Written for day thirteen (of october, 2023) of @remadoramicrofics. 174 words. Also available on Ao3.
I apologize to the mods for bothering them every few months. I'm not good with daily challenges, but I like going back to the prompts.
Dora ran her hands in-between her husband's ribs, leaving behind a trail of soap and goosebumps. She delineated each bone and ridge and bump, nuzzled into his hair (much to Remus' amusement, who either petted her with a wet hand or tried to headbump her) and thought —ashamedly, the thought squirreling away as fast as a hare— of how easy it'd be to break him. She thought of her hands breaking vases and tearing pages and manhandling men twice her size and wondered if she'd done it before.
It'd taken her too long to realize Remus was someone that needed to be handled with care —someone that needed to be taken care of. And she wished she knew how to take care of people, that she'd ever been taught how to handle fine china and how to not tear dolls' heads off when brushing their hair. She had Remus' bones in her hands, and she loved him, and that love was so big, so overwhelming, how could those bones not bow under the weight?
“Yes?” Remus asked as he stirred the potato leek soup.
“Is our house haunted?”
Remus looked over his shoulder at his son; he was patiently coloring, kneeling in the chair to comfortably reach the table, and changing his hair to match whatever color he was using. “No, why do you think our house is haunted?”
“Victah said it was,” he said simply.
“Victoire said our house was haunted?”
“Umhm,” Teddy said with a firm nod.
Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by a loud thump in the entryway followed by a muffled curse. “Wotcher,” Dora called, “How are my boys?”
“In the kitchen,” Remus called back.
Dora appeared in the doorway. “Wotcher, Remus, Teddy.”
“Wotchah, mum.”
“How was work, love?” Remus asked as Dora pulled him into a hug before taking a seat across from Teddy.
She began picking up various crayons and tapping them off her nose, rapidly changing her hair and eye color to match. Teddy, of course, couldn’t help but copy his mother. “It was fine,” she said as she touched the purple first to her nose then to Teddy’s. “What did you two do today?”
“I graded essays on Grindylows and Teddy, apparently, spent the morning speculating on the probability that our house is haunted.”
“Our house is haunted!?” Dora cried in mock surprise, “why didn’t anyone tell me,” she asked Teddy. “And why hasn’t my husband, an expert on the dark arts and a war hero, not done something about it?”
Remus chuckled. “Well, it’s news to me,” he said. “Apparently Victoire has been keeping secrets.”
“Victah said that, when there’s noises at night, it’s ‘ecause of the ghosts – tha’s what Uncle Bill told her.”
“Noises at night?” Remus asked with a furrowed brow.
Teddy nodded adamantly, but didn’t elaborate. Suddenly, there was a light tapping at the kitchen window. “I’ve got it,” Dora said.
“Like last night,” Teddy said.
“There were noises last night?” Remus asked him.
“Umhm. Oooh,” Teddy said, mimicking a ghost.
Remus froze, remembering that he and Dora had gotten home late last night after dinner and had promptly said goodnight to his mother-in-law before hurrying to their room. He was certain he had used a silencing charm, but perhaps, in their haste –
Dora's laughter pulled him from his thoughts. “It’s from Bill,” she said, “He said you need to work on your silencing charm, Professor.”
for today's @remadoramicrofics 100-word challenge. warning for mild sexual content.
He never stays in bed. She's lying there melted—trembling!—because he finally got past his flinching and gave it enough vigour to get her off; he's pulling a jumper on, casting cleaning charms on the sheets. They make her thighs tingle. If he speaks, it'll be with all the dour gravity of a debriefing.
She morphs her hair short: cool air over her neck.
Privately, she thinks it's hilarious. She's heard that he once nearly murdered someone with considerably less guilt. She wants to shout: it's only a body! You're meant to use it! See what it can do!
image: tamara de lempicka, woman in red dress (detail)
Remus has never been this scared in his life. Not in his time with Greyback, or that night at the Ministry, or his first full moon, when he was five years old. Well, maybe then, but he'd blocked it from his mind, so he wouldn't know.
The moon is rising, its crescent arcing over the thatched roof. The birds have gone silent, the air whispering, withholding its judgment, but he doesn't need it. He bloody well knows its cowardice, walking in on her when she's asleep and can't see him coming. Knows too, that the only thing more cowardly than opening that door, is turning around and leaving again. And so he pulls the key from the inside pocket of his robes, aims it towards the keyhole, and drops it, his hands to stiff to line it up properly.
He tries again, gets it in the slot, half expecting she's changed the locks. She hasn't, but it feels just as wrong, walking in on her like this. Heart beating so hard there's a stitch in his side, he puts the key in his pocket, clenches his hand in a fist, only its so stiff he can barely do it, like when you first wake up.
His hand hits the door, but there's no force in it and no sound. He knifes a hand through his hair, tugs the strands in punishment. Maybe if he's bruised, bleeding, she'd…good lord, what's wrong with him? He clenches his fist and knocks, three times, loudly. Tonks was a light sleeper, she'd hear it.
He doesn't see the curtain rustling upstairs, but he senses it in his periphery, and when he looks up they're fluttering slightly. He thinks, this is it. She'd open the door for him, or she wouldn't.
He remembers her arms, the way she squeezes him from behind when he's cooking. The scent of her skin when he curls against her chest. He's not aware of much when he's sleeping off a transformation, but he knows she comes to him and strokes his back.
He can count on one hand the number of times he's told her he loves her. He'll tell her over and over and over again, when she opens that door. If she'll open that door. Please open the door.
Five minutes pass, maybe ten.
It's the longest wait of his life.
The vibration is faint, from somewhere in the depths of the house; he pictures her coming down the stairs in her Holyhead Harpies t-shirt and frayed pyjama bottoms, her feet bare. She didn't wear slippers, or even shoes unless she had to. Liked to feel the different textures on her skin.
The lock clicks, and he doesn't know how he stays standing; he can't feel his own pulse.
He knows before she says anything, that she's in a burning, blinding rage; her hair goes from red to white to incandescent yellow, and she is fire, she is air, she is the earth itself, and he wants to lean in and let her burn him alive.
"You--"
She raises one arm as though to strike him, or pull him closer. Whatever he is she can't say it, she can only stand in the half-open door and grab at the air, her teeth clenched together. He can see the veins in her neck.
"You fucking…" She takes a long jagged breath, rubs a fist against her eyes; when she glares at him, her irises purple, they're mostly dry. "You fucking leave for four weeks and don't say anything, barely even a patronus…"
He wants to hang his head, but doesn't. Knows that this time, he needs to face her, to see what he's done. The hurt he's caused her.
"Dora," he says, not taking his eyes away from hers. "I did something so incredibly…I was so, so stupid and so--"
"You're so fucking selfish, Remus." She's shouting now, disturbing an owl who's perched itself on a rowan branch. "You've never gave a shit about my feelings."
This isn't true at all, but he knows better than to point it out. "I know," he says, still looking at her. Her eyes change from purple to glacier blue. "I know and I am so sorry."
She doesn't say anything and he presses on, steps closer, so that he's inches from the threshold. He wants to touch her, take some of her anguish and put it in himself, but he doesn't.
"Leaving you was the biggest mistake I ever made," he says, and he isn't faking it when his voice breaks. "And I won't blame you if don't let me in. I just wanted you to know that I love you. I love you more than anything, and I love whoever this is…" He gestures to her belly; it hasn't changed yet, but he knows it will. "I'll be there for both of you, I swear."
Dora is unmoved, and can he blame her? It all sounds so trite...
"You're far wiser than I ever was. Even if you do eat crisps in bed."
Far from softening, her glare is still somewhere north of the Arctic circle.
"I suppose the child will think its funny," he says. "His dad being a wolf and everything..."
Her face is cold fire, hair as white as lightning, arms crossed over her chest, but her eyes flicker towards the door. The wind rustles the trees, the moon comes out from behind a fast-moving cloud and its faint light shows her face, the way the lines of fury slacken. Dora blows air through her lips and pushes the door open wider. Her hair has gone from ice white to the soft orange-red of embers.
He knows he'll be sleeping on the sofa tonight. Knows she'll snap at him for leaving his dishes on the table and his socks on the floor. Knows it'll take something more than apologies and fresh wildflowers to make it up to her. But as he follows her across the threshold, all he can think is that he's home.
written for day 13 of @remadoramicrofics, for the prompt bones.
There was whisky in the sideboard.
It was Muggle whisky. Dad’s. From some distillery in the middle of nowhere in the Outer Hebrides, sold in Harrods and delivered by Uncle Tony every Christmas in wrapping paper printed with snowmen scrabbled from the bargain bin at Woolworth’s.
It was used exclusively for celebration. For the days you wanted to preserve in amber; the days when dad was pink-cheeked and roaring with laughter, and mum was tipsy and willing to regale them both with ridiculous stories from her childhood, instead of keeping all of it locked up in some secret place they could never reach from their little suburban house. It was whisky you toasted with, and tossed back on New Year’s Eve, and looked the other way about when your daughter and her best mate got pissed as newts on it the day their OWL results came, and Jade was sick in the bin and she was sick in mum’s hydrangeas.
It was whisky for joy.
That was, perhaps, why it hadn’t been opened the day she’d announced she was married.
There was stubble on Remus’ chin, its brown - mousy, rather than wolfy - flecked with grey. His face was growing sharper; he was no giddy newlywed, content to grow fat on his loving wife’s cooking now he’d left his bachelor days behind him. His wife could cook nothing more sophisticated than supernoodles, could do nothing more than press kisses to hollowing cheeks, to the angular juncture where the jawbone meets the neck, as if to say, let me warm you up, since I cannot make you any fatter, I can at least make you warm.
‘Did you find him?’ she asked, and it shocked her to hear that her voice was so small, as if something of it had been left in the night skies, caught by a Death Eater’s curse.
Remus shook his head. His temples were grey too, and she cursed herself for not being able to coax colour back into them. Love should have done that. It had for her, had turned her back into the rainbow-lustered creature who looked so wrong in mum’s neat living room, with its doilies and its aspidistra. Her childhood had been one of scolding, for chocolatey fingers on the chintzy arms of chairs and the coffee table broken when she tripped and fell over it.
‘Hagrid upended the entire lounge,’ mum had sniffed, when she’d returned - shaking and weary-eyed - from the Burrow. That could be easily translated, provided you were fluent in Andromeda Tonks, to Nymphadora, I’m so frightened.
‘Yeah, well, he’s massive, isn’t he?’ she had replied. That meant your sister tried to kill me. You have the same eyes.
And then she had sat in the dark, a mug of tea untouched before her, the milk turning to scum as it cooled. Her thoughts were nothing more coherent than flashes. Of green light. Of the set of Bill’s jaw, knotty scars running down it. Of Muggle towns twinkling below her like stars. Of the wobble in Mad-Eye’s jowls they all used to tease him about - on the easy days in the office, before there had been a war on - formed by the ready supply of chocolate biscuits in the staff kitchen. Of the way his face had been clenched - in the way you had to know him well to notice, but which, if you did, you knew meant he was worried - just before they’d risen from the ground into armageddon.
Almost as if he’d been expecting it.
She had sat, a picture-reel flickering in her mind, and waited for the scrape of a key in the door and the weary trudge of a man who should have been too young to be weary. Who should have bounced across the threshold to meet her, a bridegroom desperate to get home to his bride.
‘Did you find him?’
Remus shook his head. He was thin. When they lay in bed together, she could run her fingers up each bump in his spine, across each rib, along the hollows of his hip bones. Like an explorer, searching for something lovely in a wasteland, for a place where the sun shone upon pale stone. For a place where she could be the sun. Let me warm you up.
‘No,’ he said, and his voice was hoarse. He had obviously used up all the vigour he possessed to yell at Harry.
He walked to the sideboard and took out the whisky. Because he didn’t know that it wasn't the time to drink it, that it wasn't the booze they brought out in times of mourning. Because he was a stranger to the house, and that was why there was tension in every bone of mum’s hands when she passed him his morning coffee at their sunny little breakfast table, and that was why she looked at Tonks as though she had brought doom into their perfect world.
That’s vampires, mum. You don’t have to worry about inviting werewolves in, she had thought. What she had said was, ‘stop being so fucking prejudiced.’
‘Your father is making plans to flee,’ mum had replied, matter-of-factly, as if she said such things every day. ‘When the Dark Lord takes over. It will not be safe for him to remain here, not when there will be two wanted paramilitaries living in the house.’ She stirred a spoon through her tea, clinking it against the side of the mug. ‘We were left alone by him last time, of course. We kept our heads down. But you and Remus have put paid to that.’
And, for once, there had been no second meaning.
‘No,’ he said. He poured the whisky into a glass, his thin fingers tight around it, as though he was hoping it would shatter and rip through his flesh to the bone. He tossed his drink back. ‘No. The Death Eaters probably got there first.’
‘Oh.’
A muscle ticked in his jaw. She wanted to kiss him, to cup his face with her hands, to graze her teeth across his stubble and make him forget. She wanted to make him warm, to make him say that he loved her, to lie down with him and count the ladder of his vertebrae, and ignore for a few tender hours the fact that their days were running out. She wanted to pretend that their number had not become one fewer that night.
‘I’m going to bed,’ he said.
He pressed a kiss - lips closed and tight - to her cheekbone. And his skin was cold from his futile toil in the night air.
"Don't look now, but there are two people behind us who have followed us all the way from the High Street."
A younger Tonks would have struggled to fight the urge to turn and look, but her years of auror training had knocked that out of her. While she wasn't great at 'Stealth and Tracking', she was surprisingly good at stealth and being tracked. She didn't even react to Remus' words, the only indication she'd heard them was the gentle squeeze she gave to the hand she was holding.
They were spending their Wednesday evening investigating a tip off for the Order: apparently, a dodgy herbologist was selling lots of Mewt Algae - an important plant in necromancy - to some of You-Know-Who's lackeys. The fact that the tip off came from Mundungus Fletcher meant that Tonks hadn't one hundred per cent believed it, but she was doing due diligence in following it up. On the plus side, it meant that she got to spend an evening wandering around the small city of Wells hand in hand with Remus. They had taken to posing as a couple when out on a mission, not only because it deflected attention, but also because it allowed them to communicate via small movements and signals in the hands they were holding. Smart really, and they had gotten very good at it. The fact that Tonks also enjoyed holding Remus' hand was her little secret, one that she hadn't shared with anyone.
The herbologist lived on an old muggle street next to the city cathedral, but they had apparated to a spot just off the High Street so they could walk about and get the feel of the place. At 10pm, all the shops were closed, and, being a Wednesday, the pubs were relatively empty. Thankfully, the people who were out for a drink were all huddled together inside, probably as close to a fire as they could get, and were not bothered by strangers out for a walk. It did, however, make it easier to notice when other people were following your path - and as soon as Remus had mentioned to her they were being stalked, Tonks became very aware of the echo from four sets of footsteps on the road.
Her opportunity to turn around and look came as they stepped onto Cathedral Green. The grass in front of them was lit by the glow coming off the face of the cathedral itself, warm yellow lamps angled against it to show off it's decorative design. It stretched out behind them, illuminating the buildings around. She made a show of being fascinated by the history of the area, studying each of the buildings in the golden light. Whilst admiring the medieval masonry on a city gate, she was able to observe the two men following them in her periphery. Both were heavy set, wearing thick cloaks and being anything but subtle as they walked through an archway towards them. She took an extra second to look at the stonework before turning back to Remus.
"Darling," she said, looking up at him (she enjoyed playing up the fake coupleness), "can we go get a closer look at the cathedral?"
With her hand she was tracing a circle on the base of his thumb, indicating it was time to change plans. Remus, however, was apparently not willing to.
"It's getting late, maybe tomorrow."
His finger was drawing a straight line firmly on her thumb - stick to plan.
The space they were in left them quite exposed, and Tonks was worried that the men would try something stupid, like starting a duel. They wouldn't be a match for herself and Remus, but she didn't want things getting too messy. Reluctantly, she let Remus lead her down the road that skirted the grass, getting closer to their destination.
She sensed the moment that one of the men drew their wand and immediately her hand flew to hers. A spell came flying right at her, clipping her slightly on the cheek as she swerved. It must have been a slashing curse because she felt blood spring from the trail across her face. Her only reaction was to throw a return stunning spell, hitting her target almost instantaneously. Remus had also now grabbed his wand, firing a rather angry freezing spell at the other man. Before he'd even hit the ground, Remus was dragging Tonks into a run, away from the two unconscious men, muttering under his breath about how they weren't supposed to create a scene.
They ducked under an arch in another old gatehouse, Remus giving her a firm pull into the dark recess of a doorway alongside him. For a moment, all she could see was his eyes, full of concern and looking intensely at her. Her stomach flipped. She was so close to him she could feel his heavy breathing in his chest, slightly laboured from the short run. She was sure he would be able to feel her wild heartbeat and hoped he put that down to the run too.
"You okay?" He asked, almost in a whisper, his hand coming up to trace a line just under the cut on her cheek.
How he expected her to answer that when he was touching her so softly, she didn't know, but she managed to give him a nod, followed by a quiet "yeah."
She realised straight away she should have lied and said no, because on seeing she was alright, Remus was dragging her off again.
"Good, looks like we've stumbled on the right road to visit our herbologist as well."
He was right, the distinctive cobbled street lay right in front of them. Even in the dark, it was easy to make out the two rows of identical houses, their tall chimneys disappearing into the night sky.
"You know that Mewt Algae is used a lot in necromancy?" he asked her casually, marching on ahead of her down the road, as if nothing had happened.
Ted had offered to come with her. She’d told him not to. Simultaneously, she felt regret and relief at this. Regret in that she desperately desired the comfort he so effortlessly exuded. Relief in that she didn’t trust that her father wouldn’t be firing off Killing Curses if he had. She reflexively brushed her thumb over the ring on her left hand.
Father stood stock still. His hands were thrust deep within his pockets, and Andromeda was sure one was gripping his wand. But he did not move. Every muscle in his body seemed tensed—poised to spring—but he did not move.
He didn't look at her—hadn't since before she'd even finished saying her piece. His eyes were fixed upon the ornate Turkish rug, and if one had walked in at that moment, from his expression one would have thought the carpet had just been heard speaking the most inexcusable profanities.
The clock on the mantel ticked. The only sound. The only evidence that time continued onward. It echoed around Father’s study.
Andromeda kept her chin held high. For better or for worse, she was her father’s daughter, and so, despite the pounding of her heart and the coldness of her fingertips and the subtle trembling of her arms, she kept her chin held high.
“Say something, Papa,” she demanded into the silence.
He did not immediately respond. When he did, it was not with words. Instead, he merely walked to the door of his study, twisted the door knob, and held it open for her.
Still, he did not look at her. Still, he did not speak. Still, he did not need to.
It was not his response that surprised her. She had anticipated it-- her bag was already packed and waiting for her in the foray.
What did surprise her was how much it hurt.
Nymphadora’s hand rested on Remus’s atop the table as she smiled expectantly down to where Andromeda and Ted sat. Expectantly awaiting congratulations and jubilation.
Ted recovered first. “Well…” He cleared his throat. “Well, that’s just grand, isn’t it, ‘Dromeda?” he said. He could fake it well, but Andromeda knew him. Heaving himself out of his chair, he rounded the table and Nymphadora popped up, releasing Remus’s hand to accept a warm hug from her father. She was positively beaming. “I’m so happy for you, Dora,” Ted said, his voice muffled in their embrace.
“Thanks, Dad.” She laughed as she broke away. “I’m happy for me too.”
Ted smiled and this time it did almost look genuine. Then he turned his attention to Remus. “Welcome to the family, son,” he said, holding out his hand. Remus rose to his feet and a tight smile spread across his lips as he took Ted’s hand and accepted the affectionate clap on the shoulder. Remus didn’t say anything-- he'd let Nymphadora do the talking. It bothered her. Andromeda wasn’t sure what she wanted him to say. Perhaps promises to love and protect her daughter, her only child, the most precious thing in her life… But he was silent.
It wasn’t until all the eyes in the room turned to her that she realised he wasn’t the only one.
Andromeda still sat, straight backed, frozen to her chair. Her gaze flitted from Remus to Ted to Nymphadora to Ted. Her face felt numb. Her mind raced between the words she wanted to say and the words she should say, and she found she didn’t know which was which.
“Mum?” Nymphadora was again looking at her expectantly. But where there had been excitement and joy, now there was worry and doubt.
Andromeda stared at her.
Over Nymphadora’s shoulder, she caught sight of Ted raising his eyebrows at her in a pointed look. Prompting her. Cautioning her.
Andromeda licked her lips and looked back to Nymphadora. And she mustered a weak smile and a nod.
It was enough. Relief flooded Nymphadora’s face, and she knocked over a wine glass in her dash to hug her mother. Andromeda was still seated as her daughter’s arms wrapped around her. Her only child. The most precious thing in her life.
Ted began speaking as Nymphadora broke the embrace, pulling her attention away from Andromeda. “Suppose this calls for a toast!” He crossed to the breakfront to retrieve a bottle of Firewhisky and four tumblers. “So do you have a date in mind?” Ted was asking as he laid out the glasses. Andromeda stared down at her plate and the cold remnants of dinner, keeping her breathing slow and steady.
“Soon. We’ll keep it very simple. In times like these, it doesn’t seem right to do anything big and extravagant. And anyway, neither of us has a big family.”
Andromeda heard the squeak and pop of the cork as Ted unstoppered the bottle but did not look up. Instead, she stared at a bit of carrot and potato still on her plate. She barely listened as they chattered. She didn’t take part. Did not look at them. Did not speak.
But something drew her eyes. Slowly she lifted her gaze from her plate to look across to her future son-in-law. He was looking directly back at her. He did not shy away as their eyes met, merely looked at her as Nymphadora and Ted good-naturedly bickered about the scale of a wedding and how to mark the day.
Andromeda saw the disappointment in Remus’s expression. No. It wasn’t disappointment. It was resignation.
