When Remus opened his eyes, he saw nothing.
A heavy, suffocating blackness pressed in on all sides—so complete he wasn't sure, at first, if his eyes were even open. He blinked. Once. Twice. Still nothing. His limbs felt sunk in lead, his chest tight, as though some invisible weight were holding him to the bed. Every slight movement made his joints complain bitterly. His head throbbed, a dull pressure just behind his eyes, like his mind had been packed full of mist.
Where…?
There was a chill in the air, dry and familiar. Then came the smell—sharp antiseptic, undercut by lavender. The Hospital Wing.
Of course. He should have known. His body had recognised it before his mind had caught up. The starch in the sheets. The muted hush of magic keeping pain at bay. The faint, rhythmic clink of bottles being shifted on a tray nearby.
Footsteps followed—soft, measured. Then the swish of curtains drawn gently back. He turned his head slightly, though the effort made his neck ache.
A figure stepped into the gap. Slim, upright. Efficient.
Madam Pomfrey.
Even through the haze, he knew her. She had that same air about her—calm, brisk, overworked. But this time, her face wasn't set in reprimand or disapproval. She looked… relieved.
She let out a quiet breath and placed a hand briefly on the bed frame. "Thank Merlin," she murmured. "You're awake."
He tried to sit up—reflex, more than sense—and immediately regretted it. Pain lanced through his muscles and settled like fire in his lower back. With a faint groan, he sank back into the pillows.
His throat felt scraped raw. "What… happened?" he asked, though the words came out broken and hoarse. He'd intended calm. Detached, if possible. But it sounded weak. Unsteady.
"You collapsed," Madam Pomfrey replied, her voice gentler than usual, but still clipped with years of no-nonsense healing. "Complete magical exhaustion. You should have come to me long before it got to this."
He gave a breathy sigh, barely more than a shift in the air. That sounded like him. Let things simmer until they boiled over.
She reached for the blanket and smoothed it over him with a practised touch, almost absent-mindedly. Then she paused.
"She stayed with you," she added. "The one with the pink hair. Sat here half the night. Wouldn't budge."
He blinked. "She…?"
Madam Pomfrey gave a faint, knowing smile. "Ms Tonks. Seemed quite determined. Like a Kneazle standing guard."
Remus frowned slightly, trying to summon memory through the fog. Tonks. Of course. He'd seen her—hadn't they been talking? But the rest was a blur, like watching smoke try to settle.
"Why would she…?" he murmured. He shifted again, winced, and gave up. "What time is it?"
"Just past seven," she said, gathering up a tray of tonic bottles. "I expect she'll be back before long."
He opened his mouth to speak, but whatever thought had formed dissolved as the doors creaked open on the far side of the room.
He knew it was her before he saw her.
The air changed—subtly, but enough. A presence, not loud, not showy, just… there. Anchoring. Familiar in a way he hadn't noticed before.
Tonks stepped into view. Her hair had dulled to a soft, dusky pink—not her usual vivid, look-at-me shade, but something quieter. Something tired. Her shoulders were hunched slightly, and her wand hand flexed at her side as if it didn't know what to do now it wasn't needed.
Madam Pomfrey murmured a farewell and disappeared with the tray, her footsteps echoing faintly behind the closing curtain.
Tonks crossed the room slowly, her boots scuffing the stone floor. When she reached the chair beside his bed, she sank into it with a thump, like her legs had given up on pretence. Her robes were crumpled and slightly askew; her hair had frizzed in the way it always did when she'd been tugging at it.
"You didn't have to come," Remus said at last, quietly. He didn't mean it unkindly. Just… he wanted the truth. Not pity or obligation dressed up as concern. He'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.
"I know," Tonks muttered, eyes still fixed on the floor.
He watched her for a moment. The way her jaw had gone tight. The way her shoulders twitched, like she was resisting the urge to get up and pace.
"Then why?" he asked.
Silence. It stretched. Not empty. Charged.
Her fingers worked at a loose thread on her sleeve. Her foot tapped faintly against the flagstones, irregular and restless.
And still, she said nothing.
But he didn't look away.
"I don't know," she said at last, though her voice faltered just enough to betray her. There was something behind it—something she hadn't said or couldn't.
"I just…" She hesitated. "I wanted to make sure you were all right."
That did something to him. Something quiet. A shift—sharp-edged and unfamiliar.
People didn't say things like that. Not to him. Not really. Oh, they asked, from time to time—'Are you well, Remus?'—but it was always in passing. Politeness. Habit. Nothing that lingered.
But this… this was different.
He studied her properly now. The way her shoulders curled inward, like she was bracing for an answer she wasn't sure she wanted. Her fingers twitched slightly in her lap, like they didn't quite know what to do. She looked worn down. And far too young to be carrying whatever it was that shadowed her expression.
"You were… worried about me?" he said, not unkindly. It came out softer than he meant. Almost surprised. He even smiled a little, though it barely moved the rest of his face. "You barely know me."
That made her look up.
And when their eyes met, the smile dropped clean away.
Because what he saw there wasn't humour. It wasn't even defiance.
It was knowing.
"I know enough," she said.
Her tone wasn't stubborn or dramatic. Just quiet. Certain. The way people sound when they're done pretending not to care.
"You're Remus Lupin," she went on, voice low but steady. "You teach History of Magic—though frankly, I still can't work out how you make that subject bearable."
He gave a short, surprised huff of laughter. But she wasn't joking, not really. She hadn't finished.
"You try not to stand out. But you move like someone who used to. Someone who led people. And doesn't quite trust himself to do it anymore."
His eyes flicked away, to the edge of the blanket. That one landed. More than he expected.
"You're kind," she added—and it was the way she said it, like it mattered. Like it wasn't a small thing. "You hold doors open even when your arms are full. You ask after students who don't bother answering. And you're quiet in that way people are when they've been lonely for a long time."
Remus swallowed, hard. His chest tightened, and he wasn't entirely sure why.
He should stop this. He should tell her she was wrong—or at the very least, that it wasn't her place to say.
But he didn't. Because none of it was wrong.
"And you're tired," she whispered. "Like someone who gave up on being happy a while ago."
That was the one that did it.
He looked away sharply, his gaze lifting to the ceiling, as though the ancient beams above might offer somewhere to hide. Somewhere to send whatever that was rising in his throat.
No one was supposed to see him like this. Not properly. Not all the way through.
But somehow, she had.
The quiet stretched between them. Not awkward. Just… still. Honest, in the way silence can be, if you let it.
Then, without quite knowing why, he muttered, "Six foot two."
Beside him, she blinked. "What?"
"You said six-one earlier," he replied, glancing over at her with a sheepish half-smile. "I'm six-two."
There was a pause—just long enough for the mood to teeter—and then she snorted. Actually snorted. And laughed.
It was short and surprised, like it had caught her off guard. But it was genuine. And it lit up the room in a way even Madam Pomfrey's spells never quite managed.
"Well," she said, leaning back in the chair with a grin that pulled more to one side than the other, "I was bloody close."
He smiled. Not a big one. Not showy. But real, all the same.
She smiled back. Tired, yes—but warm. Grounding.
After that, they didn't say anything for a while. And it didn't feel like anything was missing.
It was the kind of quiet Remus had almost forgotten existed—the comfortable sort. The sort that didn't need filling.
"Anti-social is accurate," he murmured eventually, more to himself than to her.
The words slipped out before he could stop them. He usually kept that sort of thing for empty rooms and long, sleepless nights. Words like that weren't meant for sharing.
But tonight… he didn't regret it.
Not with her sitting there, not looking away.
Tonks's eyes lit up—not with pity, thank Merlin, but with something far better. Curiosity. Amusement. As though he'd handed her some rare puzzle piece she hadn't expected him to part with.
A slow, victorious grin spread across her face. "I knew it," she said, then, "Was that a real smile?"
He scoffed, lifting a hand as though to bat the idea away. "No. Muscle spasm."
She laughed—a bright, easy sound that filled the room and seemed to hang in the air, warmer even than the fire flickering behind her. "You absolutely smiled," she said, grinning at him now with a kind of delighted defiance. "You're a terrible liar, by the way."
"I've never smiled in my life," he replied evenly.
His mouth twitched again. Traitorously.
"Liar," she whispered, practically glowing now.
The sound of her laughter echoed against the stone walls like something rare and badly needed. It softened the room. Softened him, if he was being honest—which he usually wasn't. He looked at her then, and something inside him stilled. There was no pretence in her. No calculation. Just Tonks, utterly and unapologetically present.
And Merlin help him, he didn't want her to stop.
Something stirred in his chest. Subtle, quiet. Not fear, though he half-expected it. Not guilt. Something gentler. Something… tentative. And unfamiliar.
"I'm not good with people," he said, before he'd properly decided to say it. The words landed between them like something heavy and soft. "Never have been."
But she didn't flinch. Didn't correct him. Her grin softened into something else—something patient.
"Well," she said lightly, tilting her head, "lucky for you, people are my thing."
Their eyes met. And this time, neither of them looked away.
It wasn't planned. But the moment it happened, it held. Her gaze didn't press or pry. She just… saw him. Not the mask, not the careful restraint. Him.
And for once, it didn't make him want to disappear.
Then, after a quiet moment, she said, carefully, "Professor…"
His heart had the audacity to stumble. Ridiculous.
"…Would you consider giving me private History of Magic lessons?"
Remus blinked. "Private lessons?" he echoed, brow furrowing slightly. "Why on earth? You're not behind. You've barely had time to fall behind."
She leaned back, mischief flickering at the corners of her mouth. "Why?" she repeated, all innocence. "Because I saved your life, didn't I?"
He allowed himself a smile, brief and restrained. "Heroism rarely earns academic privileges," he said dryly. "Though I'll admit, it's a creative excuse."
"I'm full of creative excuses," she said brightly. "Also wit, charm, and a tragic lack of recognition."
He raised an eyebrow. "Modest, too."
"Oh, exhaustingly so."
He laughed then—quietly, from somewhere in his chest. And underneath all the cheek, beneath the sparkle she wore like armour, he saw it. The glimmer of something unguarded. A kind of hope, carefully concealed. She didn't just want tutoring.
She wanted time.
And the truly reckless part—the part he usually buried deep—wanted that too.
"…All right," he said at last, the words coming a little slower than usual. "Next Monday. Seven o'clock."
Her whole face lit up like morning.
"I'll be there," she said, the words almost reverent.
He gave a small nod, glancing down as if the stack of parchment beside him might offer an anchor. It didn't. But still—just for a moment—he let himself enjoy the quiet.
And the knowledge that, come next Monday, she'd return.
Before he could answer, the curtain rustled aside.
Madam Pomfrey's head appeared, expression as brisk as ever. "Remus, you've another visitor."
And then—another voice followed behind her, warm and unmistakably familiar.
"Hope I'm not interrupting."
Remus looked up—and felt his heart give a small, foolish jolt.
Lily.
She looked much the same. And yet she didn't. A trace of sadness around the eyes that hadn't been there before.
He straightened automatically, schooling his face into something vaguely composed. "Not at all," he said quickly. "We were just finishing."
Lily's gaze slid to the young woman at his bedside. There was no suspicion in it—just mild curiosity, a flicker of polite recognition, perhaps.
"A student?" she asked, tone light.
"Yes," Remus said evenly.
But beside him, Tonks had gone very still.
He didn't need to look at her. He felt it—how the air shifted. How she pulled inwards, like a breath held too long. Her posture stiffened; shoulders square, spine rigid, as if she were bracing against something. The colour drained from her cheeks.
Then, too quickly, she stood. The scrape of the chair legs against stone rang out far louder than it should have.
"I was just leaving," she said, voice clipped. Already turning away.
"Ms Tonks—" Remus started, moving to rise. He did so too fast. The room swayed, vision dipping for a moment as he grabbed for the curtain to steady himself. "Wait—please."
She paused.
Turned.
Her face had flushed now, but it wasn't embarrassment. It was something else. Her jaw was tight, her mouth drawn into a line that looked as though it might unravel at any moment.
"What?" she asked. Sharp—but brittle, the edges cracking. Not angry.
Wounded.
Remus stared at her, caught off guard by how much it hurt to see her like that. He raised a hand, unsure what to say—what would make it better—and then let it fall.
"Ms Tonks, Lily's—"
"I know who she is," she interrupted. Too quickly. Her voice wobbled on the last syllable. "You don't have to explain."
And before he could say another word, she turned again.
Walked out.
"I'm not dismissing you," he said, stepping after her, but too late. His voice landed in her absence.
"I get it," she said, still walking. Her voice reached him just before the door did. "It's not my business."
The door clicked shut behind her.
Her footsteps echoed in the corridor—each one louder than it had any right to be. Like full stops at the end of something unfinished.
Remus stood there, hand still resting on the curtain, staring at the space where she'd been. The room felt colder now. Still, but not peaceful. Just… quiet, in the wrong sort of way.
Behind him, Lily said nothing. She didn't need to.
After a moment, she crossed the room and took the chair Tonks had abandoned. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. Her presence was unchanged—gentle, measured—but her eyes were sharp. Watching.
"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.
Remus let out a breath he hadn't meant to hold. Sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand across his face.
"I don't know."
Lily made a soft sound—noncommittal. Thoughtful.
"She likes you," she said after a pause.
He let out a bitter little laugh. "She shouldn't."
Lily arched an eyebrow, just slightly. "And why not?"
He shook his head. "Because I'll only disappoint her." A beat. "And she's a minor."
Lily didn't argue. She didn't offer comfort or denial the way some might have. She simply looked at him—steady and level, the same way she always had.
"She's probably nearly seventeen," she said. "Old enough to decide whether you're a disappointment or not."
He didn't respond. He couldn't.
The chair beside him still held the warmth she'd left behind.
But it felt painfully empty all the same.
The Room of Requirement had outdone itself.
It shimmered like some dreamt-up fantasy—a little too perfect, a little too golden at the edges. Everything glowed with that warm, lazy sort of magic, like the room knew you wanted to forget something and had dressed accordingly. Fairy lights bobbed gently above velvet pouffes; students lounged in soft heaps, flushed and laughing, the air thick with sugar and noise. From a gramophone tucked in the corner came the slow lilt of jazz—old and curling, as if the notes were half-asleep and had nothing left to prove.
At the far end, the drinks table was putting on a show—bottles fizzing and glowing, pouring themselves without invitation. The kind of thing that would have given any halfway decent professor heart palpitations. But that was the point. No rules here. No eyes. Just too much sparkle and the gentle hum of denial.
Tonks strode in like she owned the place.
Hair a punchy pink cropped close to her skull, eyeliner a little smudged, boots loud against the floor—she looked like she'd kicked the door open on purpose. Which, in fairness, she very nearly had.
Wild Tonks. Mad Tonks. Always game-for-a-laugh Tonks.
She gave them the version they expected. She always did.
Even if her stomach was twisted into something small and sour. Even if her thoughts were still tangled up in the hospital wing, with the man who hadn't meant to hurt her—but had anyway.
Remus.
The way he'd looked at her—soft and startled, like kindness was something he wasn't sure he was allowed. And then the change. The shift when she walked in and Lily followed. That name. That memory.
And she—Nymphadora bloody Tonks—had stood there like a spare chair. Like a silly girl with a crush.
She pushed the thought down, somewhere deep.
"Tonks! About time!"
Penny's voice rang out above the chatter—already half-cut, she stood on a pouffe like a general surveying troops. Butterbeer in one hand, glitter on her cheek, grinning like the ceiling might collapse from sheer joy.
Tonks threw a lazy salute, flashing her usual grin. "Couldn't let you lot start the bad decisions without me."
The room cheered. Of course it did.
That was her part. A bit of cheek. A bit of chaos. The Hufflepuff who tripped over her own feet and still made it look like a performance.
Someone nearby—one of the Ravenclaws, Jules or something—was nursing a drink that looked positively radioactive. Blue, and bubbling ominously.
Tonks clocked him and, loud enough to raise eyebrows, said, "That's my boyfriend, apparently."
He gave her a vague nod without even lifting his eyes.
She turned to Chiara with a theatrical groan. "Honestly. I could set myself on fire, and he'd still call me 'that Hufflepuff with the hair.'"
Chiara snorted. "He's got that 'emotionally constipated artist' thing going on."
"The worst genre of boy," Tonks replied at once. "All angst, no arc."
Laughter rippled. Penny whooped. Someone conjured more confetti than was strictly necessary.
And for a moment, it worked. The ache loosened its grip.
Then—
"Wow."
Tonks turned.
Badeea stood near the doorway, small and blinking, like she wasn't quite sure she was meant to be there. Her satchel still clung to her shoulder like a lifeline, sleeves pulled down over her hands. She looked one half ready to bolt and the other half determined not to.
Tonks hesitated.
Had she invited her? No—probably Chiara or Penny. They had a habit of dragging in quiet ones, like cats who thought they were rescuing birds.
Still. Tonks offered a half-smile, something easy, something safe.
Badeea was looking at her like she'd just seen something impossible—like Tonks had stepped off the pages of a book she hadn't been brave enough to finish.
Tonks shoved her hands into her pockets, rocking back slightly on her heels. "You alright?"
Badeea hesitated, then nodded—but it was the kind of nod people gave when "yes" was easier than trying to explain the truth.
"I'm fine," she said at last, and then, after a beat, "You're… good at this."
Tonks tilted her head. "Good at what? Barging in like I own the place?"
Badeea's gaze dropped to the floor. "No. At… being here. Talking. Acting like you belong."
There was a pause.
Then Tonks huffed out a short breath and said, "Oh, love—no one actually belongs at these things. We just learn to fake it better every time."
Chiara sidled up, catching the tail end of the conversation. "Speak for yourself," she said breezily. "I thrive on social chaos."
Tonks grinned. "You survive on snacks and spite."
"Which is thriving," Chiara agreed, beaming.
Penny came staggering back with two drinks and an unapologetic slosh. "Want something, Badeea? I know you're underage, but honestly, who's keeping count?"
Tonks shot her a look. "Oi. Be nice. She's with me."
Even she was a little surprised at how quickly that came out. But she didn't take it back.
Badeea blinked, startled—like she wasn't used to being claimed. She looked at Tonks, properly this time. And Tonks thought maybe there was hope flickering behind her eyes.
Penny raised her hands, all mock innocence. "Right, right. Hufflepuff heart in action."
Tonks turned her attention back to Badeea, lowering her voice slightly. "You don't have to be clever, you know. Half the people here are just recycling someone else's sarcasm or inventing new personalities."
Badeea frowned. "Inventing… what?"
"Fake backstories," Tonks said easily. "Julian over there tells anyone who'll listen he's descended from Merlin. That girl near the bookshelf reckons she's a quarter Veela. Complete nonsense. Completely brilliant."
That got a faint smile from Badeea. "And what about you? What's yours?"
Tonks smirked. "Cursed Inferius, raised by pixies and sarcasm. But only on Thursdays."
Badeea let out a quiet laugh—small and surprised, like it had slipped out before she could stop it.
Tonks tilted her head. "See? You've already passed the vibe check."
"I didn't realise I was taking one."
"You always are." Tonks gave Chiara a nudge with her elbow but kept her eyes on Badeea.
Too soft for this crowd.
Too open. Too earnest. The sort of person the world nibbled at slowly, till the best parts wore thin.
She should've warned her. Walked her back to the library and left her to something safer. Instead, she scanned the crowd and spotted Rowan Khanna by the drinks table, deep in animated conversation with the punch bowl.
"Oi! Khanna!" she called.
Rowan looked up sharply, blinking as though summoned, and made his way over, grinning already. All limbs and enthusiasm.
Tonks gestured. "This is Badeea."
Rowan's eyes widened. "Oh! Badeea Ali! You built that kinetic sculpture in the Ravenclaw tower—the one with the quills and copper wire?"
Badeea stared. "You… know about that?"
"Know about it?" Rowan looked delighted. "I told my cousin about it in a letter! You're sort of a minor legend in our study room."
Badeea went bright red. "I didn't think anyone noticed…"
Rowan waved a hand. "Rubbish. You've got 'underestimated genius' written all over you. Come on—I'll show you which bookcase doesn't try to eat your fingers."
As they wandered off, Tonks caught Badeea's eye and gave her a thumbs-up. Badeea smiled—a proper one this time, small but real.
Good.
That was better. That was safe.
Someone else could be kind to her now.
Tonks turned before she had to watch. Rowan was harmless, the way bookish boys often were—sweet and strange and utterly unaware of how the world could tear you to pieces with a smile on its face.
She moved through the crowd again—past the fizzing lights, the false laughter, and the sound of something too cheerful to be trusted. Someone shoved a drink into her hand. She took it without looking.
The glass stayed full. Her grin did too.
She didn't want fun tonight.
She wanted silence to shut up. She wanted the ache in her chest to stop echoing with the words You'll never be her.
Not Lily.
Not someone you write songs about.
That voice—sharp and certain—knew where to cut. Clean and deep.
You're the storm, Nymphadora. The mess. The footnote.
And even your chaos is getting predictable.
She looked around and saw faces and movement and magic. But none of it meant anything. Just noise. Just performance. All of them trying to be seen.
For a flicker—a breath—she thought of Badeea again. The way she'd looked at her. Like she was something remarkable.
Like she mattered.
And for that one stupid moment, Tonks had almost believed it.
Almost.
But not tonight.
Not yet.
She drank. The burn barely registered.
A laugh rang out across the room—sharp, bright, horribly familiar. It cut straight through her like lightning.
She didn't break.
She didn't cry.
She just stood there, glass in hand, surrounded and somehow still… utterly alone.
Much later.
The party had drained away, leaving behind velvet shadows and the echo of laughter—the sort that lingered like perfume, faint and far-off and not quite real anymore. The fire had long since burnt down to a dull glow, but something in the air still pulsed faintly, like embers that hadn't got the message yet.
The Room of Requirement had shifted again. It always did, when no one was watching. When someone needed. It had read something in her—some ache she hadn't named—and answered like a loyal, slightly deranged friend.
Gone was the chaos. In its place: hush.
Pillows, scattered like clouds. The light had dipped into a soft violet hum, casting sleepy halos across the floor. Lavender hung in the air—sweet, steady, and just a bit sad. The gramophone had stopped crooning. Even the magic itself seemed to have curled up and dozed off.
Tonks sat cross-legged on a cushion that floated an inch above the ground, cradling a drink that fizzed green and sweet against her tongue. She wasn't drunk.
She rather wished she were.
Because even now, with the quiet draped around her like a blanket, she could still hear it.
Lily.
That name didn't belong to her. Never had.
Her name was Nymphadora. Tonks, if she had the choice. But never Lily.
Movement, behind her.
She didn't turn. Just lifted her chin slightly and murmured, "You're up. Morning."
A rustle. A groan.
Badeea blinked blearily awake, tangled in a nest of cushions and a robe that definitely wasn't hers. She looked like she'd been very gently misplaced by the universe and was only just noticing.
"Why am I—?" She croaked, voice rough, eyes squinting.
"You had three Firewhiskies," Tonks said breezily. "Went down like a bloody champion. I floated you off before you introduced your face to the table leg. Might've bumped you into a beam or two on the way. Oops."
Badeea groaned, scrubbing at her eyes. "Merlin. Did I really?"
Tonks turned to look at her, finally.
Oh, bless.
Hair pointing in every direction, lipstick smeared halfway across one cheek like she'd tried to kiss a hurricane. She looked like a slightly confused portrait someone had started and then abandoned for tea.
"You were magnificent," Tonks said. "Like a rag doll swimming through curtains. You got tangled in your own scarf and accused it of betrayal."
Badeea let out a tiny, strangled noise and buried her face in her hands. "Did I say anything terrible?"
"You kept asking if Rowan's nose was a Glamour Charm," Tonks said cheerfully. "And then you cried about clouds."
"I cried?"
"Just a bit. Said something about 'the ephemeral sorrow of condensation'. Very moving."
"I have to leave," Badeea muttered, already trying to sit up.
"You can barely see straight, love." Tonks waved her wand, summoning a glass of water to her hand. "Here. Drink this. And let me sort your face out, yeah?"
Badeea took the glass with trembling fingers. "My face?"
"You've got mascara trying to escape into another century. Very 'haunted governess with regrets'. Cute, but tragic."
With another flick, Tonks cleaned up the smudges, straightened Badeea's fringe, and coaxed some kind of order back into her general chaos.
Badeea flushed a soft pink, eyes flicking around the room like she was seeing it properly for the first time.
The velvet drapes glowed faintly, wine-red and whisper-soft. Candles hovered in the air like they'd been half-dreamt. The picture frames on the walls flickered between different versions of Tonks—laughing, pulling faces, one with bright turquoise hair and a wink every seven seconds.
"This is your flat?" Badeea asked, voice low, awed.
Tonks shook her head, leaning back on her elbows. "Still the Room. Just nudged it a bit. Tried to make it look like my dad's old place in London." She shrugged. "Or how I remember it."
"Really?"
There was something reverent in the way Badeea said it, like she wasn't just looking at furniture—she was looking at a memory someone had left open.
"It's beautiful," she said after a pause. Quiet. Careful. Like the words might break if she said them wrong.
Tonks shrugged, suddenly a bit awkward. "It's memory-heavy," she muttered. "But yeah. He was… connected."
Connected. That was the word she used when everything else was a mess.
Messy. Twisted. Gone. Connected made it sound neat. Manageable. Less likely to come spilling out if she poked it too hard.
Badeea glanced towards the wall again. "That one," she said, pointing at a moving photo, "with your hair all bright green—what were you doing?"
Tonks leaned forward, squinting. "Oh, that," she said with a short laugh. "Trying to cook an omelette. Ended up setting the cooker on fire. Took out half the kitchen wall. He laughed for ten straight minutes, the absolute nutcase."
"You look happy," Badeea murmured.
Tonks didn't answer right away. Her eyes stayed fixed on the photo. The loop played again—her face mid-laugh, the flames behind her licking the wallpaper, his hand just in frame, reaching for her shoulder.
A perfect moment. Frozen in time.
"I was," she said finally. "That's the worst part."
A pause followed.
"You don't talk about him much, do you?" Badeea asked, her voice gentle, not prying.
Tonks shook her head. "Not unless I've had at least four Firewhiskies and someone starts playing dusty old Muggle records. Then I get ridiculous and sentimental. It's not pretty."
"I'd still like to hear about him," Badeea said softly. "Even without the music."
Tonks looked at her properly then. Badeea's face was still blotchy with sleep, her fringe half-stuck to her forehead, but her eyes had that look—steady, open, waiting. Not out of nosiness. Out of care.
And that—
That did something.
"Maybe," Tonks said quietly. "One day."
Badeea didn't push. Just nodded, like she understood.
Then she turned her head, caught sight of herself in the tall mirror by the bookshelf, and froze.
"Is that… me?"
Tonks put her glass down. "You're gorgeous," she said, too fast, too honestly. It slipped out before she could catch it. "Thought you might want to wake up looking a bit… well. Brilliant."
She tried to laugh it off, to swallow down whatever that was that rose in her throat after she said it. Just a joke. Just friendly.
But her voice had come out wrong—not playful, not distant. Something in it sounded like hope.
"Smokin' hot," came Penny's voice from the doorway, all drawl and swagger. She strolled in like she owned the place, boots gleaming despite everything, eyes sharp with leftover glitter.
Chiara trailed behind her—silent, pale, wrapped in a cardigan three sizes too big and clutching a mug as though it were a life raft.
"I'd want to look sexier for our next job," Penny added with a wink, stretching like a cat across the arm of the settee.
"Job?" Badeea echoed, still blinking slowly. She looked like she'd woken up inside the wrong fairytale and hadn't quite figured out the plot twist yet.
"We freelance," Chiara said airily, flopping into a nearby beanbag with the kind of grace that suggested she'd never tripped on a staircase in her life. "Help out where we're needed. Magical odds and ends."
Badeea tilted her head, brow furrowed. "Like… helping Madam Pince catalogue the library?"
Tonks let out a snort, raising an eyebrow.
"Not quite," she said.
"Oh," Badeea said again. She sounded like she couldn't tell if this was still banter or if she'd missed something crucial.
Penny's grin widened—bright, polished, just a touch too sharp. "We date sugar daddies," she said sweetly.
Silence fell like a dropped book.
Heavy. Whole. Absolutely complete.
Chiara sighed into her tea. Penny winked again. Badeea looked as though someone had hexed her eyebrows halfway up her forehead.
Tonks just sipped her drink and didn't correct anything.
Let them sit in it for a bit.
"What?" Badeea breathed, her voice barely more than mist on glass.
Tonks leant back, arms folded behind her head, eyes fixed on the cracked ceiling tiles above. "It's just sex," she said plainly, like she was commenting on the weather. "Paid. Stupid amounts, too. A couple of hundred Galleons for a night. More if they're feeling generous, or lonely, or trying to prove something to someone."
She said it like it didn't matter anymore. Like it had stopped meaning anything long before Badeea had asked.
Badeea looked around the room again—properly this time. The gilded embroidery on the cushions, the crystal perfume bottles glinting like spoils of war, and the robes that shimmered if you stared too long. Luxury, conjured not from money, but from want. From magic and carefully performed affection.
"But…" she began, faltering, voice catching.
Tonks spread her arms—half defiant, half bone-tired. "This place? Sponsor sorted it. 'Daddy', if we're being technical." Her voice curled around the word, dry and brittle with irony.
"Daddy," Badeea repeated quietly. Like she was trying it out on her tongue, trying to make it sound less sharp.
Chiara stepped forward—quiet as snowfall, voice soft as candlelight. "We like you, Badeea," she said simply. "You could stay. If you wanted."
Tonks watched her then. That flicker of uncertainty, the tight pull around the mouth, the ache hiding behind the eyes—she recognised it. Knew it too well. It was the look you gave when you wanted something you didn't quite understand. When you didn't belong anywhere, and someone offered you somewhere. Even if it was wrong. Even if it costs too much.
"You don't want this," Tonks said gently. Not accusing. Just… wondering. Quiet hope underneath.
"I do!" Badeea said quickly, too quickly. Her voice cracked at the end. "I do, but—"
"But what?" Penny drawled, already bored, already pouring herself a glass of something that fizzed with malice. "She's not like us."
Tonks stood up. The weight of the night caught her all at once. "Go, Badeea," she said, not unkindly. "This was a mistake. I shouldn't have dragged you in. I do that sometimes. Think people'll fit into the cracks I've carved out."
She hesitated. Swallowed something down.
Then softer, almost not there: "You stay soft, yeah? Stay whole. We've already splintered. That's… our thing now."
Chiara gave a slow nod, her arms loosely crossed. "It was short," she murmured. "But we liked you."
Tonks turned then, ready to vanish into another room, another lie—
"Wait!"
She paused. Badeea had scrambled upright, swaying slightly, but her eyes were clear now. Wide. Bright.
"Let me stay," she said. "I want to."
Penny raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What?"
"I want to be part of this. With you."
Tonks blinked, startled. "You don't need to," she said, carefully. "No one's asking you to… prove anything."
"It's not exactly a knitting circle," Penny muttered, swilling her drink. "She'll run the moment someone cries on her new shoes."
"No. I'll be fine," Badeea said, firmer this time. Her voice didn't wobble. "I like being with you."
Tonks looked at her. Something in her chest twisted—tight, strange. Not painful. Not quite.
Just… unexpected.
Like a window cracking open in a room you'd forgotten had air.
She gave a small, crooked smile. Sad at the edges. Hopeful in the middle.
"Oh, Badeea," she said quietly. "Thanks."
Badeea drew her knees to her chest, perched on the edge of the cushion like one wrong move might shatter whatever fragile thing she'd just chosen.
"So," she said, soft but steady, "what do I do first?"
Penny groaned theatrically. "Merlin's beard, we're going to have to do the vetting talk again, aren't we?"
Tonks laughed. It was low, warm—almost real.
"First," she said, "you get breakfast. Then we start corrupting you."
And Badeea smiled back.
Not scared, this time.