend.
"Yes. Indeed."
"Come off it, Moony. I may have been locked up for twelve years, but I’m not blind. The air in here was so thick you could have carved it with a butter knife."
Remus begins to methodically roll down the sleeves of his cardigan. His face remains perfectly composed, a well-practiced mask of polite deflection.
"You are overthinking things," he replies quietly. "She is a young, talented Auror who wants to stay sharp. I happen to have time on my hands."
"Oh, naturally. And you always look at your students as if you want to swallow them whole?" Sirius sinks onto the arm of a moth-eaten armchair, shaking his head. "Do yourself a favor, Moony. Don't play the noble martyr again. She's magnificent."
"She is an excellent friend," Remus corrects firmly. He meets Sirius’s gaze with such stubbornness that Sirius finally just sighs and raises his glass in a resigned toast.
But inside, Remus is fighting a completely different truth.
He can lie to Sirius, but he cannot lie to himself. The attraction he feels isn't just a physical impulse—though Merlin knows his skin still burns where his hand adjusted her arm. It is who she is. He finds her so genuinely lovely. She possesses such rare, unfiltered warmth, such bubbly resilience that not even the gloom of the raging war can touch.
Before this, his experiences with romance had been fleeting. Quick shags on mismatched sheets in shabby hostels, or brief, tentative attempts at dating whenever he managed to hold down a job. But the full moon always demanded a price. The lies would pile up. He refused to drag anyone into his personal nightmare, and he refused to watch the inevitable shift in a woman's eyes from affection to pity—or worse, fear. His romances had always ended prematurely, snuffed out by his own hand before they could truly begin.
So, he doesn't even entertain the idea of making a move. He is thirty-five, impoverished, and branded by a monster. She is twenty-two with the whole world unrolling at her feet. To encourage her would be a cruelty.
Instead, he will simply enjoy her company as a friend. He will pretend. He will bask in the thrill of her attention, letting her bright colors keep the frost away from his bones for as long as he is permitted to hold her close without corrupting her.
"I’m going down to the kitchen to see if Molly needs help with the tea," he announces, eager to flee.
He leaves the room before his best friend can see how tightly his hands are clenched inside his pockets.
The weeks of high summer bleed into each other, blurred by the suffocating heat of July.
The sparring sessions become a routine, then a necessity, then an addiction. The physical proximity shifts, growing tighter, sharper by the minute.
It is in the casual brush of fingers as he hands her a dropped wand—a momentary touch that lingers a fraction of a second too long, leaving a trail of heat on his skin.
It is in the deep looks exchanged across the kitchen table during crowded meetings, a private, silent language, only theirs.
It is in her electric, laughing gaze, in her intoxicating scent, in her wit, her warmth, her presence.
They participate in midnight raids and secret missions for the Order, standing shoulder to shoulder in the cobblestone alleys of London. Once, pinned behind a brick wall to avoid a couple Death Eaters, the space between them vanishes entirely. Tonks is pressed flat against his chest, heart hammering against heart. Remus can feel the soft breath of her gasp against his collarbone, the scent of summer rain on her neck filling his lungs. Every nerve ending in his body screams to tighten his arms around her waist, to bury his face in the vivid, sunset pink of her hair.
"Just checking your blind spot," she whispers into the dark.
"A thoroughly professional maneuver," Remus murmurs back breathlessly, his voice low, gravelly.
He tells himself it is friendship. He repeats the word in his mind like a protective ward, a necessary lie to keep the monster within at bay. They joke around; they laugh at Sirius’s dramatic complaints; they have sprawling conversations about everything and nothing over cold tea at three in the morning. He convinces himself he is simply being a supportive comrade to a brave young Auror.
But at night, the lie disintegrates.
He thrashes in his narrow bed on the top floor, the thin sheets twisted around his limbs like a shroud. The phantom heat of her touch haunts his skin, leaks into him, a burning brand in the dark. He yearns for her with a fierce, terrifying intensity that leaves him hollowed out and starving—starving for her laughter, for her touch, for her brilliant, chaotic colors. His chest aches with an almost physical weight, always craving, always craving, his inner beast clawing at the bars of his restraint, demanding to take what is being so freely offered.
He stares at the water-stained ceiling, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the mattress, forcing his breath to slow.
She is twenty-two, he reminds himself, the words bitter and cold in his mouth. You are a ruined thing. It is just friendship.
He tells himself there is nothing between them, there never will be, even as the air continues to burn in his lungs.
The rain outside is relentless, a grey sheet of water hammering against the grime-crusted windows of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Downstairs, Molly Weasley’s voice echoes through the floorboards as she coordinates the children in scrubbing decades of doxies from the curtains.
Up in the attic, Sirius is pacing again.
"They're treating him like a bloody prisoner, Remus," he growls. "Just like they're treating me. He’s fifteen. He shouldn’t be left alone in the dark after what happened."
"Dumbledore has his reasons, Sirius. We are keeping watch. He is safe for now."
"Safe," Sirius scoffs, throwing himself into a sagging armchair. "Yeah, right."
Recognizing that words won't soothe his friend's cabin fever today, Remus offers a sympathetic nod and steps out, closing the wooden door behind him.
The hallway is narrow, lit only by a single flickering gas lamp that casts long, skeletal shadows against the peeling wallpaper.
He turns toward the stairs just as a blur of motion bounds up from the landing below.
They collide with a soft, sudden impact.
It is completely unscripted; Remus reacts on pure instinct. His hands shoot out, catching her firmly by the waist, while her palms slam against his chest for balance. The momentum forces her entirely into his space, pressing her body flush against his, again.
The world stops once more.
Remus braces his back against the wall to steady them both, fingers sinking into the leather of her jacket. He is holding her close, too close. The proximity is dizzying, her scent immediately clouding his senses. Her face is mere inches from his, her breathing shallow and quick, her eyes wide and dark with sudden surprise.
Between them, the air thickens, vibrating with an undeniable friction. The sparks don't just zap this time; they burn, threatening to reduce them to nothing but pitiful ashes.
Tonks’s hair, which had been a casual, messy brown a second ago, immediately surges into a violently deep, romantic violet from the roots down. She blinks, staring up at his pale, scarred face, her chest heaving against his.
"Well," her lips curve into a quick, breathless smirk as she tries to puncture the suffocating tension, "if you wanted a hug, Moony, all you had to do was ask. You didn't have to tackle me in the dark."
Remus doesn't let go immediately. He knows he should. Any worthwhile friend would laugh, step back, and make a self-effacing joke. But his hands refuse the order. His thumbs brush against the curve of her hip, a subconscious, desperate gesture of yearning that contradicts every lie he has told himself over the past couple of months.
"I believe you were the one running up the stairs, Tonks. I was merely acting for your own safety."
"Right. Purely heroic," she teases. Her gaze dips down to his mouth before rising back to meet his eyes. She doesn't pull away either. She stays leaned against him, her hands still resting over his heart, which she can undoubtedly feel drumming a frantic, terrified rhythm beneath his patched shirt.
"Purely heroic," Remus murmurs back.
For a heartbeat, the lie holds. They are just two friends sharing a laugh in a gloomy hallway.
Then Tonks pushes herself up onto her toes, the dizzying warmth of her body shifting against him, and the illusion shatters.
A sudden, terrifying clarity hits Remus straight in the head, settling deep into his very bones with cold, creeping realization. This isn't a game. This isn't a harmless fling to keep the dark at bay, and it is certainly no longer a simple friendship. He wants her. He wants her with a fierce, all-consuming gravity that threatens to pull him under completely.
He releases his grip, hands sliding away from her waist before tucking them safely into his pockets.
"Careful on the stairs, now," he says softly, politely, though his eyes remain intensely focused on her.
"Always am," Tonks returns cheerfully as she passes him, but her footsteps are decidedly slower as she continues up toward the attic.
Remus remains standing in the dim hallway a little longer, the rain pounding against the roof above.
He still feels the heat of her against his flesh; and knows, for the first time, that he is in a war he decidedly cannot win.