A Night on the Moors.
Title: A Night on the Moors
Author: alexiasluclwit
Format: 'Tis a fic! 5,100 word range
Rating: Sexual-references. A few swears. PG 13.
Prompt: 11
Author's Note: It's been a long time since I've done one of these. Let me know how it is!
A Night on the Moors
by Lexi
When every wound has been reopened
And in this world of give and take you must have faith
And the distance to your dreams stretch beyond reach
Don't lay down and die
'Cause I see in you
More than you'll ever know
And I ask you why
You question the strength inside
And you need to know
How it feels to be alive
- One Day Remains, by Alter Bridge
Early summer is a beautiful thing in Yorkshire, Remus thinks. The moors stretch for miles and the hauntings of a certain hound and family of Baskerville fade from the mind. The curly tan grass that many curse, the winter conditions that make farming far harder than it ever should be, those things are gone. Green is in the grass, the skies (occasionally) are clear, and the flowers and plants are simply amazing.
Twilight is about them now, the first stars beginning to glimmer through thin clouds. His fingers are laced behind his head, eyes gazing vaguely upwards. The ground is hard beneath his knuckles; he'll have a red pattern on the back of his hands when he shifts to another position. He doesn't mind the slight ache it brings, his mind is wandering elsewhere. Tonks watches him from where she sits cross-legged in the grass, the odd plants that populate the hedges weaving behind her. She made the remark that they resembled the Weasley twins, gangly height, red hair, freckles and all. He had laughed at that, she reflected now that it was always a welcome and pleasant sound. He didn't do it often enough, what with Greyback and endless tasks that kept them apart for days at a time. Tonks remembered when she had first started missing having him around at Grimmauld. He said it was hard to stay at the house now that Sirius was gone, the place didn't feel welcoming.
Sirius, of course, had rarely made the place seem welcome. His surly attitude about being confined leaked into the floorboards and touched something to the air. She wouldn't have been overly shocked if the portraits had all jumped their frames and made their two-dimensional way out the house in droves. A few of them had her sympathy, trapped as they were. Moody didn't trust their intentions, had come up with some fancy hex that bound them to their canvas. One of the most ancient, a lady in a deep purple gown, could be heard crying gently in the small hours before morning. One morning she had wandered down, still too sleepy to fully make the connection of crying to the picture; coffee her foremost priority, and had found Remus wide-awake. Her steps had stopped at the landing, listening. A wall had blocked her view, she could only see half of him and half of the portrait, but she could hear them well enough. He was talking to her, gently, about all kinds of things. Her crying had ceased, graceful gloved fingers brushing away the tears.
A moment later and he had noticed her, asked if she was well and risen from his chair. She explained her need for caffeine and ducked into the kitchen, the oven and floor still warm from where Molly had cooked the night before. The Weasley family normally went home at night, the dangers of House Black were like glinting diamonds to Fred and George. The teacups rattled when she went to fetch them, threatening to smash. In her early-morning haze she took mind to focus on keeping them in hand. No broken crockery before breakfast. Not today. Tonks remembered that the lady in the portrait hadn't cried in the nights following her spying Remus speaking with her. That summer Remus had appeared less and less, working with Fenrir and staying somewhere else. In the fall he spent more time at Grimmauld, she thought Bill and Charlie were to blame. It would be a shame to miss them, neither hung around for very long. Charlie was deeply engaged with affairs in Romania, Bill working on Gringotts orders in France.
Wind rustled the grass, causing her to shiver out of her thoughts. Remus glanced over to her with a smile, putting his palm out to her. With a smile she took it, settling on the ground against his side. Her hair was a deep blue, royal blue. His fingers felt cold against her cheek, always cold hands and cold feet. His lips were warm and their kisses were searingly hot, registering a shade of red when she closed her eyes. He was a good kisser, and she suspected he knew that -- she also knew his modesty would never allow him to admit it -- but he was. Tonks had shared kisses with several people, some were of the long type that left her opening her eyes and wondering what the heck was going on in their mind because hers hadn't remained focused on the kiss. The bush in the pot by the door had a styrofoam cup in it, someone in the office liked their Starbucks. And then there were the men that seemed to be afraid of kissing. She'd get pecked, or they'd sit and fold at their clothing when she was giving clear hints that she'd liked to be kissed.
Tonks didn't like drawn-out kissers or skittish kissers. Remus was neither of those things. It had taken her months to finally crack through his shell, get him to kiss her, and after he left she found she wanted more. She'd unlocked something that focused in her mind, understanding Remus Lupin. He fascinated her, figuring out what she was within two days of knowing her. Unlike most people, though, he hadn't exclaimed over it. The flicker of comprehension had been in his eyes, followed by a smile, but no remark. Curious, she had later found him and asked what he thought of it. "A rare gift, and your name suits it. Nymphadora means 'beautiful gift' in Greek." Her automatic response of "don't call me Nymphadora" fell to silence on her lips. She hadn't looked up Nymphadora, simply because she didn't know Greek. Latin was one thing, their base for spellwork, but Greek? So, he knows things that I don't know. Her toe had knocked the corner table, sending all sorts of glass beads and magical paraphernalia scattering across the hall. Somewhat embarrassed laughter had followed this slip, for she truly had been distracted. Remus helped her with spelling all of the things back to their places.
Andromeda had been the intellectual sort, a Ravenclaw. Remus remembered her from school, visually connecting her to the Black family through Sirius's familiar features. She had been different than Sirius, more than the studious Ravenclaw. Her wit was sharp, cunning, easily that of a Slytherin. She worked hard to accomplish her goals, a Hufflepuff trait. Her mind flew through a year of Arithmancy like kites snipped free of their strings. Her heart was loyal, she could have been a Gryffindor if her love had fallen more to her friends. Books were her love, and by seventh year she could charm wards that Professor Flitwick couldn't crack. Remus admired her, Sirius adored her as family when his parents had crossed him out of their will. No son in Gryffindor would hold the title of Black without suffering for it. Sirius made a point of living life on the edge, achieving scores on tests that Remus couldn't hope to come close to without studying for hours the night before. Both James and Sirius had that trait, that ability to listen and somehow understand and know things without any seeming effort.
Remus hadn't been like that. His knowledge was earned through hours at the books, constant note-keeping, getting indignant when James and Sirius hid his notes and tried to get him to loosen up and try to pass one test without studying to a maddening degree. When his missing scrolls refused to respond to Accio he flung himself in a chair by the fire, glowering at the flames. James and Sirius had let him cool off before sneaking up and sliding their arms about him. When he leaned his head back a pair of blue eyes and a pair of gray eyes locked with his. "You're coming out to the pitch." James had looked grim to put emphasis to Sirius's words, resulting in Remus going limp. Out to the Quidditch pitch it had been. James, as the head of the team, had keys to the broom shed. The afternoon was cold, the hills swept with wind that turned their cheeks rosy. Remus had been on a broom twice in his life, both times resulting in nightmares that still woke him up in cold sweats.
James was a natural. Sirius practiced often, yet wasn't on the team. Remus could feel cold tremors in his legs, his hands ice around the wooden shaft. Brooms didn't come with balance-charms when they had been in school, many first years ended up with concussions from mounting their brooms and immediately flipping over and hitting their heads to the ground. Remus had been one of those, narrowly missing the concussion. Madam Hooch had blamed it on his broom being too high. Remus simply hadn't had faith in the thing remaining levitated with him on it. As practice progressed he suspected faith was an entirely stupid thing. McGonagall had been sympathetic to his wanting to switch his courses so he didn't have to deal with brooms or James and Sirius excelling far faster than he did.
And they were in the air now, higher than he had ever been on a broom. James spun so he was facing Remus, hands folded neatly behind his back. Sirius was somewhere off to the left of the middle goal ring, a spec on Remus's peripheral vision. James adopted the air of a professor, expression imperiously blank. "And that, Mr. Lupin, is how one flies a broom. One must master their confidence, showing the broom that it is a tool and that you are the one wielding the aforementioned tool. Once you have that confidence, it has no choice but to obey your will." Expecting laughter, James had quirked an eyebrow, but none was forthcoming. Remus had to admit: he was right. The broom was a tool. His wand was a tool. His hands were tools. His fear of flying...that could be a tool as well. Spinning in the revelation of the moment, he joined them in flying circles about the pitch, landing when the sun began to set. Sweat made his clothing cling to his skin, despite the crisp wind. He understood, now.
A face hovered over his, blue hair falling in curtains about her features, brushing against his cheeks. He smiled, a sigh escaping him. "My thoughts are wandering all over these moors, Tonks. If you lived here yours would too, I think. It's the quiet that isn't really quiet. The wind is alive here, speaks in the eves, howls on lonely nights." He's smiling now, that quirked note of humour making affection blossom in her chest. He looks positively the demon when he does that, knowing something she doesn't. Now and then he doesn't know something, or isn't being funny. He's just smiling because he likes to, and she's glad that he likes it. Not enough people like smiling.
The pale silhouette of her face changes, she's grinning. He loves her smile, he loves making her smile. He loves kissing her too, and shifts up on his elbows to do so. She smells faintly of raspberries, it's a lovely smell. Her arms slip through his, she makes a soft noise as she snuggles against him. Her cheek rests in the crook of his neck and he thinks he could stay like this all night, watching the crescent moon rise and make its slow procession over the moors. He looks back down to her, planting soft kisses on her hair. In between them he whispers softly, not meaningless whispers. She's discovered that he rarely says something without it holding meaning. He tells her stories now and then. She loves listening to him talk, he has the voice of a professor. It's often hoarse around the moon, but he knows how to speak. She suspects that's his gift. He can order all of his thoughts together, round something out and speak it, each word a weight and the entirety often amusing. Tonks can speak, though not so readily or eloquently. She doesn't immediately adopt the colloquialisms of the places they visit, doesn't always have the ability to blend in.
She thinks he doesn't fully believe in his abilities. He thinks she doesn't know how truly beautiful she is. She likes to watch him blend in, knowing his ability to cloak himself as 'normal' comes from a lifetime of hiding from a prejudiced and untrusting society. He adores the colour she brings into a room, her personality filling a space as easily as the presence of a warlord or an elegant duchess. Both of them hide behind masks, his one of normalcy, and her mask, her mask is the face of a society that doesn't think the way she does. When he told her what he was she hadn't flinched or paled, or gaped in disbelief. He hadn't thought she would, of course, but he didn't think the news would be taken so lightly. She had smiled, and he remembered that she said she'd never met a real werewolf, had expected something a little more exciting -- not to feel bad, he was exciting just as he was, but she thought it might have been different.
She didn't seem to understand what was so funny, but he laughed until he felt tears burning in his eyes. Exciting. She still didn't understand why he thought he wasn't exciting, he was. She could legally arrest him eighty percent of the time; he didn't follow rules and broke laws with abandon. Once she asked if he knew he was breaking a certain one, and he nodded. His reply had been: "A law is only a law if someone catches and rats on you." He hadn't added that she wouldn't rat on him; he had apparently already assumed that. Rolling her eyes, she couldn't help but smile. He had a fair share of interesting objects he carried about, all manner of knives and darts besides his wand. Moody always knew exactly where all his weapons were, often commented if he picked up a new one. Tonks, for the life of her, couldn't find all of them in one go, often missed at least four.
"Hiding and running are two extremely valuable skills in my profession."
She observed him and noted that he was good at both. Hidden weapons, a long stride even when walking, when he ran she couldn't quite keep up without a little help from her metamorphing skills. Now and then she cursed her naturally slight and short frame. He wasn't that tall, really, but it felt like it. He stood at 5'11" - as tall as her dad. Both of them had the ability to silence a room and brood to a point where the wallpaper began to curl. Moody and Kingsley were the only two in the house that didn't bother with giving him his space when he came back in a mood, though after watching several instances of the other two going in to talk with him she put to memory that he didn't seem to mind being interrupted. Later she learned that he preferred to be interrupted because the brooding wasn't something he purposefully set out to do. It just happened.
A lot of things just happened. Like the time she stumbled upon him in the co-ed bathroom in Hogsmeade, sick to his stomach from having to resort to getting Wolfsbane from Knockturn Alley. His indignation, faint flush at being caught in a moment of weakness wasn't enough to stand to her force of will. Ten minutes later had found him snuggled in bed with something to ease his illness. He had thanked her for that the following morning. She pretended to not remember why he was thanking her, letting him know that she was a friend and nothing had changed. If you were sick you were sick, her view of him hadn't tarnished in the slightest.
He had been home when she returned from duty, her ankle shooting knives up her leg and through her back, nerves twanging and alternately freezing and torching up in flame. Perfectly pronounced words had turned her boot to silk, a thing easily slipped free. Her sock turned to flower petals, tossed to the side to once more become a sock. His talents didn't remain in the field of Defense; he was clearly adept in charms as well. A sprained ankle was not an easy thing for her to fix by metamorphing, she'd done it before. The effort resulted in her biting through a piece of wood and crying, digging gouges into the frozen ground with her fingertips. It didn't feel like that when he healed it, his light touches spread a tingling warmth through her bones. The pain faded to nothing, and he had gone to get some kind of spread from the cabinets, potion stores. In less than ten minutes she was bound up, pain-free, and told to put careful mind to not upset the dragon-footed table on the landing. By morning her ankle was right as rain.
Together they were, the moon casting silver light over the ground. Wind swirled the grass one way, dark green, back the other, silver. He smelled faintly of spice, a tinge of soap. She loved how clean he always smelled, no matter what he managed to go through. His hands were ice when she touched them, but the rest of him was warm. Moving slightly, she pushed herself against him, hearing the soft noise in the back of his throat. "I love when you make that noise..." She's still grinning, her hair tickling across his face. He draws a knee up, smiling back at her. Her hands are wandering and he likes that too, and he's smiling that quirked smile again because he knows what her weakness is. She melts when he places gentle kisses along her neck, she shivers when he nips softly at her sensitive flesh. There are no walls out on the moors; she can't use his weakness tonight.
That makes him smile too, when he thinks of how she discovered his weakness. The afternoon had been innocent enough. She liked coming to his house over that summer of 1997, his small house in Yorkshire. It was his, he paid no rent on it. It was warm in the winter; cool in the summer, bushes obscured it from view. The moors were all around, dreary things during the winter months. Unlike many of the wizarding folk, Remus knew how to cross-country ski. He had plenty of things to do to occupy himself when he was alone. He just hadn't realized how lonely he was until she spent time with him there. She loved to read the short things he'd write when the mood took him, giggled in the comfy armchair by the fireplace. The books hadn't bothered her at all, his house was full of them. He read when he had time, which was rare with his work in London with keeping the Order (and the Ministry, through the Order in sneaky ways) informed on the activities of the feral werewolf.
It was something he had written, he remembered. She wanted to try it, and he had suddenly found himself face-to-face with a raspberry haired metamorphmagus, hands about his waist. Slow steps had backed him up against the wall, her eyes sparkling with mischief. In doing that, she had learned exactly how to make Remus Lupin turn into both an animal and a weak-kneed man. To save his dignity he had been forced to retaliate, had begun kissing along the curve of her neck and down along the sweep of her shoulder. She was an expert with buttons and somehow he had managed to not fumble on the clasps of her bra.
The rest, Remus decides, is not for right now. They are stargazing and spending time together, not having sex on the moors. His quiet laughter received a raised eyebrow, Tonks evidently curious. "Nothing, nothing," he whispers, reaching up to brush two fingers along her cheek. Neither of them are paying much attention to the stars, he likes her face more. Her face isn't a distant winking thing, like it knows something that he doesn't. The heavens are fully revealed above them, constellations and galaxies, planets and the moon, a scythe amongst them. "Ursa Majori and Ursa Minori are out," he says, and she shifts to look. She's sitting on him and he knows she knows, and he likes that she knows what she does to him. He never really did understand women that teased by scooting away and keeping out of reach. He likes being touched; he likes folding his arms about her waist and resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. The faint scent of raspberry meets him again.
He loves raspberries. He's bought raspberry shampoo at the store because she likes it. In a sleepy haze of an early morning shower he tried tasting it once, it smelled so good that his logic dictated that it had to taste good too. The taste was disgusting, he spent five minutes flushing his mouth with water. It woke him up, anyway. She's turned her head, looking at him, smiling in the moonlight. "You're thinking about the time you ate my shampoo." Her voice is light, humorous, and he laughs. "Yes, I thought it had to taste good. You taste good." To prove his point, he touches her hair with his tongue. She's giggling again and he loves her giggling. "One of these mornings I'm going to wake up, you'll have pink hair like cotton candy, and I'm going to try and eat it and you'll hit me with pillows and the sky will fall--"
Now she's laughing and he is too. He hugs her tighter; leans back a bit to look up at the sky. The moon has reached its peak, the thin cloud glowing around it. Wind brushes at them, making them shiver. Remus reaches back for the satchel he brought, pulling out a blanket to sweep around their shoulders. She makes a purring noise and kisses his throat, he hugs her again. "All night, hm?"
"All night," she replies softly. "I want to see the sun rise. We had to do it, one night during Auror training. It was symbolic. We went out at dusk and stayed awake all night in the fields, watched the grey spread and the stars fade. We watched the dawn, Remus, and it was meaningful. It meant something deeper than what they were trying to teach us, for them it was ritual. For me, it was the assurance that there will always come a morning after the darkness. Always. It's hard to count on much else besides that."
He gives a slight nod, shifts. Now they're both cross-legged, her legs resting on his. Neither of them weigh much, she's tiny, a fae, but he doesn't say that. He knows she'd elbow him just hard enough to let him know that she was no damned fae. He smiles, thinking about the time he was trying to get into the kitchen to make tea and Kingsley didn't notice. He had demanded to know why all men must weigh twice his body weight and block doorways. Kingsley had laughed heartily, allowing him through. Tonks had curled up over her book, helpless laughter. It was true. Remus was 5'11", thin, had expressive blue eyes and narrow reading glasses. He didn't look dangerous until he was angry, and he didn't look menacing until he tried to be. She loved his glasses. He always knew they were in her room when they went missing, she didn't need them but she snitched them anyway.
It makes him think that things are normal, if only for a little while. She reads books with him by the fireplace. He asks if she wants to spend a night out on the moor, and she likes the idea. They pack a blanket and food to eat, sandwiches and bread and various sweets. She likes chocolate just as much as he does, which is rather a lot. She always stumbles a bit on one particular stair, he's gotten to where he can count on his fingers and pin the exact moment she lets out a soft curse. She isn't hurt, and he smiles. She could speak politely, her mother taught her, and she could banter with the pirates as well. It had surprised her when he -- in a rare bout of irritation at affairs in the Underground -- had let go of a long stream of foul language. Her questioning, after she recovered from laughter, went unanswered. He denied ever having said "flaming pisscock" and shrugged when she asked what it meant. The image was an interesting one, in retrospect.
They both liked to run down the hills of the moors. She could run up them better than he could, he was a good sprinter but not uphill distance. Together they flopped in the grass to await the twilight. Goats were on a distant hilltop; he could hear the bells about their necks faintly. White rocks were off to their left, stone walls down the hill to their right. No one seemed to come out here, in these vast open spaces. Remus was versatile, he liked London and he liked it out here where you could breathe clean air. Tonks wasn't quite used to going without the sounds of muggle traffic at night, Grimmauld even had cars passing it at night. After a restless first night she had slept well in Yorkshire, loving the countryside. He walked with her and they talked about all sorts of things, sometimes nothing at all.
And they were here now, snuggled and warm. He kisses her ear, murmuring to her, making her smile. She still has that mischievous air about her, those slight movements and how she'll go to point at a shooting star and he feels all of it. Her hands wander and he catches them, folding them easily behind his back. She's trapped and he's going to tickle her, she squirms and they both end up rolling in the grass. He pins her lightly, smiling down at her grin. A kiss silences her witty remark, she moves beneath him, and there's that purr he can't get over. She purrs. Nymphadora Tonks purrs like a cat and he kisses her deeply. She's found him with her hand and he's set his mind that they're going to wait until after the sunrise and go home to bed. And he doesn't think they'll be sleeping either.
He's silenced her before she can be wise, and now she'll have her revenge. A graceful movement has him pinned, the blanket tangled about them. (And yes, she can be graceful and absolutely stunning on a dance floor so long as people don't hover around with trays of champagne.) She kisses him then, deeply, seeking that warmth, that heat that he seemed to keep within. She was naturally warm, his hands and feet were cold, and she loves the tiny catches in his breathing when she shifts against him. He's breathless, smiling, eyes taking in her features. The moon will sink below the horizon within twenty minutes. Tonks folds her arms tightly about him, ceasing her movement. His heart is racing beneath her ear, and the knowledge that she could do that to someone usually so controlled and professional made that warmth bloom through her middle and in her chest once more. She loves him, sincerely loves him.
Their thoughts were silent as grey began to spread through the skies. Lying snuggled together they watched as the stars slowly faded to dawn. Somewhere nearby a robin began to call, chipmunks stirred in the hedges off behind them. The time seems to crawl, the dawn making no change. Tonks's eyes slip closed, heavy, and sleepy. Fifteen minutes later she opens them to find the faintest pink in the east, slowly, ever so slowly changing to yellow. She yawns, smiling, and looks at Remus. No trace of sleepiness is on his face, he considers her in the new light. Together they sit up, stretching out kinks from lying on the ground. Remus leans back on his hands, gazing at the sky once more. "This is what it feels to be alive, you know. Doing things like this. No planning ahead, just taking a whim and doing something."
She yawns again, scrubbing at her face with her hands. Her hair is in disarray, and he loves that too. He has a piece of a leaf in his, and she dusts it out and kisses him. "Good morning, love," she whispers against his lips. He smiles, hugging her. "Good morning." Shaking out the stiffness, they climb to their feet and he goes over to gather their satchel. The blanket gets folded away and they're walking into the dawn back to his small home. Tonks flings her arms out wide, throwing her head back and spinning once, letting out a call into the air. Birds fly from the small hedges behind them, a rustle of pigeons or crows, whatever they were. Remus grins, eyes closed. The sunlight feels golden across his face. She slips an arm about his waist and they walk that way, her cheek resting lightly to his shoulder. "An odd professor and a fighter for the dawn," she says softly, looking up at him. He kisses her forehead. "Two shape-shifters, lazing around during the day and playing on the moors at night."
"Mmm." She hugs him just before they go in the door, tightly. He returns it, kissing her forehead and then her lips. "Let's go to bed, Tonks, you've teased the odd professor all night."
"No objections," she replied, taking the satchel from him, unceremoniously dropping it on the floor. He closes the door and leaves the satchel where it is. It'll still be there later, just like the rest of the world.
Fin.
Author: alexiasluclwit
Format: 'Tis a fic! 5,100 word range
Rating: Sexual-references. A few swears. PG 13.
Prompt: 11
Author's Note: It's been a long time since I've done one of these. Let me know how it is!
A Night on the Moors
by Lexi
When every wound has been reopened
And in this world of give and take you must have faith
And the distance to your dreams stretch beyond reach
Don't lay down and die
'Cause I see in you
More than you'll ever know
And I ask you why
You question the strength inside
And you need to know
How it feels to be alive
- One Day Remains, by Alter Bridge
Early summer is a beautiful thing in Yorkshire, Remus thinks. The moors stretch for miles and the hauntings of a certain hound and family of Baskerville fade from the mind. The curly tan grass that many curse, the winter conditions that make farming far harder than it ever should be, those things are gone. Green is in the grass, the skies (occasionally) are clear, and the flowers and plants are simply amazing.
Twilight is about them now, the first stars beginning to glimmer through thin clouds. His fingers are laced behind his head, eyes gazing vaguely upwards. The ground is hard beneath his knuckles; he'll have a red pattern on the back of his hands when he shifts to another position. He doesn't mind the slight ache it brings, his mind is wandering elsewhere. Tonks watches him from where she sits cross-legged in the grass, the odd plants that populate the hedges weaving behind her. She made the remark that they resembled the Weasley twins, gangly height, red hair, freckles and all. He had laughed at that, she reflected now that it was always a welcome and pleasant sound. He didn't do it often enough, what with Greyback and endless tasks that kept them apart for days at a time. Tonks remembered when she had first started missing having him around at Grimmauld. He said it was hard to stay at the house now that Sirius was gone, the place didn't feel welcoming.
Sirius, of course, had rarely made the place seem welcome. His surly attitude about being confined leaked into the floorboards and touched something to the air. She wouldn't have been overly shocked if the portraits had all jumped their frames and made their two-dimensional way out the house in droves. A few of them had her sympathy, trapped as they were. Moody didn't trust their intentions, had come up with some fancy hex that bound them to their canvas. One of the most ancient, a lady in a deep purple gown, could be heard crying gently in the small hours before morning. One morning she had wandered down, still too sleepy to fully make the connection of crying to the picture; coffee her foremost priority, and had found Remus wide-awake. Her steps had stopped at the landing, listening. A wall had blocked her view, she could only see half of him and half of the portrait, but she could hear them well enough. He was talking to her, gently, about all kinds of things. Her crying had ceased, graceful gloved fingers brushing away the tears.
A moment later and he had noticed her, asked if she was well and risen from his chair. She explained her need for caffeine and ducked into the kitchen, the oven and floor still warm from where Molly had cooked the night before. The Weasley family normally went home at night, the dangers of House Black were like glinting diamonds to Fred and George. The teacups rattled when she went to fetch them, threatening to smash. In her early-morning haze she took mind to focus on keeping them in hand. No broken crockery before breakfast. Not today. Tonks remembered that the lady in the portrait hadn't cried in the nights following her spying Remus speaking with her. That summer Remus had appeared less and less, working with Fenrir and staying somewhere else. In the fall he spent more time at Grimmauld, she thought Bill and Charlie were to blame. It would be a shame to miss them, neither hung around for very long. Charlie was deeply engaged with affairs in Romania, Bill working on Gringotts orders in France.
Wind rustled the grass, causing her to shiver out of her thoughts. Remus glanced over to her with a smile, putting his palm out to her. With a smile she took it, settling on the ground against his side. Her hair was a deep blue, royal blue. His fingers felt cold against her cheek, always cold hands and cold feet. His lips were warm and their kisses were searingly hot, registering a shade of red when she closed her eyes. He was a good kisser, and she suspected he knew that -- she also knew his modesty would never allow him to admit it -- but he was. Tonks had shared kisses with several people, some were of the long type that left her opening her eyes and wondering what the heck was going on in their mind because hers hadn't remained focused on the kiss. The bush in the pot by the door had a styrofoam cup in it, someone in the office liked their Starbucks. And then there were the men that seemed to be afraid of kissing. She'd get pecked, or they'd sit and fold at their clothing when she was giving clear hints that she'd liked to be kissed.
Tonks didn't like drawn-out kissers or skittish kissers. Remus was neither of those things. It had taken her months to finally crack through his shell, get him to kiss her, and after he left she found she wanted more. She'd unlocked something that focused in her mind, understanding Remus Lupin. He fascinated her, figuring out what she was within two days of knowing her. Unlike most people, though, he hadn't exclaimed over it. The flicker of comprehension had been in his eyes, followed by a smile, but no remark. Curious, she had later found him and asked what he thought of it. "A rare gift, and your name suits it. Nymphadora means 'beautiful gift' in Greek." Her automatic response of "don't call me Nymphadora" fell to silence on her lips. She hadn't looked up Nymphadora, simply because she didn't know Greek. Latin was one thing, their base for spellwork, but Greek? So, he knows things that I don't know. Her toe had knocked the corner table, sending all sorts of glass beads and magical paraphernalia scattering across the hall. Somewhat embarrassed laughter had followed this slip, for she truly had been distracted. Remus helped her with spelling all of the things back to their places.
Andromeda had been the intellectual sort, a Ravenclaw. Remus remembered her from school, visually connecting her to the Black family through Sirius's familiar features. She had been different than Sirius, more than the studious Ravenclaw. Her wit was sharp, cunning, easily that of a Slytherin. She worked hard to accomplish her goals, a Hufflepuff trait. Her mind flew through a year of Arithmancy like kites snipped free of their strings. Her heart was loyal, she could have been a Gryffindor if her love had fallen more to her friends. Books were her love, and by seventh year she could charm wards that Professor Flitwick couldn't crack. Remus admired her, Sirius adored her as family when his parents had crossed him out of their will. No son in Gryffindor would hold the title of Black without suffering for it. Sirius made a point of living life on the edge, achieving scores on tests that Remus couldn't hope to come close to without studying for hours the night before. Both James and Sirius had that trait, that ability to listen and somehow understand and know things without any seeming effort.
Remus hadn't been like that. His knowledge was earned through hours at the books, constant note-keeping, getting indignant when James and Sirius hid his notes and tried to get him to loosen up and try to pass one test without studying to a maddening degree. When his missing scrolls refused to respond to Accio he flung himself in a chair by the fire, glowering at the flames. James and Sirius had let him cool off before sneaking up and sliding their arms about him. When he leaned his head back a pair of blue eyes and a pair of gray eyes locked with his. "You're coming out to the pitch." James had looked grim to put emphasis to Sirius's words, resulting in Remus going limp. Out to the Quidditch pitch it had been. James, as the head of the team, had keys to the broom shed. The afternoon was cold, the hills swept with wind that turned their cheeks rosy. Remus had been on a broom twice in his life, both times resulting in nightmares that still woke him up in cold sweats.
James was a natural. Sirius practiced often, yet wasn't on the team. Remus could feel cold tremors in his legs, his hands ice around the wooden shaft. Brooms didn't come with balance-charms when they had been in school, many first years ended up with concussions from mounting their brooms and immediately flipping over and hitting their heads to the ground. Remus had been one of those, narrowly missing the concussion. Madam Hooch had blamed it on his broom being too high. Remus simply hadn't had faith in the thing remaining levitated with him on it. As practice progressed he suspected faith was an entirely stupid thing. McGonagall had been sympathetic to his wanting to switch his courses so he didn't have to deal with brooms or James and Sirius excelling far faster than he did.
And they were in the air now, higher than he had ever been on a broom. James spun so he was facing Remus, hands folded neatly behind his back. Sirius was somewhere off to the left of the middle goal ring, a spec on Remus's peripheral vision. James adopted the air of a professor, expression imperiously blank. "And that, Mr. Lupin, is how one flies a broom. One must master their confidence, showing the broom that it is a tool and that you are the one wielding the aforementioned tool. Once you have that confidence, it has no choice but to obey your will." Expecting laughter, James had quirked an eyebrow, but none was forthcoming. Remus had to admit: he was right. The broom was a tool. His wand was a tool. His hands were tools. His fear of flying...that could be a tool as well. Spinning in the revelation of the moment, he joined them in flying circles about the pitch, landing when the sun began to set. Sweat made his clothing cling to his skin, despite the crisp wind. He understood, now.
A face hovered over his, blue hair falling in curtains about her features, brushing against his cheeks. He smiled, a sigh escaping him. "My thoughts are wandering all over these moors, Tonks. If you lived here yours would too, I think. It's the quiet that isn't really quiet. The wind is alive here, speaks in the eves, howls on lonely nights." He's smiling now, that quirked note of humour making affection blossom in her chest. He looks positively the demon when he does that, knowing something she doesn't. Now and then he doesn't know something, or isn't being funny. He's just smiling because he likes to, and she's glad that he likes it. Not enough people like smiling.
The pale silhouette of her face changes, she's grinning. He loves her smile, he loves making her smile. He loves kissing her too, and shifts up on his elbows to do so. She smells faintly of raspberries, it's a lovely smell. Her arms slip through his, she makes a soft noise as she snuggles against him. Her cheek rests in the crook of his neck and he thinks he could stay like this all night, watching the crescent moon rise and make its slow procession over the moors. He looks back down to her, planting soft kisses on her hair. In between them he whispers softly, not meaningless whispers. She's discovered that he rarely says something without it holding meaning. He tells her stories now and then. She loves listening to him talk, he has the voice of a professor. It's often hoarse around the moon, but he knows how to speak. She suspects that's his gift. He can order all of his thoughts together, round something out and speak it, each word a weight and the entirety often amusing. Tonks can speak, though not so readily or eloquently. She doesn't immediately adopt the colloquialisms of the places they visit, doesn't always have the ability to blend in.
She thinks he doesn't fully believe in his abilities. He thinks she doesn't know how truly beautiful she is. She likes to watch him blend in, knowing his ability to cloak himself as 'normal' comes from a lifetime of hiding from a prejudiced and untrusting society. He adores the colour she brings into a room, her personality filling a space as easily as the presence of a warlord or an elegant duchess. Both of them hide behind masks, his one of normalcy, and her mask, her mask is the face of a society that doesn't think the way she does. When he told her what he was she hadn't flinched or paled, or gaped in disbelief. He hadn't thought she would, of course, but he didn't think the news would be taken so lightly. She had smiled, and he remembered that she said she'd never met a real werewolf, had expected something a little more exciting -- not to feel bad, he was exciting just as he was, but she thought it might have been different.
She didn't seem to understand what was so funny, but he laughed until he felt tears burning in his eyes. Exciting. She still didn't understand why he thought he wasn't exciting, he was. She could legally arrest him eighty percent of the time; he didn't follow rules and broke laws with abandon. Once she asked if he knew he was breaking a certain one, and he nodded. His reply had been: "A law is only a law if someone catches and rats on you." He hadn't added that she wouldn't rat on him; he had apparently already assumed that. Rolling her eyes, she couldn't help but smile. He had a fair share of interesting objects he carried about, all manner of knives and darts besides his wand. Moody always knew exactly where all his weapons were, often commented if he picked up a new one. Tonks, for the life of her, couldn't find all of them in one go, often missed at least four.
"Hiding and running are two extremely valuable skills in my profession."
She observed him and noted that he was good at both. Hidden weapons, a long stride even when walking, when he ran she couldn't quite keep up without a little help from her metamorphing skills. Now and then she cursed her naturally slight and short frame. He wasn't that tall, really, but it felt like it. He stood at 5'11" - as tall as her dad. Both of them had the ability to silence a room and brood to a point where the wallpaper began to curl. Moody and Kingsley were the only two in the house that didn't bother with giving him his space when he came back in a mood, though after watching several instances of the other two going in to talk with him she put to memory that he didn't seem to mind being interrupted. Later she learned that he preferred to be interrupted because the brooding wasn't something he purposefully set out to do. It just happened.
A lot of things just happened. Like the time she stumbled upon him in the co-ed bathroom in Hogsmeade, sick to his stomach from having to resort to getting Wolfsbane from Knockturn Alley. His indignation, faint flush at being caught in a moment of weakness wasn't enough to stand to her force of will. Ten minutes later had found him snuggled in bed with something to ease his illness. He had thanked her for that the following morning. She pretended to not remember why he was thanking her, letting him know that she was a friend and nothing had changed. If you were sick you were sick, her view of him hadn't tarnished in the slightest.
He had been home when she returned from duty, her ankle shooting knives up her leg and through her back, nerves twanging and alternately freezing and torching up in flame. Perfectly pronounced words had turned her boot to silk, a thing easily slipped free. Her sock turned to flower petals, tossed to the side to once more become a sock. His talents didn't remain in the field of Defense; he was clearly adept in charms as well. A sprained ankle was not an easy thing for her to fix by metamorphing, she'd done it before. The effort resulted in her biting through a piece of wood and crying, digging gouges into the frozen ground with her fingertips. It didn't feel like that when he healed it, his light touches spread a tingling warmth through her bones. The pain faded to nothing, and he had gone to get some kind of spread from the cabinets, potion stores. In less than ten minutes she was bound up, pain-free, and told to put careful mind to not upset the dragon-footed table on the landing. By morning her ankle was right as rain.
Together they were, the moon casting silver light over the ground. Wind swirled the grass one way, dark green, back the other, silver. He smelled faintly of spice, a tinge of soap. She loved how clean he always smelled, no matter what he managed to go through. His hands were ice when she touched them, but the rest of him was warm. Moving slightly, she pushed herself against him, hearing the soft noise in the back of his throat. "I love when you make that noise..." She's still grinning, her hair tickling across his face. He draws a knee up, smiling back at her. Her hands are wandering and he likes that too, and he's smiling that quirked smile again because he knows what her weakness is. She melts when he places gentle kisses along her neck, she shivers when he nips softly at her sensitive flesh. There are no walls out on the moors; she can't use his weakness tonight.
That makes him smile too, when he thinks of how she discovered his weakness. The afternoon had been innocent enough. She liked coming to his house over that summer of 1997, his small house in Yorkshire. It was his, he paid no rent on it. It was warm in the winter; cool in the summer, bushes obscured it from view. The moors were all around, dreary things during the winter months. Unlike many of the wizarding folk, Remus knew how to cross-country ski. He had plenty of things to do to occupy himself when he was alone. He just hadn't realized how lonely he was until she spent time with him there. She loved to read the short things he'd write when the mood took him, giggled in the comfy armchair by the fireplace. The books hadn't bothered her at all, his house was full of them. He read when he had time, which was rare with his work in London with keeping the Order (and the Ministry, through the Order in sneaky ways) informed on the activities of the feral werewolf.
It was something he had written, he remembered. She wanted to try it, and he had suddenly found himself face-to-face with a raspberry haired metamorphmagus, hands about his waist. Slow steps had backed him up against the wall, her eyes sparkling with mischief. In doing that, she had learned exactly how to make Remus Lupin turn into both an animal and a weak-kneed man. To save his dignity he had been forced to retaliate, had begun kissing along the curve of her neck and down along the sweep of her shoulder. She was an expert with buttons and somehow he had managed to not fumble on the clasps of her bra.
The rest, Remus decides, is not for right now. They are stargazing and spending time together, not having sex on the moors. His quiet laughter received a raised eyebrow, Tonks evidently curious. "Nothing, nothing," he whispers, reaching up to brush two fingers along her cheek. Neither of them are paying much attention to the stars, he likes her face more. Her face isn't a distant winking thing, like it knows something that he doesn't. The heavens are fully revealed above them, constellations and galaxies, planets and the moon, a scythe amongst them. "Ursa Majori and Ursa Minori are out," he says, and she shifts to look. She's sitting on him and he knows she knows, and he likes that she knows what she does to him. He never really did understand women that teased by scooting away and keeping out of reach. He likes being touched; he likes folding his arms about her waist and resting his chin lightly on her shoulder. The faint scent of raspberry meets him again.
He loves raspberries. He's bought raspberry shampoo at the store because she likes it. In a sleepy haze of an early morning shower he tried tasting it once, it smelled so good that his logic dictated that it had to taste good too. The taste was disgusting, he spent five minutes flushing his mouth with water. It woke him up, anyway. She's turned her head, looking at him, smiling in the moonlight. "You're thinking about the time you ate my shampoo." Her voice is light, humorous, and he laughs. "Yes, I thought it had to taste good. You taste good." To prove his point, he touches her hair with his tongue. She's giggling again and he loves her giggling. "One of these mornings I'm going to wake up, you'll have pink hair like cotton candy, and I'm going to try and eat it and you'll hit me with pillows and the sky will fall--"
Now she's laughing and he is too. He hugs her tighter; leans back a bit to look up at the sky. The moon has reached its peak, the thin cloud glowing around it. Wind brushes at them, making them shiver. Remus reaches back for the satchel he brought, pulling out a blanket to sweep around their shoulders. She makes a purring noise and kisses his throat, he hugs her again. "All night, hm?"
"All night," she replies softly. "I want to see the sun rise. We had to do it, one night during Auror training. It was symbolic. We went out at dusk and stayed awake all night in the fields, watched the grey spread and the stars fade. We watched the dawn, Remus, and it was meaningful. It meant something deeper than what they were trying to teach us, for them it was ritual. For me, it was the assurance that there will always come a morning after the darkness. Always. It's hard to count on much else besides that."
He gives a slight nod, shifts. Now they're both cross-legged, her legs resting on his. Neither of them weigh much, she's tiny, a fae, but he doesn't say that. He knows she'd elbow him just hard enough to let him know that she was no damned fae. He smiles, thinking about the time he was trying to get into the kitchen to make tea and Kingsley didn't notice. He had demanded to know why all men must weigh twice his body weight and block doorways. Kingsley had laughed heartily, allowing him through. Tonks had curled up over her book, helpless laughter. It was true. Remus was 5'11", thin, had expressive blue eyes and narrow reading glasses. He didn't look dangerous until he was angry, and he didn't look menacing until he tried to be. She loved his glasses. He always knew they were in her room when they went missing, she didn't need them but she snitched them anyway.
It makes him think that things are normal, if only for a little while. She reads books with him by the fireplace. He asks if she wants to spend a night out on the moor, and she likes the idea. They pack a blanket and food to eat, sandwiches and bread and various sweets. She likes chocolate just as much as he does, which is rather a lot. She always stumbles a bit on one particular stair, he's gotten to where he can count on his fingers and pin the exact moment she lets out a soft curse. She isn't hurt, and he smiles. She could speak politely, her mother taught her, and she could banter with the pirates as well. It had surprised her when he -- in a rare bout of irritation at affairs in the Underground -- had let go of a long stream of foul language. Her questioning, after she recovered from laughter, went unanswered. He denied ever having said "flaming pisscock" and shrugged when she asked what it meant. The image was an interesting one, in retrospect.
They both liked to run down the hills of the moors. She could run up them better than he could, he was a good sprinter but not uphill distance. Together they flopped in the grass to await the twilight. Goats were on a distant hilltop; he could hear the bells about their necks faintly. White rocks were off to their left, stone walls down the hill to their right. No one seemed to come out here, in these vast open spaces. Remus was versatile, he liked London and he liked it out here where you could breathe clean air. Tonks wasn't quite used to going without the sounds of muggle traffic at night, Grimmauld even had cars passing it at night. After a restless first night she had slept well in Yorkshire, loving the countryside. He walked with her and they talked about all sorts of things, sometimes nothing at all.
And they were here now, snuggled and warm. He kisses her ear, murmuring to her, making her smile. She still has that mischievous air about her, those slight movements and how she'll go to point at a shooting star and he feels all of it. Her hands wander and he catches them, folding them easily behind his back. She's trapped and he's going to tickle her, she squirms and they both end up rolling in the grass. He pins her lightly, smiling down at her grin. A kiss silences her witty remark, she moves beneath him, and there's that purr he can't get over. She purrs. Nymphadora Tonks purrs like a cat and he kisses her deeply. She's found him with her hand and he's set his mind that they're going to wait until after the sunrise and go home to bed. And he doesn't think they'll be sleeping either.
He's silenced her before she can be wise, and now she'll have her revenge. A graceful movement has him pinned, the blanket tangled about them. (And yes, she can be graceful and absolutely stunning on a dance floor so long as people don't hover around with trays of champagne.) She kisses him then, deeply, seeking that warmth, that heat that he seemed to keep within. She was naturally warm, his hands and feet were cold, and she loves the tiny catches in his breathing when she shifts against him. He's breathless, smiling, eyes taking in her features. The moon will sink below the horizon within twenty minutes. Tonks folds her arms tightly about him, ceasing her movement. His heart is racing beneath her ear, and the knowledge that she could do that to someone usually so controlled and professional made that warmth bloom through her middle and in her chest once more. She loves him, sincerely loves him.
Their thoughts were silent as grey began to spread through the skies. Lying snuggled together they watched as the stars slowly faded to dawn. Somewhere nearby a robin began to call, chipmunks stirred in the hedges off behind them. The time seems to crawl, the dawn making no change. Tonks's eyes slip closed, heavy, and sleepy. Fifteen minutes later she opens them to find the faintest pink in the east, slowly, ever so slowly changing to yellow. She yawns, smiling, and looks at Remus. No trace of sleepiness is on his face, he considers her in the new light. Together they sit up, stretching out kinks from lying on the ground. Remus leans back on his hands, gazing at the sky once more. "This is what it feels to be alive, you know. Doing things like this. No planning ahead, just taking a whim and doing something."
She yawns again, scrubbing at her face with her hands. Her hair is in disarray, and he loves that too. He has a piece of a leaf in his, and she dusts it out and kisses him. "Good morning, love," she whispers against his lips. He smiles, hugging her. "Good morning." Shaking out the stiffness, they climb to their feet and he goes over to gather their satchel. The blanket gets folded away and they're walking into the dawn back to his small home. Tonks flings her arms out wide, throwing her head back and spinning once, letting out a call into the air. Birds fly from the small hedges behind them, a rustle of pigeons or crows, whatever they were. Remus grins, eyes closed. The sunlight feels golden across his face. She slips an arm about his waist and they walk that way, her cheek resting lightly to his shoulder. "An odd professor and a fighter for the dawn," she says softly, looking up at him. He kisses her forehead. "Two shape-shifters, lazing around during the day and playing on the moors at night."
"Mmm." She hugs him just before they go in the door, tightly. He returns it, kissing her forehead and then her lips. "Let's go to bed, Tonks, you've teased the odd professor all night."
"No objections," she replied, taking the satchel from him, unceremoniously dropping it on the floor. He closes the door and leaves the satchel where it is. It'll still be there later, just like the rest of the world.
Fin.