The Lupin Stories

Remus knew that the pointed remarks would start almost as soon as he crossed the Burrow's threshold.

It was actually sort of comforting. His parents had been exceedingly nonconfrontational, to the point where once in a while he'd wondered how they ever managed to get married in the first place since his father wasn't the sort to ask any question ever, let alone a controversial one about matrimony. It had probably taken his mum a year of hint-dropping. His mum had continued to drop hints all her life, but fortunately Rufus Lupin was an even-tempered man who needed a lot of prodding anyway.

Coming to the Burrow for Christmas felt like coming home, at least in the sense that Arthur was a genial, friendly chap and Molly spent most of her time prodding Remus to Do Something About Nymphadora. The noise level at the Burrow was a good few decibels higher, but Remus had been a schoolteacher and was used to that, too.

"It's just that I already have done something about Nymphadora," Remus said to Arthur as they stood in the garden, Arthur supposedly showing Remus what he planned to do with it in the springtime. In reality they were sharing a flask of firewhiskey and a few moments' peace from the crowd of children inside.

"But the wrong something, isn't it?" Arthur asked.

"It isn't the wrong something. It isn't the wrong something at all. Tonks will see that when she's a bit older."

"Cruel to be kind, are we?"

"Don't you start," Remus said, taking a long pull at the flask before wiping it with one threadbare glove and handing it back.

"She really looks awful, that's all," Arthur said.

"That's not my fault! Even she knows I'm not worth getting that wrought up over. It's mostly Sirius, I think. She really wanted to do right by him. Protect him and sort of -- she wanted him to be proud of her. Of course she's miserable he's gone, she feels responsible."

"Lupin, you can't wriggle out of this one. You're at least partly to blame."

"Yes, well." Remus tucked his hands up in his armpits, warming them. "She'd be much more miserable later on, with a dead-end blocking her career and a husband who can't hold a job."

"Look at Molly and me. We've done all right with not much money, raised a whole houseful of children. There's a bit of sad and angry in every marriage, but you don't remember them much when you really look back."

Remus contemplated the thick blanket of snow, leaning against a fencepost. "But you're not a werewolf. Molly doesn't have to take care of you."

"We take care of each other."

Remus shook his head. "I can't do it, Arthur. I can't take that much away from her. Better a little heartbreak now."

"Well, if you can stand up under the strain of Molly's persuasive obsession, I suppose you deserve your independence," Arthur said. "Come inside, there ought to be cake or biscuits or something soon. Thank Merlin Molly's giving you new gloves and a muffler for Christmas, you look half-frozen."

Remus laughed and stepped inside through the back door, unwinding his tattered muffler and shedding his cold-weather clothing. It was Christmas eve, and he was himself very much looking forward to one of Molly's knitted mufflers. He'd cobbled together enough cash for small gifts for everyone, though he was embarrassed at their cheapness, and he'd begged wrapping paper and ribbon off Molly.

Arthur's words weighed him down, however, much more than Molly's tart remarks had. He found a seat close to the fire and near to Harry, but the horrible Christmas concert on the wizarding wireless was a dim background hum to the sound of his own thoughts. He only really even noticed Harry when the boy leaned closer to Arthur to tell him what had been going on at Hogwarts. Even when he was talking with Harry himself, most of his mind was elsewhere.

It would get better, the pensive thoughts, when he went back to the werewolves after Christmas. It would have to because if he was distracted then, among the werewolves, he might as well sign his own death warrant.

Eventually the Christmas concert ended and Arthur brought in eggnog for everyone; it wasn't long before the youngsters were wandering off to bed, though Arthur and Molly stayed, as did Bill. Fleur, having conceded the field to Molly for the evening, was probably off putting some kind of beauty product on her face before bed.

"When are you going to be married?" Remus asked Bill, as they settled in with a second round of drinks.

"Summer, I think," Bill said, glancing sidelong at his mother. "Hopefully things...will be better by then."

"Before then, I hope," Remus agreed.

"To better times," Arthur said, lifting his glass, and they toasted gravely.

"What about you?" Bill asked, when he was done with his drink. "Mum told me a while ago she thought you'd found a girl."

"I thought he had," Molly said severely.

"It didn't work out," Remus replied, his voice even.

"Sorry to hear that. You could do with a bit of domesticity," Bill said, nodding at his frayed and patched jumper.

"I'm afraid I'm rather better at sewing than she is, actually."

"You haven't told Bill why it didn't work out," Molly observed.

"I doubt he's very interested," Remus countered.

Bill looked from Remus to Molly and back again.

"Are you going to play charades all night, or can I ask what I'm missing now and save some time?" he inquired blandly. "It's not that she can't sew, is it? That'd be a stupid reason."

"Your mum thinks I've acted unreasonably, that's all," Remus said. "Nymphadora -- "

"Is it Tonks?" Bill asked. "Merlin, is that why she's been so absolutely unlivably miserable lately?"

"No," Remus said, even as Molly said, "Yes."

"It's Sirius," Remus insisted. "She's just having a hard time dealing with his death, that's all."

"Says you," Bill said. "You've been off with the werewolves, you haven't been around to see how mopey she is."

"Men have died, and worms have eaten them, but not for love," Remus retorted. Arthur refilled his cup, not with eggnog this time but a straight shot of whiskey from the flask. It burned a little, going down. "I have every faith that Nymphadora will get -- has gotten -- over any hurt I may have caused her."

"Who said that?" Bill asked.

"Said what?"

"About the worms."

"Oh. Shakespeare, I think," Remus said.

"Nymphadora's favourite writer," Bill commented, as if proving a point.

"Is it genetic?" Remus asked Arthur.

"Couldn't say," Arthur replied cheerfully. "You boys can stay up talking all night if you like, but I'm going to bed."

"They'll have us up at seven in the morning, I think we'd better get what sleep we can," Bill said to Remus. "Nymphadora Tonks. Well done, Remus, you had some stiff competition to beat out to break her heart."

"Like who?" Remus asked, following him into the corridor and up the stairs. "Goodnight, Arthur, Molly."

"Goodnight," they called up, the door of their bedroom already closing.

"Oh, well, I don't have proof per se, but she mentioned some boy in the Aurors, and there was some Quidditch player who chased her round for ages," Bill said. Remus caught an unaccountable anger with Bill rising in his gut, and froze it. Mustn't shoot the messenger, after all. "And Charlie, last time he visited -- "

"All right," Remus said, annoyed. "I get the idea."

Bill smiled at him, the same horrible faux-innocent smile the Twins had given him time and again when he was teaching at Hogwarts.

"So, she'll get over you," he said, standing in the doorway of his room, "But are you sure you'll get over her?"

Before Remus could reply, he'd closed the door.

Remus' room, which had been Charlie's old room before Arthur converted it to a guestroom, was another flight up. He slipped inside and shut it quickly, not wanting to let any of the warm air from the charmed fireplace escape into the chilly hallway. The fire crackled merrily, warming his threadbare pyjamas and the blankets he'd hung over a chair nearby. Once he put them on the bed, he'd stay warm all night. There were nights among the werewolves he'd absolutely fantasised about warm blankets and a crackling fire.

He slipped blissfully into his pyjamas and sat down next to the hearth, wrapping his arms around his knees and warming his feet on the heated stone. The little pile of gifts was neatly stacked on the dresser, including one for Nymphadora, right on top. She was still his friend, after all. Besides, it wasn't much, just a knicknack he'd picked up at a thrift shop, a carved wooden stand for her wand. She was always losing her wand in her flat. What could be more noncommittal than a wand stand? It practically screamed we are just friends.

Nymphadora wasn't at the Burrow, of course. As Molly had already informed him half a dozen times, and would probably continue to do so, Nymphadora was spending Christmas alone. He reached up and took the package off the pile, fiddling the inexpertly-tied bow between his fingers.

Well, he had to give it to her sometime, and he had just enough liquid courage in him to try and talk to her again. The bollocks he made of things every time they talked was stupendous to behold, but maybe he could manage not to be an arsehole this time.

He took a pinch of floo powder from an ancient jar on the hearth and tossed it in the fire.

"Tonks," he called quietly. "Nymphadora, are you there?"

There was a soft thud and the sound of footsteps, then a hushed voice. "Remus, is that you?"

"I'm afraid so," he replied.

"It's nearly midnight!"

"Did I wake you?"

"No," she admitted, and he saw her head appear in the flames. "Hey, you look awful."

"Sorry, I know."

"It's okay, it's good to see you. Molly invited me to the Burrow, but -- "

" -- yes, she said I should ask you too, but -- "

Tonks laughed a little, but there was an edge on it that he didn't like. "It's better this way, it really is."

"I think so."

"So," she said, and there was a slight, awkward pause. "Did you floo me to wish me a happy Christmas?"

"I -- yes, actually, I did, sort of. Happy Christmas," he added.

"Happy Christmas, Remus."

"I got you something, can I send it through?"

The smile of pleasure that lit up her face hurt. "Of course! You didn't have to."

"Well, that's the point of Christmas, we never do," he answered, carefully easing the box into the flames. A disembodied hand accepted it. He could see her shoulders now, the slim arch of her neck, and the fact that she was wearing a thin pyjama shirt herself. He heard paper rustling.

"What is -- oh!" she said, delighted. "A wand stand -- I'm always losing mine -- oh, you knew that. And look, it's collapsible. All the little brass hinges...Remus, it's great. How thoughtful of you."

Remus shrugged. "I know it isn't exactly -- "

"No excuses," she said firmly.

"But -- "

"Remus!"

He subsided into silence. She unfolded the stand fully and locked it into place, holding it up to eye level to examine it. Finally, with a deft little click, she collapsed it down and it disappeared from his view.

"Do you want your present?" she asked. "I didn't even know when I'd get to give it to you, I thought not until you came back for good from the werewolves."

"You got me something?" he asked, rather pleased.

"Of course I did. But," she added, grinning at him, "you've got to come through to get it."

"Tonks, I'm in my pyjamas -- "

"I could remind you I've seen you in less. I won't, because you get all high-strung about it, but I could," she said. "Besides, you won't get your Christmas present otherwise."

He bit his lip, indecisive. The cheerful, flirtatious look on her face was slowly replaced by one of disappointment.

"Sorry," she said. "Maybe you shouldn't, after all."

"No -- it's just..." he sighed. "I'll come through. Hang on a moment."

Arthur had left a spare dressing-gown on the back of the door for him, and he shrugged into it before tossing another pinch of powder on the fire and stepping forward. When the world stopped spinning he stepped out into Nymphadora's tiny, cluttered flat, but she was nowhere in sight.

"Nymphadora?" he called, curiously. There was a crash from her bedroom.

"Stay there!" she called back. He stepped over a pile of laundry and leaned against the counter separating living-room from kitchen, hands in the pockets of the dressing-gown. She emerged triumphant, carrying an oblong box. When she saw him, she paused in the doorway, mouth slightly open.

"Hiya," he said, feeling stupid.

"Hi," she breathed. "Sorry, it's just -- I haven't seen you in -- and you look -- it's a nice dressing gown, and -- I'm embarrassing you now," she added, resolutely walking forward, the box held out in front of her. "Here. Happy Christmas."

"Thank you," he said, not meeting her eyes. He picked meticulously at the bow, a shiny department-store one that slid off the box with a little work. With the lid and a significant amount of tissue paper gone, he lifted two glass objects out of the box reverently.

One of them was a small tumbler, a "rocks" glass with a picture of old-fashioned scales etched into the base. The other was a frosted-glass bottle with a simple, discreet label on it.

"Everyman Apothecary Company," he read. "Le Malt Juste."

"Have you ever tried it?" Tonks asked, practically dancing in anticipation.

"I've heard of it," Remus replied, turning the bottle around to read the back of the label. "To prepare an Everyman beverage, pour a measured helping of liquid into the specifically designed and patented Everyman Glass. Do not add ice. Everyman Apothecary Company not responsible for injuries, illness, or death caused by consumption of Le Malt Juste. Well, that's reassuring."

"Go on, try some," she said, as he set the glass down on the counter. "It's supposed to taste like whatever kind of drink you like best. The wizard demonstrating it in the shop showed me, you can even pour ice cubes right out of the bottle if you like your drink on the rocks."

"All right," Remus agreed, pinching the neck of the bottle. With a muttered charm the cork popped out and he caught it, setting it on the counter next to the glass. He held the bottle's lip over the glass, hesitated, then poured it out in a thin stream. It was clear, even after hitting the cup.

"Bottoms up, eh?" he said, sipping carefully.

To his surprise, given the colour of the liquid, it was red wine. It was, in fact, a wine he recognised. He hadn't had much chance to become an expert, but he remembered this taste. Half a year ago -- no, longer now -- they'd finished a bottle of it between them, eating sandwiches on the back porch of Twelve Grimmauld Place as they worked on Order business.

"It's amazing," he said, swallowing and trying to push away the memory because he remembered kissing her for the first time and the way the wine tasted in her mouth, too. "Here, you try, see if it's different for you."

"It should be -- I guess I didn't ask about that..." she said, holding it up to her lips and drinking. Her tongue darted out to catch a trickle of liquid on her lower lip. "What was yours? Mine tastes like butterscotch."

"Vodka," he lied. "The really good stuff."

She looked pleased that he liked his gift, offering the cup back so he could finish it. He tilted his head back and drank it in a single swallow, reaching around her to set it on the counter once more, along with the bottle. As his head tipped forward he became aware that he was closer to her than he'd been in months, closer than he wanted to be. This close he could see every detail of her face, smell her, feel her body heat.

"Remus, if you -- " she said, but he almost drowned her out.

"Tonks, I should..."

They both paused, and then she shook her head. "If you wanted to stay tonight -- I know the way you feel. But -- just...no strings attached. No expectations, I promise."

"Are you sure that's a promise you could keep?" he asked hoarsely. "I'm not positive I could."

"You've done all right so far."

The barb hit home, more thoroughly than she had probably intended.

"It's not that I don't want to spend Christmas alone -- I don't, but..." she continued, taking his silence for confusion. "I want to spend Christmas with you. That's all. That's what I want. Remus, we might die before we get another chance -- "

"There are no other chances. I've told you."

"Fine, we might die before we even see each other again," she said. "I want at least one Christmas with you."

He knew that now was the time to bolt, but he didn't move. She hooked her fingers in the collar of his borrowed dressing-gown, pulling him closer. And he went, and he bowed his head so that she could lift her face, and her mouth didn't taste like butterscotch. It tasted like red wine.

He tried to ignore it. After all, if she didn't remember that first stolen kiss, it was easier to convince himself that she really didn't feel all that much for him, and he could stay here tonight in her bed, in her arms, without hurting her further. He could take her offer at face value and pretend that he wouldn't hate himself for months for doing this to her. Because he wanted her that badly and his self control, though monumental, did not extend this far.

When she broke the kiss he caught her lower lip between his teeth for a moment, not wanting to lean back and face reality again. One of her hands was cupping the back of his head, the other on his shoulder, and he had unconsciously pulled her close with both hands on her waist.

"It doesn't have to mean anything," she said, her eyes dark blue and studying his. "I promise."

"It doesn't have to mean anything," he echoed.

The denial was awkward and new, but it only nipped at the back of his thoughts because there was a sudden wash of familiarity, a sense of how easy this was, so terribly easy that it nearly hurt. It was incredibly simple to love Nymphadora and want to please her, and the lie that tonight meant nothing made it even easier. There would be no consequences in the morning, nothing to face. It didn't mean anything. Like a Christmas gift.

The dressing-gown fell to the floor as he walked her backwards towards her bedroom, catching her arm before she could bang it on the doorframe. Her other hand had hitched his shirt up and pulled it sideways over his head. He shrugged his right shoulder and it joined the dressing gown (and a handful of her t-shirts, she never could learn to use a dresser) on the floor.

He hooked one foot around her calf to stop her stumbling over a pair of shoes. She laughed and kissed his Adam's apple, holding tight to his shoulders to prevent herself from falling.

"I don't seem to be able to keep my balance around you," she said as he pulled her pyjamas down over her hips. "I'm much better about it at work now -- "

"Don't care," he said, his voice muffled in the soft hair just behind her ear. "I can look out for both of us."

He felt tension ripple through her shoulders and leaned back, wondering what he'd said. She touched his lips with her fingers, cautiously, and opened her mouth.

Whatever she'd been about to tell him, she changed her mind; instead she kissed him again and slid her hand down across his stomach, stripping away the last of his clothing. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the way she felt under his hands, the sharp smell of her skin, the lingering red-wine taste in her mouth.

It doesn't have to mean anything, he reminded himself as she led him to the bed.

Except that it did.

***

He woke early, long before Nymphadora was awake, and he was careful not to jostle her as he slid out from under the blankets, out from under the hand she'd splayed possessively across his chest. His clothing wasn't too hard to find -- he hoped it was his pyjama shirt and not one of her shirts that he'd grabbed off the floor -- and he dressed in the living room, shivering next to the fire that had all but gone out.

Banking it up a little, he got it going enough to floo back to the Burrow; as he looked around for her bowl of floo powder his eyes fell on the bottle of alcohol she'd given him the night before. He replaced the cork and put the glass upside-down over the bottle's neck, then hesitated.

He had a closet in the room at the Burrow, but once he went back to the werewolves he'd have nowhere to keep it, and wouldn't want to take it with him anyway. Some of them were thieves who'd cut a man for less.

He found a scrap of parchment and a quill on the desk next to her fireplace and wrote a quick note, propping it up against the bottle.

Keep it for me. I'll come back.

It wasn't a promise, he told himself. It would just reassure her about him while he was with the werewolves. It didn't mean anything. Just a Christmas present.

He stepped into the floo and let it spin him back to the Burrow, where he hung up the dressing-gown. The blankets he'd hung near the fire had cooled as the flames died down, but he piled them on the bed anyway and crawled between the sheets, hoping to catch perhaps another hour or two of sleep before the children woke up.

Molly was sure to needle him some more in the morning, but he was well used to that, and he felt safe in the knowledge that Nymphadora wasn't so miserable as everyone kept saying she was. She couldn't be. She'd laughed, hadn't she?

And even if she was, it wasn't his fault. She'd said so herself. No commitments, no expectations. She was fine, and they were friends, and surely the sharp pain in his chest was from lying in a cold bed. Anyway, he could go back, he had every reason to go back. To retrieve his Christmas gift. So he could see her again with perfect innocence and nothing would change. They were good friends, that was all.

It was better that way for everyone.

Remus Lupin slept, but in his sleep his hand twitched out searchingly for a body that wasn't there.