Someone had set his mother off downstairs. Sirius had heard her shrieking from all the way up here, but for once it had done nothing to move the thick layer of apathy dulling his sense, like frost on a glass pane. They’d managed to shut her up without him, anyway. They could, apparently, manage a lot without him. He imagined talk was beginning down there, that the meeting might have begun by this time. It did nothing to change Sirius sullenly staying in place. Dumbledore had already said they weren’t going to rescue Harry yet, and Dumbledore had already said Sirius wasn’t allowed to so much as walk in the street, let alone do anything useful. He couldn’t think of a single other damn thing he cared about, not unless they announced they’d found Peter and had him tied up in the kitchen, ready for Sirius to try out the Noble and Most Ancient wizard’s torture rack he and Molly had found in the attic last week. Maybe Kreacher had been onto something, not letting him throw anything out, he thought, with a flash of dark amusement about it, if nothing else.Â
The knock on the door took his eyes off the old photo he’d been staring at - unable to look away, like he was stuck into a loop, just like it was stuck onto the wall forever by his very own charm, a fucking reminder forever that he hadn’t just killed Peter right then and there, at fifteen years old apiece - but he didn’t move to open it. He’d already told Remus he didn’t want to be the show for the new members. It had gotten old. His mouth opened, ready to say as much as the door blew open, but then shut again in confusion. This wasn’t Remus. He felt a stronger wave of irritation, enough to begin to crash through his sense of paralysation.Â
“Azkaban. It works miracles. Dear old Bella’s sweeter than ever, too,” he said, deliberately scathingly to this stranger, before he was struck right out of numbness entirely by the pink hair. And the mention of Bella - those were her eyes, in this face he didn’t know. It would chill him, except he did know it, had known and mourned for it. He’d never liked to think of little Dora Tonks hating him. It had almost been a relief that the Dementors had taken memories of her away. “Nymphadora?”Â
It was only the moment after he said it that he remembered he had never called her that. His memory was like that, these days, more remnants pieced together than anything else. He could never quite predict what would stay and what wouldn’t. But now there was the phantom of the way he’d crouched down beside her and given a conspiratorial whisper, i have a real name, too, different from what people want to call me. it’s padfoot, you can use it, but don’t tell your mum, it’s a secret codename, i think you can be trusted.  The memory was fuzzy, distorted; how cruel Azkaban was to leave something behind, just enough so he knew something was missing. All the same it was the same thought running through Sirius’ mind now, staring at this face that was at once familiar but not, at least not in the form of an adult. I think you can be trusted. He blazoned on a grin, even if it was stretched thin at the edges. His bitterness had not been for her. “Sorry, kid. I meant to say Tonks. Unless you don’t like your codename anymore.” It was half-teasing, half-cautious, a rusty attempt at trying to fall back into an old pattern that he wasn’t sure still existed between them. Â
It’s startling, to see him like this. It’s startling to see him in general, that cousin she hasn’t seen since she was eight years old and someone else entirely. A ghost of a person, not just because he seems to be made out of memories, but because he looks half-alive. Tonks has never been particularly good at these bits of life, or at least has her very own way of approaching it that not everyone can always appreciates. She looks at Sirius for a moment, registers the bitter mention of the aunt she’s never met but has heard both horror stories and tragedies about, and then turns to close the door behind them.
She drops on a spare chair. Her entire mind is made out of questions she wishes to ask, and it’s not a lack of bravery that keeps her from doing so –– it’s because she does not know where to start. Ever since Sirius had gone to Azkaban, Tonks has been filled with questions upon questions that her mother nor father could answer. Her mother’s side of her family has always had that effect on her, leaving her with more questions than anyone could possibly answer. Sirius simply raised the biggest ones, because he was the only family member of her mother’s side she ever knew, and then he’d been gone, suddenly.Â
And here he was again. A ghost. She’s forgotten how to behave, but then she’s never been particularly good at behaving herself anyway. If she remembers right, that’s something Sirius once liked about her. “Still just Tonks, yeah,” she says, and she’s grinning a little. “Though I’m definitely not a kid any more.” Something proud laces her voice, and she wants to tell him that she’s an Auror now, that she’s fighting the good fight and part of it is because of him. The word codename stirs up a memory, and she reaches for it for a moment, urging it back. “Padfoot’s yours, right?”
She wonders if he would be okay with her hugging her. With most others, she would do it, no questions asked, but something about the way Sirius sits here, in his childhood bedroom, makes her hesitant. Tonks shifts in her seat, lets her eyes travel around the bedroom for a few moments again, and then her eyes are back on her cousin. “It never made any sense to me, ya know,” she says, “You.” She tries to make her words coherent, to not stumble over them like she did over the umbrella stand earlier. “Guess it does now.” And it’s not something she’s happy about, she hopes he sees that. Tonks pulls her legs up, sits cross-legged on the chair now, a restless thing even in adulthood. “It’s good to see you again, is what I’m tryin’ to say. Wish it wasn’t all so fucked.” She’s quiet for a moment, before letting out a laugh. “Oh, you can swear in front of me now. Mum tried to raise me not to be potty-mouthed but it never worked out.”
