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If the world were ending, he suspects Celestina Warbeck would be playing on a wireless somewhere, ushering in its final hours. He would catch the sound of her voice, muted by distance or crackling as the reception died, imploring whomever might listen to stir her cauldron (do it right) as buildings fell and rivers ran over. As it is, it has been haunting his brain for the better part of the evening, though his sentiments, unexpressed, had aligned with Fleur Delacour's as they’d sat listening at Molly's behest: "Eez eet over? Thank goodness."
Remus stands in the kitchen, looking out over the orchard, and the night presses down around him. He can hear Fred and George exchanging quips in the sitting room, Ginny's good-natured laugh, Molly's pleasant offer of more eggnog and Arthur saying, "Thank you, my love." There's a bowl of satsumas on the counter, vivid orange in the soft light, and he's sipping from a tumbler of firewhiskey, cracked open with gusto by Bill, who'd offered a glass to Fleur in the warm kitchen and had received a face of complete disgust.
It's getting late, and his reservoir of easy friendliness has diminished. In all places, his mind returns to her: Dora, who seems to him a sort of phantom, moving alongside him—a guest of conversations, though not present herself, her name flitting around the room, moving from speaker to speaker like a dance.
"She's already said she won't join us," Molly had told him, just after he'd arrived. "Wants to stay in London. She looked exhausted, poor dear."
(This is an entirely distinct matter to contemplate, sometime in the future, perhaps, but more likely he feels it will present itself as he tries to fall asleep in the creaking Weasley home.)
He is aware of a presence behind him and turns to see Fleur coming into the room, her footsteps light. She walks gracefully, but in her motions she appears keenly aware of being observed, and so her entrance has a (not displeasing) element of performance about it. She reminds him of a highly trained ballerina: everything fluid, everything crafted to seem effortless, and beneath it, practice, dedication, intelligence. But she's difficult to read, Fleur, and perhaps his time in less delicate company has clouded his judgement. Perhaps it truly is as easy as she makes it seem.
"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" she asks him.
"Nothing," he says. "Seasonal depression."
She folds her arms. "I thought as much," she says, turning the th into a soft z. "When I was talking to Bill, you 'eard?"
"Fortunately, Molly doesn't speak a word of French," he replies. She raises her shoulders, as though to say, "So what?"
It is remarkably blasé, given the things she'd been telling him, and he wonders if, were they to both gain an ounce of patience, she and Dora might strike up a friendship, united in their cavalier attitude toward whispering filthy suggestions in their partners' ears. Then he thinks about Nymphadora Tonks and some vague figure who isn't him, and his possessiveness comes in thick, embarrassing waves. He knocks back the firewhiskey.
"She's English, why should she? But so are you. Curious."
"I move. Constantly, it seems," he says. "And my French is deeply out of practice."
"And you are sad," she observes, "but not from winter."
"Perhaps."
"Everyone assumes, because I am learning a language, that I am somehow idiotic. Molly looks at you when she talks about Tonks, and you are 'ere, drinking, quiet. It is not a great mystery." She gestures toward the kitchen door. “Will you not go to 'er?"
"No," he shakes his head, once. "I'm the reason she's not here. I can't ruin her holiday and then show up at her door."
"Why not? Perhaps she would open it."
"You have more in common with Molly Weasley than you think," he says, leaning against the sink.
"But to be alone, at Christmas, with your 'eart broken? Bill would not do this. He would show up at my door."
"That's probably true," he says. "And he'd be a fool not to. But this is different."
"That seems unlikely. But, I am 'ere to bring dessert." Fleur gestures to the spice cake, half-devoured but still standing, rather impressively, on the table.
"To whom?"
"To Bill, of course. Fred and George ‘ave a bet. 'Will she feed him cake?' I am not supposed to know, and I 'ave not decided who will win." She flicks her wand, levitating a heavy slice of cake onto a china plate only slightly worse for wear.
"It is Christmas," she reminds him. "Don't be stupid."
A smile plays at his lips. The number of women cautioning him against his own idiocy has become obscene, lately. He is tempted to make a retreat to bed, but the idea of spending an unknown number of hours staring up at the ceiling sours the impulse and he stands, letting his eyes lose their focus, thinking. He wonders if she’s even home. Certainly he would not expect it, not when she could be out and living and downing mulled cider somewhere, playing the worst and most exuberant carols, all the world bowing to her youth and enthusiasm. But he has a terrible feeling that she is home, and this has placed a far less joyous scenario in his head. He sighs.
Celestina Warbeck, satsumas, Fleur Delacour, Exploding Snap.
She should be here, having eggnog or trading stories with Bill Weasley, and he thinks it will be better, perhaps, if he tells her such. He can leave, she can replace him. An exchange. Happy Christmas.
——
“I had a feeling it was you,” she says. “Something about the way you knock.”
Tonks steps back so that he can pass through her doorway, and he realizes, instantly, the extent to which he has mired himself in a phenomenally complicated situation. He’s not seen her since October, and now here he is, too close to her, the door shutting behind him. There’s a small fire going, and the flat is warm and silent.
She appears to have been wrapping gifts in front of the sofa, and she notices his gaze and says, “Procrastinated a bit.”
“Did you buy every wrapping paper in the shop?”
“Very nearly,” she nods. “Except for one print which had grindylows on. It was a hard no, sadly.” She looks at him. A bit of hair hangs loose from her ponytail and falls beside her cheek. “I thought you were at the Burrow.”
“I was. I am. I wanted to convince you to visit tomorrow. I can go elsewhere.”
“Back to the encampment, you mean?” She grows tired of the hair brushing against her skin and takes it down, and it is, of course, brown, still brown, never changing. “No. Stay. I’m seeing my parents tomorrow anyway. I’m sure they’ll hold me hostage most of the day.”
“I’m sorry it’s been like this,” Remus says, and she makes a noise of dismissal.
“I chose to stay here,” she tells him. “It wasn’t your doing, not directly. It’s been a long day, and you’ve arrived as I was about to open a bottle of wine. So, good timing, I suppose, if you fancy a drink with a recent ex.” She glances toward the bedroom. “I have something for you, actually. Not a Christmas gift, so don’t panic.”
When she returns from the bedroom, she’s carrying a small, tidy card, and she hands it to him, letting him look it over: Cadfan S. Rees, Apothecary, Cardiff.
“I did a bit of research,” she confesses. “Rees is good. He’s fairly gruff, doesn’t talk so much as grunts, but if you show up and tell him I sent you, he’ll supply you with Wolfsbane Potion, no questions asked. I’ve paid him in advance, so he should be accommodating enough.”
“Not a Christmas gift,” he says, stunned. The lettering is raised, just slightly; he runs his thumb over the name, feeling the rise and fall of vowels, consonants.
“Look, it’s not a romantic gesture,” she tells him. “Or, it’s not intended to be. I think about you going through your transformations without anyone or any help; this way, should you want it, you'll have an alternative. Snape's no use, and Rees has a few months' funding as motivation.” She raises her eyebrows. “Don’t say I shouldn’t have. I do as I please.”
“All right,” he murmurs, looking at her.
“All right,” she nods.
“Thank you,” he manages.
“You’re welcome. I need a drink,” she replies. “Will you stay for a drink? I can sense you lurching for the door.”
“I’ll stay,” he says, and they enter the kitchen, where she uncorks a bottle with her wand, beckoning glasses toward her after. She's strung holly above the window, several of the tiny red berries having dropped to the windowsill.
She’s normally more hands-on, and she appears dreadfully bored with the task of pouring merlot. They drink in silence, interrupted only by pleasant chit-chat and observations on the snow (only a dusting) and current events (not particularly great).
It is midway through the second glass, once they have drifted into the sitting room, when she lets out a breath and asks, "All of this: is it because I'm petty? I know I can be. Not my finest quality."
He studies her, watches her focusing on the wine to avoid meeting his eyes, and he shifts so that he is turned toward her on the sofa. It's not large enough to justify two bodies. It demands a sort of intimacy. He'd taken the spot out of habit, not wanting to move when she'd sat beside him, but not wanting to inadvertently brush against her.
"People," he says softly, "fall back on 'It's not you, it's me' in order to spare feelings or to avoid talking about all the ways someone wasn't desirable, but I promise, Dora, it wasn't you." He pauses. "It's for the best, I think. Less complicated, or will be. Lovers in wartime—rarely do they meet happy ends."
She frowns, looking over at him. "Please, you weren't just a lover, or a fling, or whatever. I don't know what you think you were, but it was always more than that." She downs the rest of the wine and places the empty glass on a nearby table. “Shall I show you something? I find it interesting. I reckon you’ll find it interesting.” She pushes up the sleeves of her oversized jumper, forearms thin and pale, and conjures her Patronus almost lazily, as if she’s been doing it all day, and perhaps she has.
Remus watches the silvery wolf prowl about her furniture, taking up residence beside a leafy plant and stretching out, paws ghostlike on her rug. He can feel his entire body tensing, and hopes, in the shadows, she does not notice. His mouth has gone dry. The form surveys its environment through milk-white eyes, yawns, and rolls onto its side, apparently unimpressed with its own existence.
"When did this happen?" he asks.
"Big, isn't he?" she says, ignoring his question. "You know I thought, foolishly, that once the war ended, we'd quite likely end up together,” she continues, observing the wolf. “Married, even. I never wanted to get married. And once I let it in - the idea of it, it took root."
"I'm not meant for it,” he says. Her Patronus has been gradually fading into nothing, and he stares, brow furrowed, as it becomes faint and disappears completely.
"What are you meant for, Remus?” She shoots him a skeptical look. “Do you think you were born into this world to be someone else's resource? Mined to depletion?"
"I think that, given the likelihood of further werewolf legislation being passed, given that I am nomadic and sporadically employed at best, it is rather fortunate that I can do what I'm doing now. Times coming suggest I'll have outlived my usefulness."
"Not to me,” she grunts, leaning over and summoning the wine bottle from the kitchen. “I find you infinitely useful."
Tonks pours the remainder into her glass, drinks it, and reclines against a squat pillow, propping one leg up. She's wearing skimpy shorts; he gets a fair view of her inner thigh as she does so, which she probably intends, he realizes. He slouches down on the sofa, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
"No, you find ways to love me, but when you know me as I know myself, you'll see all the strings behind the curtains. It's idealistic. You've not yet found yourself drowning as I pull you down with me. You think when the time comes, you'll not want to cut yourself loose. You think you're too good of a person with too large a heart, but it isn't about goodness, it's about practicality."
“No woman has ever gone to her deathbed saying, ‘Christ, I'm glad I let him go, since I've had such a practical, uncomplicated life.’”
"Plenty have let themselves turn bitter."
"You think I'll resent you? You won't even allow me the chance. You want total control of the situation."
"I want you to live a happy life. I think it might be the only thing I can give you: pushing you toward it."
"Well, I don't want it. I want to be miserable."
"Dora." He turns his head toward her. She's got her elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, her head against it, a sort of casual, determined air of opposition hanging about her. He stifles a deep urge to rest his head against her stomach, to bury his face in the wool of her jumper, and it seems strange that in the course of a year, he has moved from wondering if she might return his affection to trying to deny his own. He does this around her, inevitably. Frayed, worn-down rationality replaced with impulse. More than once she'd sat on the kitchen table of Number Twelve before a meeting, his hands roaming over her, her lips against his throat, and she'd pulled him halfway into the pantry, laughing behind her hand, as soon as they'd heard footsteps at the top of the stairs.
"No, I've made up my mind. I'd like some misery," she declares, eyes on his. He feels something like electricity running through him, and he clears his throat.
"Will you settle for a glass of water? Your head will thank you in the morning."
"I won't settle, but I will accept your offer."
——
He looks at her, hair tousled, one leg tucked under her on the sofa, upper thigh exposed and mouth darkened ever so slightly with red wine, knowing full well that she wants him, that she loves him, and he thinks of worship, reverence; of kneeling between her legs; of letting her declare him hers. His hands are unsteady, and he stretches his palms, flexing his fingers, while she finishes the water. She holds it up as if to say, "Satisfied?" and Remus moves to take it, regaining control of his limbs. She gazes up at him with her soft doe-eyes. He imagines for one absurd second that she will know: undone, he is undone by her, that she will feel it in the simple transfer of an empty glass. Instead he takes it and returns it to the kitchen, running a hand over his face afterward, the cheery glow of fairy lights surrounding him. He stares down into the sink basin, ceramic white, filled with teacups and little mint green plates, and he rests his hands on its edges.
“I’d lost track of the time. It’s officially Christmas.” She’s occupying the doorframe.
“Is it?" he asks, not turning. "Happy Christmas.”
“If I say that I want you, no strings attached, will you shoot me down?”
——
She undresses in front of him, her breasts exposed in the lamp light. Remus watches her in silence, and it is only when she backs toward the bed, sitting her buttocks against its gentle surface that he mobilizes, still wordless, as she opens her thighs to him.
Her body is heat, his tongue buried inside her, and she grabs at the edge of the duvet cover, whimpering. She weaves one hand into his hair; props herself up using the other, her pelvic bones jutting upward. His hair is long enough to grip and tug, to interlace with her fingertips, and she cups him forward: perverse pietà, it is, a cradling—an obscenity, a holiness.
The sound of her orgasm rises in the quiet room, and it will linger afterward in his head; among her exhalations, his name springing from her lips. It is too much, at once. There is meaning to be found in her breathless invocation, in his heartache and his need. It cannot be dismissed. It cannot be mindless. Too much between them. He should not be here.
"This has to be the last time," he tells her. He wonders how many voices have uttered those words with any degree of success following.
Her hand is on his sternum, her fingertips running over the smooth basin where his pulse flickers, caught between his collarbones. She nods, and he knows she is lying, but he suspects it of himself, as well.
This is what he wishes to be meant for. Kissing her neck, letting her undress him, the tickle of her hair against his nose. Her hands are the counter to forced motion, precise arrangements, the trickle of bleak water across a sheet of metal or the piercing white light experienced after a change spent in some abandoned, industrial ruin. He's not afraid of dying, but he doesn't want to die without something to turn his thoughts to, when it happens, when it reaches him. He vows to think of this, how she breathes against his ear, how their bodies, naked, move together. When her skin is flushed and rosy, and he can sense that she is close, he tells her to look at him, and so she does, and this too, he will think of. Her dark eyes on him, full of love and lust and fierce devotion, until both their eyelids flutter shut, involuntarily, and there is only pulse, exhaustion.
——
It is when he is dressing, adjusting the sleeves of a sweater over the shirt beneath it, that Tonks says, still sitting in the nest of blankets, "Please be careful."
"I do my best," he says.
"Sometimes I worry that you don't," she tells him. "I don't think you consider yourself much of a loss." She brings her knees up, wrapping her arms around them, and her duvet cover is thick and downy around her. "I don't know what I'd do. If something happened to you, I think I'd break apart."
His eyes sting, so he clears his throat, and knowing that he cannot promise her the thing she wants (don't die, don't die, come back), he instead assures her that he will manage. He's always managed.
"Don't forget the card," she says. They both know he won't forget.
He sits on the edge of her bed, and she leaves her cocoon of warm blankets to wrap her arms around him, saying, "I don't care if you want to hear it or not. I love you. If you left and I didn't tell you, I'd never forgive myself."
"I know you do," he says. "And I love you. But I'm going to leave now, and that's going to be how it ends."
"Because you say so."
"Because it has to," he says. He presses his lips to the back of her hand, holding it against his mouth, kisses her fingertips, then stands and sees himself out the door. Christmas Eve has become the early hours of Christmas morning, and he wanders the narrow streets outside her flat, moving through London like a spectre, unable to send himself in any particular direction. He can only move, forward, future-ward, creating distance.
——
He returns to the Burrow when dawn has cast a little light on him. Bill Weasley is in the kitchen and lifts his mug in a calm sort of acknowledgment when he opens the back door, watching him charm the snow from his shoes before entering the quiet house.
"You're up early," he says, and Bill nods. He's leaning against the counter, and his red hair is hanging down. No doubt he'll pull it back by the time Molly makes an appearance—an attempt to spare himself the additional clucking and fretting.
"And you're up late," Bill observes. "Coffee?"
"Thanks," he says. He sinks into a chair.
Bill gestures to the squat French press on the countertop. "Coffee, early mornings: new habits," he mutters, almost as if compelled to explain himself, and he smiles. "Fleur said she talked to you last night. 'To make him see that he cannot ignore love.' Apparently."
"Tell your intended she is full of remarkably bad suggestions."
"She told you to stick your hand in the fire, and you were surprised when it burned." There's a laughter in Bill's voice which suggests some amount of sympathy, but more than this, deep affection for his fiancée.
"Something like that." Remus lowers the mug to the table, weary and possessed by gallows humor. His head aches. "Do you know, I thought about finding a very tall cliff and seeing what was over the edge of it, but I thought another death might deplete morale."
"What would?" asks Fleur, coming through the doorway. Nothing, nothing, Remus tells her, and she takes a drink from Bill's mug, arching an eyebrow at him.
"So?" she asks, and Bill makes a noise, a sound of gentle warning. She looks between them. "Did you do something stupid?" She sounds disappointed, and Remus regards her from the wooden table, very nearly amused.
"Every single day, Fleur," he replies.