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Chapter Text

The intermittent rush of cool night air through the swinging pub door was the only thing tethering Remus Lupin to the present moment. Without it, he might have drifted entirely into the bleak spiral summoned by the grim headline staring up at him from the crumpled page of the Daily Prophet.

Sirius Black Escapes Azkaban

There it was. Plain, black type on cheap, wrinkled paper. As if such monstrous news could be summed up in five words and a single front page. As if his whole world hadn’t just been tilted, again.

Of course. The moment life dared offer him even the faintest glimmer of stability- a job at Hogwarts, the first steady income in years, a bed that didn’t fold up with the sunrise- disaster came crashing down. Remus’s eyes skimmed the headline again, as if rereading might cause it to soften, to morph into something else. But the ink didn’t smudge, the letters didn’t shift, and the knot in his chest only tightened.

It was like a ghost had clawed its way out of the past. Sirius.

He took another sip of the bitter drink before him- overpriced, watery, and doing absolutely nothing to settle his nerves. But he drank anyway. What else was there to do? Cry? Shout? He’d done enough of both over the years, and it never helped.

He wanted to believe it was fine, and that Harry- the last, longer abandoned remainder of the happiest part of his life- would be guarded and smart. Hogwarts was the safest place in the wizarding world, after all. No one could break in. No one should be able to. But Black had defied expectations before. Sirius had fooled them all.

He took another sip of his drink- something overpriced and barely palatable, paid for with what little he had left. It did nothing to soothe his nerves, but he kept drinking anyway. What else was there to do?

He folded the paper with care borne of the fury simmering beneath his tired expression and pushed it aside. The stool beneath him creaked softly as he shifted, preparing to stand and begin the long trudge back to the small, soulless room he’d rented for the week. But he didn’t get that far.

The sound of someone slamming into the bar beside him with all the grace of a Bludger in a cupboard cracked through his fog like a firework. He turned instinctively, ready to offer a dry word or two to whoever had stumbled, when a burst of chaotic color entered his peripheral vision.

A young woman, probably in her early twenties, laughing breathlessly as if the crash had been the punchline of a private joke, was half sprawled on the bar top. Her bubblegum pink hair was tangled and wild, and her patterned black tights were scrunched here and there as though she’d been in such a rush to get to her current position that she hadn’t put care into their orientation. She righted herself quickly, leaning on the bar with unsteady balance, and, to Remus’s quiet astonishment, addressed him directly.

“Hey, handsome,” she greeted in a tone too loud and too breathy, accompanied by a grin with the confidence of someone who was definitely not in full control of her faculties. The confidence had clearly been coaxed, or conjured. Probably by firewhisky.

Remus simply stared at her for a moment, before his lips twitched at the edges in reluctant amusement.

“Love, are you feeling okay?” he asked, already glancing around in an attempt to locate her entourage.

“No!” she said, leaning forward and giving him a wide eyed, terrified expression. “I need something!”

He studied her face in the dim light, now close enough to make out detail. Her skin was pale and her face heart-shaped, her lashes the same pink as her hair. Aside from the smudged eyeliner, though, she looked unharmed. Only… exuberantly out of her depth.

“Water?” he suggested dryly, eliciting a loud, barking, unnecessary laugh from her that did far more for his mood than the alcohol.

“No,” she repeated, scrabbling into the chair next to him. She leaned back and tilted her head in what Remus could only assume was an attempt to look alluring. “I need you.”

Remus’s eyes softened a bit, though his smirk didn’t fade. “I think you need to be starting home.”

“Nuh uh,” she said yet again, leaning forward until she was far too much into his space. “I need to head to your home.”

He bit back a sardonic retort- something, something I don’t t have a home to speak of.

“Where are your friends?”

She shrugged.

“Do you have someone picking you up?”

She shook her head. “But you could-“

“Does your mother know where you are?”

This question startled her, clearly, then she laughed again. “No, thank Merlin! I’m a grown woman.”

“Are you?” he asked, quirking a brow in a teasingly skeptical fashion.

“Yes,” she said firmly, leaning in so close he could smell her perfume- something sugary, like caramel- and also notice the purposeful drop of her neckline. Her lips parted, and her voice dropped. “I can show you just how adult I am, if you’d like.”

Remus’s smirk didn’t falter, but he made the conscious decision to not glance downward. “You know,” he said calmly, “knowing when to call yourself in for the night is a rather useful skill.”

She narrowed her eyes in faux offense, then gave him a slow, knowing smile- one that made her intentions unmistakable.

“I’ve got better skills, though,” she purred, leaning in with the smug confidence of someone absolutely convinced of their own charm.

“I’m sure you do,” Remus replied, his tone light and placating. “Age-appropriate ones, I hope.”

She gave a little scoff, lifting her chin defiantly. “For my age, they are.”

He gave a soft, almost scolding tut, the kind that landed somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “You seem far too young to be chasing that sort of attention.”

“Well, I’m not,” she huffed, her tone shifting from flirty to faintly indignant.

Remus raised an eyebrow, seizing the opportunity to gently redirect that energy. “Quite sure about that?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, sitting up straighter, as if sheer conviction could lend her more credibility.

“Sure, love.”

He didn’t press further. He just gave her a knowing look- one that was half-smile, half-warning- and took another slow sip of his drink. He knew he probably should take her home, at this point, but something- curiosity, maybe- kept him rooted to the spot.

“Why are you entertaining this?” she asked suddenly, a note of genuine confusion in her voice. “You’re not interested.”

He gave a short, amused laugh. “You’re cute.”

Her expression lit up in surprise, like she hadn’t expected a compliment at all. “Oh?”

He nodded, smiling softer now. “You remind me of a rabbit.”

Her face fell. “Oh.”

He didn’t elaborate.

Eventually, he stood. She blinked at him. He waited, amused.

“Coming?”

She scrambled upright at once, nearly stumbling again before catching herself on the bar. Once steady, she grabbed his arm with an enthusiasm that made more than a few heads turn, and tugged him through the crowd with determined, vaguely overconfident strides.

The night air hit them like a bucket of cold water- brisk and bracing. She stumbled slightly as they stepped outside, but Remus caught her elbow with a quick, practiced motion.

“Careful,” he murmured as she stumbled again.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, though the way she narrowed her eyes at the uneven pavement suggested she was anything but.

Remus didn’t bother replying. He simply placed a light hand at her back and steered her a few steps farther from the pub’s din. The night air was crisp, brushing through the city with a chill that cut straight through his threadbare coat, though she didn’t seem to notice. Her dress shimmered faintly under the distant starlight- a strange but oddly charming blend of Muggle and witch fashion. It clung close, sheer and short like something from a London nightclub, but was adorned with elaborate purple floral lace and delicate puffed hems around the skirt and sleeves. Not exactly practical, but undeniably flattering.

She’d dressed for a night out, not a quiet escort into the dark with an old werewolf. The thought made Remus feel just a touch guilty- she’d probably be scared if she knew. He was slightly worried, himself.

She cut him a sidelong glance, brows drawn together. “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you… where you really should be,” he said at last, voice even.

She snorted, unconvinced. “That’s cryptic.”

He shrugged. “Nasty habit.”

She gave him a long, unreadable look, then laughed again- lighter this time, less performative. “Please don’t kill me,” she said, half joking, half testing.

“Why not?” he replied flatly, without missing a beat.

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m an Auror.”

He looked at her, expression unreadable. “Then you really ought to know better than to wander off with strangers.”

That gave her a moment’s pause- then she grinned, wide and unapologetic. “Touché.”

Then it was Remus’s turn to laugh- a light, breathy sound that could easily be mistaken for a sigh. The woman beside him, however, seemed to drink it in like it was a gift.

They turned a corner, and she leaned her shoulder into his, unbothered by proximity. “Mine’s just down this way,” she said, voice tipped with tentative suggestion.

Remus didn’t answer, just adjusted his pace to follow.

They walked a while in companionable silence, her shoulder bumping into his more than once, until she said, “I’m Tonks.”

He glanced at her, brow furrowing. “You’re what?”

“My name,” she clarified, though her grin betrayed her enjoyment of the misunderstanding.

He arched a brow. “Tonks? Is that a nickname?”

“Nope. Surname.”

“So you’re leading me to your flat but still won’t give me your first name?”

“I like to keep an air of mystery. Also, my name is horrendous.”

Remus turned his head back toward the road, the corner of his mouth twitching in something between a smirk and a sigh. “I’ll try not to take it personally.”

They walked in silence for a few more steps, the quiet stretching between them, broken only by the soft scuff of her too-large boots against the street. She really ought to tie them.

Her flat, it turned out, wasn’t far- just a narrow building wedged between two shops. Tonks stopped at the base of the stairs, casting him a sideways glance as she reached into the oversized pocket of her jacket, presumably fishing for a key.

“You never told me yours, either,” she said, not looking at him.

Remus hesitated. “I didn’t realize we were trading names.”

“I told you mine.”

“You told me your surname.”

“Ach, fine,” she huffed dramatically. “It’s Nymphadora—but if you call me that, I will hex you.”

“Pretty, Nymphadora,” he said smoothly, a teasing lilt in his voice.

She narrowed her eyes. “I said I’ll hex you.”

“Alright, alright,” he relented, tucking his hands into his pockets.

She fumbled with the key for a moment longer before promptly dropping it and giving a muffled curse. Both bent to retrieve it at the same time, resulting in her forehead smacking hard into his shoulder.

“Dammit,” she muttered, staggering slightly as the impact knocked her off-balance. She would’ve gone over again if Remus hadn’t reached out and caught her by the arm.

“I promise I’m not incompetent,” she said quickly, her tone an awkward blend of indignation and embarrassment as she accepted his steadying hand.

“No,” he said with a small smile, helping her upright, “just rather out of sorts.”

He plucked the key from her hand before she could drop it again and opened the door for her. The flat beyond was charming and absolutely chaotic. Band posters plastered every inch of the walls, some torn at the corners. A tall bookshelf stood overstuffed- not with books, but trinkets, odd gadgets, and what looked like a rubber chicken. The books themselves had migrated to the coffee table in precarious stacks. A well-loved couch faced the chaos, half-covered with a bright, tangled blanket.

Charming, and absolutely chaotic. He gave her an assessing look, wondering if the rule about pets being like their owners also applied to flats and their inhabitants. He wouldn’t know.

Without hesitation, Tonks tugged him inside, the door clicking shut behind them. She leaned into him almost immediately, rising onto her toes with unmistakable intent- her dilated gaze flicking to his mouth, lips parted in anticipation.

But his hands caught her waist, holding her at bay.

“No,” he said firmly, though his voice remained soft.

Confusion flickered across her face. “I- I take a potion-”

“Not what I meant,” Remus cut in gently. “I said you should go home.”

“I am home,” she pointed out, thoroughly unimpressed.

“You heard me.”

“Why?” she asked, wounded by the rejection more than she expected to be.

“Because you’re out of it.”

She pouted, tugging lightly at his shirt. “I’m perfectly capable of deciding what I want.”

He gave her a long look, gaze soft but unyielding. “Maybe. But I’d rather you decide when you’re not three drinks past your limit and using me to balance.”

Her grip on him loosened just a little- but she didn’t pull away.

“You’re infuriating,” she murmured.

“Still hearing that a lot,” he said, almost fondly.

And then he gently guided her away from him. Her face remained in confused awe as he turned back to the door.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” she reminded irritably.

Remus turned around at the door, one hand on the handle and the other in his pocket. With a last soft smile, he glanced at her. “Remus. Now, off to bed, Nymphadora .”

Chapter Text

The night at the bar had long since dissolved into a haze of half-remembered mischief- just one more drunken misstep buried under a year of grueling Auror training. No one had called her cute like a rabbit since, no one had walked her home with a gentle hand at her back, and no one had so kindly complemented her so well since. That night had faded to a shimmer of warmth tucked away in her mind, rarely visited- a fond flicker of a what-if with a kind stranger that never had the chance to become anything more.
She had scarcely thought about him in months.
Tonks had bigger things to worry about- her first solo assignment as a fully qualified Auror. Nothing flashy or dangerous, not really. Just a routine compliance check for the Werewolf Registry.
Dot the i’s. Ask the questions. Keep her wand ready.
Easy.
Easy to mess up.
“Lupin,” Robards had explained, glancing over the file, “is one of them who assimilates. Watch yourself, ‘round him.”
Tonks, like most children, had been raised on bedtime warnings and back-alley whispers. Werewolves: creatures with blood-slick teeth, with twisted minds and hungers not always bound to the transformation. She remembered stories of girls lured into the woods by kind voices, ripped to shreds in more ways than one. Boys who came home with bites and never were the same again afterwards. Horrors in the shadows. Infection. Disfigurement. Something that spread, that rotted, that lingered long after the full moon waned.
In Auror training, they’d been told what made werewolves so dangerous wasn’t just their transformation, but their ability to hide. To smile. To assimilate. To pass.
“Constant vigilance!”
God, when would that old man trust her judgement?
Still, she thought she heeded those warnings quite well. She double-checked her wand before every encounter. She knew the signs. She was careful. It was for this reason that, when the derelict flat door opened up to reveal a starkly familiar man, she began to resent her own hubris.
Her stomach clenched so hard it felt like her ribs might snap inward. A pleasant memory, once warm and golden in the back of her mind, suddenly curdled with revulsion. Her body flushed hot with shame, and Tonks suddenly felt that her judgement was far more lacking than Moody could have ever guessed.
Because really, how could she be so stupid?
His face, which she had deemed kind and gentle in the flickering bar light, was now clearly crisscrossed with ridged scars and trickery. The lines across it were not the handsome age-worn creases she remembered accentuating a lovely smile in the street’s warm summer air, but jagged reminders of something wrong that was wearing his human form down. Of violence, barely healed, that he had deceptively hidden from her. His darned robes, initially assumed to be the result of terrible luck and a hard life, were now a waving flag of properly assigned humiliation—a marker of his appropriate damnation.
Remus Lupin. The Remus from the bar.
She stepped back and her lip began to curl in revulsion before she could think about it. She caught it just in time and schooled her face into neutrality, though it felt like her cheeks were trembling.
Her wand hand twitched.
She wanted to step back.
She very nearly ran.
“Mr. Lupin,” she said, voice clipped and artificial. Her grip tightened on her wand handle. “I’m Auror Tonks with the Werewolf Registry. I’m here to conduct a standard check-in.”
He inclined his head, slowly. “Yes,” he said. “I know who you are.”
He stepped aside to let her in.
A chill clung to her spine. She hesitated on the threshold, like crossing that boundary was a mistake she couldn’t undo. She felt ill, and she went in anyways.
The air inside the flat was still and wrong. The windows were closed, the curtains drawn, and the staleness of it felt like she’d walked into something left to fester. Like a room abandoned after an illness. There was no scent of food, no lived-in warmth, just the faint tang of iron and dust.
She glanced at him. His fingers were long and thin, with calluses that looked too thick. His nails had a yellowish tint, edges darkened like they’d been stained. There was a faint tremor in his left hand as he offered her tea, a tremor she wanted to pretend was from nerves. But her mind whispered that it was muscle memory of a hand that remembered sinking its claws into something human.
“No,” she said quickly, her voice sharp. Then she cleared her throat, and tried again. “Thank you. Ah-”
Lupin nodded, as if he’d expected that. He gestured toward a seat- an armchair worn down to its bones but clearly cared for, a fraying knit throw draped across its back like a conciliatory gesture. It was the nicest thing in the room, but the way he offered it was… odd. It was courteous and almost tender, to be sure, like a predator offering a child a seat. The throw blanket on it was worn and clean- too clean, like he’d tried. Like he wanted to make a good impression.
She didn’t notice the warped floorboard through her musing’s fog as she approached with cautious politeness, until it caught her boot.
Her body launched forward. A flash of motion. Her wand- not in her hand- why wasn’t it in her hand?
Then claws.
Gripping her arms. Dragging her down. A breath hot on her neck, and her vision erupted with black panic. A laugh- no, a snarl- right behind her ear, guttural and wet.
She was being lifted- thrown- attacked. This was it. This was the moment Moody warned her about- why he’d been so angry when she forgot the small things. She’d be torn apart before she could scream.
She gasped. Kicked.
And then she was… seated.
He had lowered her. Carefully. Gently. His hands vanished the moment she landed.
Lupin backed away quickly, like her skin might burn him. His face was pinched and ashamed, and he didn’t meet her eyes.
She couldn’t breathe.
He sat across from her, his every motion stiff, contained. His mouth worked like he wanted to apologize but didn’t dare.
The silence vibrated between them. Tonks sat frozen, her breath ragged in her chest. Her heart thudded loud in her ears, each beat announcing her idiocy in neon lights.
She was not mauled.
She was not bleeding.
He had simply caught her.
She’d imagined the rest.
She should really start the questions.
“So, ah,” she glanced at her parchment and tried desperately to stop the shaking of her hands. Her quill made a small blotch in the corner. “Where are you currently being restrained during your transformations?”
Brilliant. So smooth. So normal.
“There is a section of woodland a few miles from a Muggle village that I’ve warded.” His voice was quiet- subdued in the way a man might be when he knew his answers would be doubted regardless of their truth.
She nodded, scribbling it down quickly. “You’re sure it’s safe?”
“As I can be,” he replied, with a touch of fatigue, like he’d answered this same question a dozen times and never once been believed.
Not good enough. Her pen scratched a quick mark in the ‘Incident Potential’ box.
“And, have you noticed increased signs of aggression?”
They told her during training that werewolves got worse as they aged- sharper teeth, duller restraint. The human part started to wear thin.
“No,” he said, almost too fast. His politeness was like a shield. A deflection.
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Incident Potential’.
“Are you in possession of Wolfsbane?”
There was a beat of silence. He looked around the flat- threadbare curtains, cracked floorboards, cupboards probably lined with dust. The sort of place that showed that the owner had long ago chosen food over potions.
Tonks avoided his gaze, her face hot with embarrassment. She ticked ‘Not in Possession.’
The next question turned her stomach slightly. She hated this part. It was the one whispered about most often during training, concealed in murmurs and innuendo. It lingered in the air like mold.
“Have there been any possible infections as a result of your affliction in the past year?”
Werewolves could, in some cases, under certain conditions, spread the affliction by saliva, by blood, by intimacy. Like the kind she had stupidly pushed for, the kind that he had strangely refused.
No, it wasn’t officially confirmed, but that didn’t stop the stories. And, besides, was it really so unreasonable to assume?
The memory of that night slithered up her spine. She’d let him touch her, laughed with him, thought him kind. Her stomach turned and her jaw clenched.
She could still feel where his hand had rested at the small of her back. Could still smell the warm, human scent of him.
And now-
Now her mind twisted it into fur and teeth and disease.
“No.”
She blinked and saw his eyes flash yellow. Just a trick of the light. Just a shadow. Right?
She ticked the box anyway. One could never be too sure.
The silence that followed wasn’t comforting. It wasn’t warm. It clung to her skin like damp wool, like the memory of claws on her arms, breath in her ear.
She forced herself to meet his eyes.
He was watching her gently, sadly. Like he could see it all in her expression. Like he could read the hesitation. The fear. The stories she’d been raised on crawling back to life in her mind.
Tonks bit the inside of her cheek and looked away.
She’d read the files. Heard the lectures. Seen the pictures in the Ministry’s case studies. A body torn open from the inside. A girl with her throat half-hanging, the bite festering black.
Her stomach churned.
She looked up again- and for one horrible second, she swore she saw it. His mouth twisted wrong, teeth too long behind the calm smile. His eyes gleamed yellow in the slant of light from the window. His fingers clenched the armrest like claws.
She blinked. It was gone.
But the image stuck. Burrowed. You wanted that in your bed. You touched it. Laughed with it. You would’ve let it…
“Have you registered yet this year?” Her voice was accusing. Perhaps, if had actually done his registry, she’d have recognized him from the ministry paperwork that night and never even bothered. She would have left the bar, rather than be in his proximity.
“Yes.”
She glanced at the chart in surprise. He’d never missed a registration.
So, they really are that good at blending in.
She shivered again. Right, time to leave.
“Well, then, Mr. Lupin. Thank you for your-” she stood quickly, avoiding eye contact, “-cooperation. There will be another in a month.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” he responded transactionally.
If she weren’t so shaken, she might’ve made a joke. Aware-WOLF. Ha bloody ha. Could have told her that a year ago.
“Right,” she repeated. She stood awkwardly for a minute, then started toward the door. She paused at the last second, then turned, anger suddenly cutting through her nerves.
“You should disclose your condition to potential partners,” she snapped. “It’s irresponsible not to.”
He tilted his head, brow raised. “There has scarcely been an occasion that warranted disclosure.”
He let the silence hang a second too long. “Certainly not in recent memory.”
Her chest burned, and she hoped her face wasn’t doing the same.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Oh. Well, he could have lost control, even if he wasn’t interested in her. It wasn’t like she was wrong to be worried. He didn’t have the same sense as she did, and he didn’t have the restraint he thought he did.
He wasn’t as human as he assumed.
She turned the knob, and didn’t look back when she said it.
“I didn’t know what you were,” she murmured, voice strained.
“I know,” came the soft reply.
She left without another word.

Chapter Text

The door clicked behind her, but Remus watched it for a moment longer. The witch—Tonks—wasn’t special. He’d had plenty of the monthly check-ins since he’d “resigned” from Hogwarts, following the exposure of his condition by an anonymous tip-off and preceding the passing of much harmful legislation, and had faced plenty of off-put wizards and suspicious aurors due to his condition. He was, according to a very matter-of-fact Emmeline Vance—whom he had run into by chance—a sort of confirmation to many in the ministry that werewolves, even “ones such as yourself, Remus, the benign type”, were simply less capable than wizardkind at keeping themselves and others safe. He had given Vance a tight smile and a resigned shrug in reply, which she returned with the same, and bid her farewell.

It was unquestionable that he had been a pariah to the wizarding side of the world, but his undeniable involvement in the cause for such legislation had alienated him far further from his fellow werewolves who kept up to date with wizarding news than ever before, effectively isolating him from either side. Both now looked at him with suspicion.

Of course, Tonks’s opinions were far from unfounded. While the rumors of an untransformed werewolf’s danger were certainly embellished, there was no shortage of those particular individuals who allowed the wolf’s behaviors during the moon to influence their conscious behavior. Still, a certain bitterness always rose whenever a wizard—or witch—assumed that he was one of those individuals, especially those witches who looked rather radical and progressive in the flesh. It was quite the predicament: either stay quiet and take the assumptions as truth, or confirm them with any slight, snappish reply.

So, the default was calm, and measured, and restrained, and spineless, and desperate.

But Auror Tonks was still not different—not that night when he went to bed, nor the next week as similar glares were given by those who recognized him in the street (luckily, far fewer than when news of his condition had gone public), and not even months later when the familiar corporeal lynx arrived in his living room, with the terrible request he’d prayed would never come again.

Chapter Text

Tonks was confused, to say the least. There had been a few months of confusion in the wizarding world in general, in all fairness—fearful suggestions mutating into paranoia, headlines shifting from silly to downright delusional—but this was a new kind of confusion.

The air in Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt’s office was too still, pressed down and sealed off as though its sole purpose was to contain and concentrate tension. Tonks sat straight-backed in a stiff chair that had been polished specifically to discourage comfort, she was sure, while her eyes darted between Auror Shacklebolt, unreadable as ever, and Mad-Eye Moody, who paced like the floor had eyes rather than greeting his student.

She could at least deduct the possibility of a disciplinary meeting—which was a rarity she’d have to celebrate later—and it wasn’t routine, either. If it were, Moody wouldn’t have insisted she come alone, or without alerting the current supervisor. If it were routine, Shacklebolt wouldn’t be standing like a cat about to pounce whilst glaring at the sealed door instead of sitting at his desk like a normal superior officer.

She glanced at the door, then back at them. Her voice was tenser than she would prefer it to be.

“Alright,” she said at last, “I know I have a habit of attracting chaos, but even I usually get a reason before I’m dragged into a top-tier Auror office without a scrap of parchment as a notice.”

Moody didn’t look at her. His normal eye stared out the window. His magical one spun in agitated loops. “You check for surveillance spells before you came in?”

“I—what? No?”

“Should’ve,” he muttered. “Always do. Every damn time with you. Complacency is how you’ll get killed, lass.”

Tonks blinked at him pointedly, quirking a brow and giving a lighthearted smirk. “I wasn’t being complacent—I was actually doing exactly what you said not to.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. She was hilarious, so that probably meant this was serious.

Shacklebolt finally spoke, his voice a slow, deliberate calm that cut through her awkwardness like a warm knife.

“We brought you here because there’s something the minister—and many of your colleagues—are ignorant to.”

Her brow furrowed, but her excitement grew. “You mean, like, internal corruption? Department leak?”

“Worse,” Moody said flatly.

Shacklebolt shot him a non-argumentative glance. “We’re sharing this with you because we trust your discretion.”

Tonks crossed her arms, impatient now. “You could’ve just said that from the start instead of letting me stew for ten minutes like I’d misplaced another file.”

Shacklebolt didn’t smile—he rarely did—but his brow untensed. “This is a matter of grave consequence, Tonks, but it is not Ministry-sanctioned. On the contrary, if word got out that we were talking about this in a Ministry building…”

Moody growled. “Shouldn’t be talking in a Ministry building.”

His tone, even more stressed than usual, made Tonks’s stomach tightened, and she felt sure that the walls were now watching.

“Alright,” she hissed placatingly, “then let’s get it on with.”

Shacklebolt nodded, and made no effort to soften his next words. “We have reason to believe that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned based on the recent murder of Cedric Diggory and the testimony of Harry Potter.”

The room went still—no ambient noises from the hallway, or shuffling paper, and not a flutter of airflow to fill her empty lungs. What remained was simply the creak of Moody’s leg as he turned to size her up—she felt smaller than before. Had she accidentally morphed? It had happened the first time she heard of Cedric Diggory’s death. Tonks had been absolutely gutted by the loss of the boy who had been a young student during her time at Hogwarts. His death was a scourge on her year, to say the least. Still, the idea of You-Know-Who’s return was abhorrent—and inconceivable. He was dead!

She blinked, slowly feeling herself return to sentience. “What?”

“It is not rumor,” Kingsley continued, clearly unperturbed by her unintentional outward show of astonishment.

Tonks furrowed her brow. “But, the Department… Fudge says-“

Moody huffed in pure dismissal. “Fudge’s head is so deep in the sand, he’s got dirt coming out his-”

“The Ministry isn’t ready to act; they are scared the public won’t believe it, or that they’ll panic,” Shacklebolt stated, calmly redirecting the comment, “So, we’re preparing something outside of the official channels.”

“Preparing what?”

“The Order of the Phoenix.”

Tonks frowned, her lip peeling back. “Never heard of it.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Moody said quickly. “Not unless you fought in the last war. Kingsley, get on with it.”

“It was a resistance organization,” Kingsley explained, still betraying no signs of unrest aside from his furrowed brows, much to Moody’s clear chagrin. “Dumbledore led a network of witches and wizards willing to do what the Ministry wouldn’t. Sabotage, protection, gathering intelligence, even battle when needed. It saved lives before anyone realized there was a war on.”

“And you want me to—what—join?”

“We want you to know about it,” Kingsley corrected carefully, as if her knowledge of the Order were a minefield. “Joining is your choice.”

Tonks leaned back slightly. “That’s why you’re so twitchy.”

Moody’s magical eye swiveled to her. “I’m twitchy because I don’t like anyone who isn’t on the inside. Including half the Ministry. Including you.”

Tonks smirked. “Charming—I thought we were getting along.” Moody’s normal eye rolled—the other was hurricaning in its socket.

“He’s paranoid,” Shacklebolt said dryly. “But he’s usually right.”

Tonks exhaled slowly. “Alright. Say I believe you, and I’m in. What’s next?”

Moody glanced at Kingsley.

Kingsley hesitated, then said, “Then you should know who’s already in. Who you’ll be working with.”

“Fine.”

Moody grunted. “You remember the Weasleys? Some older aurors. Mundungus Fletcher, Hestia Jones, Remus Lupin-”

Her breath caught and her heart stuttered. “Yes,” she said, too quickly, “the werewolf,” she added, as if the clarification explained her reaction.

Kingsley’s expression didn’t change, but the air in the room got heavier.

“He’s a former member of the Order,” Shacklebolt said. “One of our most valuable operatives.”

“Valuable?” she asked, voice rising slightly. “But he’s-”

“A werewolf,” Moody interrupted. “As you’ve established-“ hot embarrassedment curled in her hair, “-We know. We trust him.”

“You shouldn’t.”

Moody’s normal eye locked on her. “Why?”

Her voice faltered. “I did his check-in. Last year. He… creeped me out. All quiet and polite and still. It wasn’t right.”

Moody didn’t blink, but a flash of alarm crossed his sneer. “Did he do anything?”

“No.”

“Growl? Glare? Make a move?”

“No, but-“

His face went back to normal. “Then knock it off, girl.”

Tonks flushed. “It’s not just about threats. You can feel it on him. Like it’s in the air.”

Shacklebolt finally sat, folding his hands. “That’s not him. That’s you.”

Tonks shrank again.

“We’re not asking you to like him,” Kingsley said. “We’re asking you to work with him. Eventually. You don’t have to shake his hand or share a tent, but you will be in meetings, and missions, and planning.”

“We’ve more reason not to trust Mundungus than him,” Moody added.

She bit the inside of her cheek and nodded. “Right.”

This was what she’d wanted to do since childhood.

“I still want in.”

Moody didn’t smile, but the set in his jaw betrayed something like approval.

Shacklebolt stood again. “Then you’ll receive instructions soon. First meeting’s coming up. Come prepared.”

She nodded, and the sudden weight of the decision hit her. It was odd: Tonks had some uneasy certainty that her life had just changed course with those words.

But she’d be ready.

Chapter Text

It was a mere three days before Tonks was on her way to her first Order meeting. Moody hadn’t told her much—only that the meeting was important, that it was time, and that she ought to “lose the damn pink hair” while they moved through Muggle London. She’d changed it to a turquoise blue instead. He’d glared at her beaming face like she’d personally and intricately insulted every covert operation he’d ever been on.

That was at least better than the reaction to the metal in her face.

The street was drab and lifeless, making even London’s usual gloom feel cheery by comparison. The square’s trees were devoid of the leaves and blossoms that were typical of springtime, and a foreboding chill ruffled her nerve. But, at least not a single muggle was in sight to judge her.

Whether she was garnering unwanted attention or not, though, wouldn’t matter; her mind was far more preoccupied with other things to notice the lack of prying eyes. Namely, the revelation that Sirius Black—her second cousin, the kind figure who had brought her chocolates from Honeydukes and teased her mercilessly about how she’d grow up pretty like her mum, the cousin who she had once considered an older brother in her younger years, the man who had turned against all she and her family fought for and believed in, who had conspired with evil, who had killed three brave and good people, along with 13 other innocents—was innocent and lying low in the Order’s headquarters.

Kingsley, as a reputed auror, had been assigned to lead the search for him. Apparently—and Tonks now realized this made quite a lot of sense in relation to the bizarre case file—he was only making enough “progress” to pacify the antsy department.

So, now everything was different. Her cousin was the Sirius Black. Azkaban’s most infamous—and only—escapee, a symbol of terror to the general public, a wrongfully punished fugitive, and a barely-sketched outline of a man to her.

Cool. Cool, cool, cool. He Who Must Not Be Named returns, and so does Sirius. As Tonks stepped up the stairs, she felt her apprehension at the prospect of meeting him flare again. Merlin, what if he was weird after Azkaban?

Moody tapped the wall, and her consciousness returned to the square. The bricks scuttled back from where his cane had touched, accompanied by a cacophony of clinking and shuttering. He ushered her through a grandiose door, eyes surveying the empty street behind her.

The air inside the manor hung sour and somber in that unsettling, stagnant mix of dust and mildew of long uninhabited places, but also with something deeper—like an old curse simmering with disdain beneath the wallpaper. The wood-paneled walls were so dark that they seemed wet, and the chandeliers overhead looked like they’d collapse if you so much as breathed wrong under them.

Tonks wrinkled her nose. “Lovely place they’ve got here,” she muttered, carefully picking her feet up over a grotesquely exquisite rug that was likely worth more than all of the furniture in her, comparatively humble, flat. Actually, it was probably worth more than her flat, period.

Moody grunted in front of her. His magical eye whirred around like mad, scanning the corners, the ceilings, and, most likely, the insides of her pockets. “Don’t touch anything,” he muttered. “Some of the trinkets are prone to fighting back.”

A rickety stairwell loomed ahead, spiraling into shadows. Her boots creaked over the warped floorboards as she stepped forward, and something moved above them.

“Nymphadora.”

The voice was rough and husky with strain, and carried a thread of suavity so familiar it startled her. She snapped her head up without hesitation, eyes widening in disbelief.

Silhouetted at the top of the stairs was a jarringly familiar figure. He seemed thinner, now, and less tall than he did in her adolescence; his black hair was longer, shaggy and wild, and a beard had grown in that would’ve looked purely revolting on anyone else with a less aristocratic face, but he was still Sirius. Still all sharp cheekbones and defiant posture, still with that half-cocked smile should not have looked so warm against the steely grey eyes.

“Sirius?” she breathed, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant, yet giddy.

He was already descending the stairs in quick, bounding steps before she could process anything else, and pulling her into a hug so tight that she found it hard to breath.

She stood frozen for a beat, then melted into the embrace.

“You’re real,” she exclaimed into his shoulder, withholding an excited laugh.

“And you’ve grown!” he exclaimed, stepping back, hands bracing her shoulders as if trying to take her full measure, his face unrestrained with excitement.
“An Auror now, hm? My baby cousin’s all grown up and catching dark wizards.”

She gave him a teasing grin. “Yeah. And you’re a fugitive. Should I be arresting you?”

He scoffed, ruffling her turquoise hair with a warm familiarity. “As if you could catch me.”

“I suppose if the water and dementors couldn’t, then what chance do I have?”

“That’s right, and don’t forget it,” he agreed, patting her shoulder.

She snorted, then studied him a moment longer; the man in front of her didn’t look like the Sirius she remembered—not entirely, at least. There was a faint twitchiness in his shoulders and a rawness in the laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, but he was here, and he’d remembered her!

“I wouldn’t dream-“

From behind her, Moody grunted a greeting. “C’mon. You can catch up later. Meeting room’s this way.”

Sirius gave her a regrettable glance, a quiet promise to talk later, and a wink before turning and vanishing into the corridor ahead.

Tonks followed, her boots clicking against the warped floorboards as her nerves steadied. Sirius was still Sirius—gaunt in more ways than one, yes, but grinning despite it. That fact alone made the looming meeting feel less intimidating.

But the weight in her stomach was dropped right back down the second she stepped into the dining room.

The noise hit her first—dozens of voices layered over each other, arguing, catching up, planning. The space was dim, lit by flickering lamps and heavy with the scent of dust, aged parchment, and long-forgotten furniture. But that all was no issue. What truly caught her attention was the lone man seated at the head of the table.

He looked like he was trying to shrink into the background, partially shadowed by the silhouette of an old velvet drape, shoulders hunched, hands folded in front of him, eyes trained on nothing in particular, and looking really quite tired with Sirius murmuring something low to his unwelcoming profile, looking downright pitiful—quite the contrast to the man of her memory, actually.

Sirius broke off the second he saw her enter.

“Oi!” he called brightly. “Come here, you’ve got to say hi! Have you met Remus?”

Of course Sirius had to be friends with Lupin. He was beckoning her toward him nearly frantically. Her first instinct was to shake her head and back out of the room entirely. Her second was to question if Sirius had actually lost it in Azkaban. Her third instinct was to do as he requested.

She followed her third.

Tonks actually felt a bit proud of her diplomacy—barely a hesitation before she went to speak to the resident werewolf. She could almost hear Moody’s gravelly voice in her head: “Good Lass!”

Sirius stood beside Lupin now, one hand resting on the back of his chair, eyes gleaming with something like pride. “Remus, this is Nymphadora!” he announced, grinning ear to ear. “‘Dromeda’s girl. The one I told you about.”

“It’s.. just Tonks,” she mumbled for lack of a better response, not allowing herself to meet either man’s eye as her earlier bravado sank like her into the chair.

Remus gave her a tight lipped smile and a short, polite nod, then averted his gaze, seemingly in an attempt at a respectful gesture. “Good evening, Tonks.”

His voice was quiet—humble, even—and the same tone he’d used during the registration check-in. It landed in her ears like a challenge, like he was testing to see whether she would recoil or respond.

She might’ve forced herself to speak—to mumble something back, to pretend for Sirius’s sake, but she was spared the effort.

“Remus is a school mate of mine,” Sirius explained proudly, dropping back into his chair. Tonks gave a casual nod that lasted a beat too long, and cleared her throat.

“Ah, I didn't know you kept this type of company,” she commented before she could contain it. Lupin tensed, so lightly she nearly missed it. She attempted to remedy her fumble with a smile—there was no need to be rude.

“What? Werewolves?” Sirius asked, rather untactful and absent in his tone. “Remus isn't like the lot of them.”

Sirius elbowed Lupin playfully, which he repaid with a small, grimace-like smile to the darker haired man. She got the impression that her cousin may be a bit inebriated, but if he was drunk and understood the meaning behind her ill-phrased comment, she couldn’t have messed up that bad, right?

“So I’ve heard,” she acknowledged awkwardly. Lupin gave her a yellow-eyed glance under brown lashes. He looked oh so pathetic, rather than dangerous, now that she was looking closer.

“You’ll get along with him,” Sirius continued, settling back into his chair and giving Remus an unimpressed once-over. “Not a charmer, love, but a laugh.”

Remus didn’t seem offended, more so resigned to that interpretation. She felt herself relaxing slightly—Lupin seemed to defer to Sirius—though a twisting of awkwardness replaced it.

“Like yourself?” she tried playfully.

Sirius gave a huff of laughter, and shook his head. “That bad, hm? I’d have thought she’d cut me some slack, Moony, after all I've been through.”

Remus gave him a blank, deadpan, tired stare, then sighed and sat up a bit. “I’d have thought the same of you for me, Sirius.”

An immediate laugh erupted from Sirius. “See, Nymphadora-“

“Tonks.”

“Tonks, see, I told you he's a laugh.”

Tonks gave an uncomfortable laugh and shook her head. “Right, yeah.” She had a feeling Remus wasn’t really joking, and she almost felt bad. Almost.

A sharp thump cracked against the tile behind her. The unmistakable rhythm of Moody’s cane followed, each strike echoing like a canon in the crowded room.

“Meeting’s starting,” he barked, his voice gravelly. “If you’ve got something personal to whisper, do it on your own time.”

Tonks turned toward the sound instinctively, slightly relieved to be made to turn away. Sirius gave a scoff from beside her and leaned back, crossing his arms in a nearly petulant manner.

“Still growling at shadows, Moody?” he muttered under his breath, though he was already turning his attention to Kingsley at the head of the table

Moody didn’t reply. His magical eye swiveled once in Tonks’s direction—pausing, heavy—and she straightened automatically.

Right. She’d been polite, now she could escape into the worry of work. Whatever reservations had followed her into the room would be locked away behind duty, even if she could feel Lupin’s quiet gaze on her back.

Chapter Text

The meeting room of Grimmauld Place, Tonks had noted, was rather dingy, even with Molly’s attempts at redecoration and hundreds of quick cleaning charms, cast by a disgusted Elphius Doge, that preluded their meetings. The sconces were too dim to provide real light, casting long shadows that clung to the corners and leaving most of the Order to rely on Lumos and candles. Every piece of furniture looked like it hadn’t seen air in decades, and the heavy table—dragged in from the upstairs study—was scourged by its age.

Tonks sat near the edge of the room, the edge of the table, and the edge of her patience.

The chair creaked beneath her when she shifted, causing an involuntary grimace. The cushion had split open on one side, and horsehair poked into the back of her thigh. She couldn’t get comfortable and she couldn’t sit still, but at least there was some entertainment.

Remus Lupin was seated four chairs down, half-shadowed by the flickering light of the wall lamp. He hadn’t said much—he rarely seemed to, unless addressed—but he listened well, like he should. For instance, whatever slurred speech Sirius was giving him right now. She thought she’d heard something about hippogryphs and a king’s room.

Throughout the duration of her first meeting, she’d scarcely glanced at the hunched man unless he spoke. Unfortunately, tonight, he was seated where she couldn’t avoid him. He was close enough to see the grooves at the corners of his eyes, the slow twist of a scar below his jaw. His hair was more grey than brown, she’d noted.

Still, she was trying not to look, she was just trying to listen. The meeting had gone on too long. Apparently, another round of disappearances—Muggle-borns—two families, one single man, and one child. The rest of the Order’s reaction led her to believe it was common practice for the Death Eaters; there was anger in the room, but it was old and tired anger, resurfaced after yet another non-resolution, burning low and hard, yet not hot. She seemed to be the only one who seethed outwardly at the reports.

Kingsley leaned forward, though Tonks barely registered the information—it was nothing new.

“We know they’re taking these families through side channels from floo network manipulation and unauthorized portkeys. In one case, there was a fake Auror identification to pull someone into Knockturn.”

“They’re getting quite brave,” was the only quiet comment from the surrounding members.

“And organized,” came Moody’s obvious addition. “They’re testing how far they can go without drawing Ministry attention.”

“We could intercept,” said Dedalus Diggle, his voice hesitant. “Warn Muggle-born families in high-risk areas, station Order members nearby.”

“That’s just painting a target on our backs,” Emmeline Vance snapped, hand on her temple. “And theirs.”

“We can’t do nothing,” Hestia interjected, her voice worrying.

Tonks’s ears were buzzing. The room felt too small, and this had been going on for so long. She lifted her head and spoke in what she hoped was a nonchalant. confident tone.

“We could bait them.”

The silence was immediate and stark, but clouded with tentative considerations, and a touch of judgement. They were staring at her. Tonks’s mouth was dry.

“We keep reacting to them, but what if we flipped it? Leaked fake information—say we found a hideout, or spread a story, or something else tempting. Maybe hint at someone valuable being stationed there.”

Kingsley turned toward her, brows furrowed. He didn’t speak. Sirius, however, grinned. “Finally. Someone knows how to take a stride.”

Moody let out a sharp, thoughtful grunt.

“Might work. If we control the information pipeline,” Elphius Doge spoke hesitantly from across her.

“It’s dangerous,” Diggle said. “What if the wrong people get caught in the crossfire?”

Tonks leaned forward. “That’s why we’d pick the location. A safe, staged space. We could even set wards in advance...”

She glanced up at Moody, who was giving her a stoic—yet approving—look, and she could feel herself gaining confidence. Her fingers twitched against her thigh. “And if we caught them—if we had proof—maybe the Ministry would have to listen. Or at least, we’d have names and faces.”

At those words, she felt the room shift. Some looked apprehensive, but the rest—the majority—extremely doubtful. Even Sirius looked halfway solemn, which was, ironically, saying something.

“No.”

The voice was quiet, but heavy, like a dropped stone.

Tonks turned. Sirius glared. The rest looked on in a strangely captivated manner.

Remus had spoken. He sat straight-backed now, hand running a smooth, thoughtful motion over his upper lip. Then, he folded his hands in front of him—a more confident posture from the man from the last meeting. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the way he said it left no question.

“No,” he repeated. “It’s too much.”

Her mouth parted, confusion rising to her face. “It’s nothing at all,” she argued.

He met her eyes, and this was certainly the most assured she’d ever seen him, and it damn near enraged her. He chose now to speak up?

“They’re being more careful than last time-“ ugh, all this last time stuff, “-If we feed them a lie and they sense it, they won’t come running. They’ll double back, or worse, lash out in ways we can’t predict. And the retaliation wouldn’t be aimed at us, it would fall on the people we’re trying to protect.”

“But-” she started, but he held her gaze expectantly. Not rudely, nor dismissively, but inviting, as though he wanted to discuss.

“Baiting them would work if we understood the rules they’re playing by, but we don’t,” he continued after an extended silence, stopping her freight train of thought instantly, “Not yet. We don’t know if this is a set up, or a test, or a trap. Every time we make assumptions, we risk making things worse.”

His voice didn’t waver, he just kept his—now polite but unapologetic—gaze on her eyes. “We’re not dealing with your usual convicts, Tonks.”

Okay, fair. His words were pretty candid. Still, she didn’t know when she’d stopped breathing. She made a conscious effort to keep her face the same pale color she preferred. Was the room hot? He should stop staring at her—creep.

Around the table, there was stillness, but not awkwardness—it was something heavier. Moody looked like he was thinking hard. Sirius leaned back and exhaled slowly, his glare returning to Lupin.

Lupin shifted forward, resting his fingertips on the information file. She watched his hand with the intention of only wishing corner in London, Tonks, you will go with Lupin for some reconnaissance with an experienced member as your first mission. Make sure to stay unseen.” Ah. Oh… no?

Somewhere in the corners of her mind, childlike fear returned. It whispered in her ear that night when she remembered the scarred photographs in Auror training. When she thought about registry paperwork and full moons and the noise in her head when she realized who he was. An intelligent, cunning predator.

But the man at this table didn’t match the monster in her mind.

Had he ever?

Chapter Text

The assignment, while given with ample notice, had shifted Remus’s schedule. It fell two days before the next moon: the day that he would usually reserve for preparation of wards and post-transformation meds. It wasn’t too much of an issue—he’d dealt with these types of interruptions more times than he would have liked to. One thing he hadn’t had to deal with in a good long while, however, was Sirius.

The genre of his speech was nothing new. There were some remarks passed off as jokes, and little pokes that Remus knew weren’t meant to be serious, but it was today’s topic in particular that irked him.

”You saw her face, too,” Sirius commented, drawing out the first words. “I swear, I’ve never seen anyone in the order so spooked by you. Well, maybe Molly’s brothers, at first-“ Gideon and Fabian had been a bit put off by him “-but they came around eventually, once they figured out that you could barely hold your wand,” Sirius then lifted his head from the sofa cushion expectantly, clearly awaiting an answer.

Remus only nodded, though he wanted to point out that he was just as much of a threat to the other side as Sirius was, if dueling was the thing to compare. He only didn’t because he’d not seen Sirius this delighted since Kingsley had laid them out the bare-bones plans for extracting his godson from his relatives house and placing him at Grimmauld Place.

”And she has to actually go on a mission with you,” Sirius chuckled, relaxing back into the itchy fabric. Remus took a deep inhale through his nose, and a drink from his mug. The clock chimed ten times, rousing him.

”Excuse me,” he said pleasantly, standing up, “I’ve still got quite a bit to do before bed.”

Sirius sighed and stood as well. “I suppose I’ll be heading in for the night, too, then.”

Remus didn’t bother reminding him that he wasn’t going to bed. While Sirius trudged up the stairs, Remus quietly made his way to the sitting room—one of the only cleaned rooms, aside from four bedrooms, kitchen, and the parlor—which was being used for various storage. He had only just finished gathering dittany and a brew of willow bark, ginger, and mugwort that Madam Pompfrey had graciously provided as a pain reliever when a misty blue flooded the corner of his eye. He turned to see the outline of a small tawny owl staring at him with wide eyes.

“Remus, thank you for digging up those old files on MacNair—we weren’t able to find any true evidence of him being involved with You-Know-Who again, yet,” Hestia’s voice explained apologetically, “but we do know that he’s been propositioned by Malfoy to join back with them. The Ministry plants they have now are far too numerous as is; let’s not allow for more. As for tomorrow, you’ll only be scouting for potential informants. Goodnight.”

Remus breathed a sigh of relief as the owl lifted back into the air and flapped silently into oblivion, atomizing into nothingness. He really wasn’t quite up to a full scale infiltration tomorrow, but a scouting mission would do.

Not an actual mission, Sirius.