The days had started to blur.
They melted into one another like candle wax—hot, slow, indistinct. All smoke and sugar, laughter that didn't always sound real, skirts that barely qualified as clothing, and whispered conversations that evaporated before they ever reached daylight. It was a life you learnt to wear like a second skin—tight, uncomfortable, but somehow necessary.
Tonks had taken it upon herself to show Badeea the ropes. There was something about the girl's eyes—too wide, too trusting—that made something twist in Tonks's chest. If I don't teach her, someone worse will.
They never called it what it was. Not properly. Certainly not out loud.
Prostitution was too blunt, too ugly. So they softened it, dulled the edges. Called it the work, or our arrangement. Sometimes it was just the thing we do. Wrap it up in enough careful words, and it started to feel like something else. Almost.
She could still remember the look on Badeea's face that first night—half horror, half awe—as Tonks tossed a pair of fishnets and a tiny black skirt onto the made-up bed in the Room of Requirement. The skirt was so short it barely counted as fabric at all.
"You're joking," Badeea had said, holding the clothes like they might bite her.
Tonks had sprawled across the bed like a cat in sunlight, wand tapping rhythmically against her knee. Her hair was bright bubblegum pink that night, flopping into her eyes. "Deadly serious," she said, smirking. "You'll look bloody brilliant."
"I… I don't think I can wear this," Badeea murmured, glancing towards the mirror like it might judge her out loud.
Tonks's grin faded, gentling into something softer. She pushed herself upright, voice quiet. "You can. Doesn't have to be you, love. It's just a part. Like acting. You pretend, and eventually… it stops being so scary."
There was a pause—long enough to make Tonks wonder if she'd gone too far. But then Badeea gave the smallest nod, uncertain but real. The kind that said, I don't know what I'm doing. But I trust you.
And that had been enough.
The days that followed were odd, in the way that only a strange kind of closeness can be. Tonks gave her everything she could—clothes, yes, but also the kind of knowledge you didn't find in books. Tips. Habits. Rules no one ever wrote down.
How to hold eye contact without it turning into a challenge.
How to laugh without sounding nervous.
How to let someone feel wanted without handing over your soul.
And most of all: how to stay safe.
Tonks watched Badeea take it all in—shaky at first, but determined. Even when she looked like she wanted to crawl out of her skin, she didn't quit.
She mimicked Chiara's feline smirks. Laughed too loudly at Penny's sarcasm. Watched Tonks with that look—like she was trying to copy not just the way she moved, but the way she was.
Poor thing, Tonks thought more than once. She just wants to belong. To be wanted. Who doesn't?
By Saturday, the air in the common room felt thick with something nameless—guilt, maybe, or glamour gone stale—and Tonks knew they needed a breather. Something normal. Or at least something that could pretend to be.
"We're going to Hogsmeade," she announced, jamming coins into the pockets of her oversized jacket, hair tousled and defiantly pink. "You need sweets. I need socks. Let's go."
Badeea blinked up at her from where she was sitting cross-legged on the stone floor. "We're just… leaving?"
Tonks gave a snort. "What d'you think this is, Azkaban? Course we are. It's not all doom and shagging, you know. We dofun things. Occasionally."
They met Chiara and Penny at the gates. Chiara immediately squealed and threw her arms around Badeea's shoulders.
"Would you look at you!" she beamed. "Proper little heartbreaker now."
Badeea blushed furiously, but the smile tugging at her lips was real enough. Penny sauntered over and handed her a sugar quill with a wink sharp enough to draw blood.
"You've passed the vibe check, babe," she said, popping a peppermint into her mouth. "Consider yourself officially one of us."
Tonks lingered a few steps behind as they wandered down the path towards the village, hands shoved deep in her jacket pockets. Ahead, Badeea was laughing at something Chiara had said, the sound light and real. For the first time in days, she wasn't clutching her bag like it might fly away without her.
That's it, Tonks thought, watching her with a quiet sort of relief. Let her have this. Let her feel like she belongs—even if just for today.
Hogsmeade was alive with its usual weekend buzz, all cobbled stones and drifting smells—cinnamon buns from Honeydukes, ink and parchment from the stationery shops, woodsmoke curling from chimneys in lazy spirals. The sort of cold that made your nose sting but felt oddly welcome. Familiar.
They flitted between shopfronts like magpies, hands half-frozen, pockets jangling with knut-pilfered coins and the occasional glittering trinket no one had technically paid for. Chiara found a hexed mirror in Spintwitches that insulted you if you looked tired—"Honestly, that's exactly what I need," she said with a grin—and Penny managed to charm the shopboy at Scrivenshaft's into giving her a discount she hadn't asked for. He nearly dropped his quill trying to keep eye contact.
Tonks nudged Badeea gently outside Gladrags Wizardwear, nodding towards the window. "Come on," she said. "You need something shiny."
Badeea blinked. "I don't—"
"Don't argue," Tonks said, already dragging her inside.
She picked out a delicate bracelet—thin silver chain, threaded with tiny enchanted charms. Stars and moons and shifting shapes. When she clasped it around Badeea's wrist, it glowed faintly pink.
Badeea stared. "What does 'pink' mean?"
Tonks hesitated. The usual answer—something flippant, deflecting—sat on the tip of her tongue. But it didn't come.
Instead, she said quietly, "Means you're safe."
Badeea looked up. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Later, in The Three Broomsticks, they huddled into a booth at the back, pressing close for warmth. The room was hazy with steam and candlelight, the air thick with the clink of mugs and the low hum of chatter. They each had a butterbeer cupped between their palms, fingers half-thawed.
Chiara was holding court, gesturing wildly. "He looked like a troll. In a bowler hat. Swear to Merlin."
Laughter erupted around the table, even from Badeea, who'd gone pink in the cheeks from laughing too hard. Penny snorted into her drink, nearly choking. Someone flung a crisp packet at Chiara's head. It was all so loud and easy.
Tonks sat back, one leg stretched out, watching the others with a faint smile. Badeea's face was lit with warmth, eyes bright and happy. It suited her.
And yet…
The warmth didn't reach Tonks's chest.
Remus.
The name slipped into her mind like a draught under a closed door—uninvited, but insistent. She hadn't seen him in class yet. Still recovering, probably. Ill. Resting. That's what she kept telling herself.
But her thoughts kept slipping back—to that corridor, that conversation, the look in his eyes when he said her name like it wasn't something broken.
And Lily.
Always Lily.
Beautiful, composed Lily, who stood beside him like she'd always been meant to. Like she'd been carved out of the same space. He looked at her like she was the centre of the bloody universe.
Tonks took a long sip of her butterbeer. It was sweet and foamy and warm, but there was a bitterness curling on her tongue.
Don't be stupid, she told herself. You had one proper conversation. That doesn't mean anything. You don't have some grand bloody claim on him.
But the memory clung to her anyway—the way he'd spoken, gentle but not patronising. The way he hadn't looked away. The way he'd seen her.
She hadn't told the others about the private lessons starting Monday. Not because she thought they'd mock her—well, maybe Penny would, but only half-seriously—but because something about it felt… delicate. Like a soap bubble. Say it aloud, and it might pop.
Part of her wanted to skip it. Keep her head down; let it fade into nothing. Just a silly passing crush.
But another part—that defiant, irrepressible bit of her—was already wondering what hairstyle to wear.
The castle had gone quiet.
Not the gentle, cosy sort of quiet you got when snow fell or exams ended—but the thick kind. Heavy. The sort of silence that settled into the flagstones and slithered down your collar. It wasn't peace. Not really. It was the kind of hush that meant something was hiding. Or waiting.
Tonks crept along the corridor like a shadow on borrowed time, the soles of her feet chilled against the cold stone floor. She wore her oversized Hufflepuff jumper, the sleeves stretched well past her fingertips, frayed at the cuffs. Her hair tonight was a dull, mousy brown—unremarkable. Safe. She didn't fancy being noticed. Not now.
She'd waited until the others were asleep. Chiara had gone first, sprawled sideways across her bed like someone had dropped her there, one arm dangling off the mattress. Penny took longer. Tonks had had to lie still and pretend to snore for a good ten minutes before the sheets stopped rustling.
Then she'd waited another five, just to be sure.
When she finally slipped out of bed, she did it soundlessly, wand tucked up her sleeve, heart thudding like a drum. Barefoot, she'd padded out of the dormitory and down the stairs, through the glow of the common room where the fire still crackled low in the grate. Past the barrels, past the smell of damp earth and the hum of sleeping badgers.
The castle changed at night.
She'd always felt it. It wasn't just the quiet. It was older, somehow. Less polished. The shadows didn't feel quite empty. The portraits were still, but not unwatching.
By the time she reached the seventh-floor corridor, her breathing had steadied, her mind sharp. She paced three times before the blank stretch of wall, her thoughts clear and deliberate.
A room for us. Where no one hears. Where no one asks questions. Where the truth can live, and no one tries to scrub it out.
The door appeared, as it always did.
She slipped inside without hesitation.
The Room had taken the shape she'd come to expect when it was just her and Ismelda: low velvet cushions strewn across thick rugs, the floorboards dark and scuffed beneath them. Floating candles cast a soft, golden light, their flames dancing like they were bored of standing still. The walls were hung with old tapestries that moved only if you stared long enough.
It smelt faintly of lavender and ink. And something warmer. Something hers.
Ismelda was already there.
She sat cross-legged on a burgundy cushion, spine straight, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes found Tonks at once.
A ghost of a smile curved her lips. It wasn't kind, exactly—but it was something. Familiar. Steady.
"Took you long enough," she said dryly.
Tonks closed the door behind her with a quiet click and leaned back against it, arms crossed. "Didn't think you'd still be here."
"I always wait," Ismelda said, and the way she said it made something twist low in Tonks's stomach. Not guilt. Not quite. Something lonelier than that.
She crossed the room and dropped onto the cushions beside her with a tired, unguarded sort of sigh. "Haven't seen you since the… you know."
Ismelda raised an eyebrow. "The stunt. You mean the one that nearly landed me in detention with Lupin?"
Tonks winced. "You weren't meant to go that far."
Ismelda gave a shrug—more like a blade than a gesture. "Did what you asked."
"Yeah." Tonks ran a hand through her hair, which had begun to bleed back to pink at the roots, like her body had stopped pretending. "You did. And I mean it—thank you. That scene? Out on the grounds? It worked. Badeea's practically vibrating with guilt and ambition now. She's in."
"I know," Ismelda said simply. "I watched."
Tonks glanced at her sideways. "Creepy."
"Effective," Ismelda replied, a faint smirk playing on her lips.
Tonks blew out a breath and let herself sink further into the cushions, eyes on the ceiling.
"You're not mad?"
Ismelda didn't answer straight away. She tilted her head instead, considering her like a puzzle she'd almost finished but wasn't quite ready to frame.
"No," she said at last. "But next time you want someone to play the villain, maybe don't pretend you're not asking for a favour."
Tonks's lips twitched. "Fair."
There was a pause.
Tonks picked at a loose thread on her jumper, fingers fidgeting, her eyes fixed stubbornly on the rug. "You made yourself the villain so I wouldn't have to. That wasn't fair on you."
"I don't mind being the villain," Ismelda said. Her voice was calm, unreadable. "Not if it's for you."
Tonks felt something tighten, deep in her chest. Not quite guilt. Not quite gratitude. Something knottier. There'd always been something about Ismelda that made her feel seen in ways she didn't always like. Like the girl could read the twisted bits of her thinking, the compromises she made with herself in the dead of night.
And the worst part? Ismelda didn't flinch at them.
She understood. She agreed.
Tonks swallowed. "I should've come sooner."
"You didn't," Ismelda said flatly. "You've been busy. With your new best friends."
Tonks looked up at that. Properly. Ismelda's face was blank, cool as ever—but her hands were balled in her lap, knuckles pale.
"You're jealous," Tonks said softly. Not a question. Not quite an accusation.
Ismelda's mouth twisted. "Am I not allowed to be? You used to tell me everything. Now I hear things second-hand. Watch you laughing with them like you actually mean it."
"I don't mean it," Tonks said at once, too quick.
Ismelda gave her a look. That sharp, pointed sort that always made Tonks feel about an inch tall. "Don't lie to me."
Tonks sighed, hard. Dropped her head into her hands and scrubbed her fingers back through her hair. The pink was showing now—creeping in at the roots, giving her away. "Fine," she said, voice low. "Maybe I do like them. A little. Chiara's funny. Penny's smart. Badeea's…" she hesitated, "…Badeea's sweet."
"Then why?" Ismelda asked, eyes narrowed.
Tonks looked up. Her voice cooled. "Because they're useful. That's all. They're pieces on the board. I keep them close so I can move them where I need to. That's how this works."
There was a beat.
"And me?" Ismelda asked.
Without thinking, Tonks leaned forward. Her hand found Ismelda's wrist—barely a touch, light as breath. "You're not a piece," she said quietly. "You're the only one I don't have to pretend with. The only one who gets it. Who gets me."
Ismelda's eyes flickered, just once.
"I don't want to be your secret."
"You're not a secret," Tonks said. Her voice was steady now. "You're my only real friend. The others—they don't know me. Not properly. Not like you do."
For a long moment, Ismelda said nothing.
Then—at last—she nodded.
"Alright. I believe you."
Tonks let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. She leant back again, eyes drifting upwards to the floating candles overhead. "Merlin, I'm tired."
"I should hex you," Ismelda muttered. "For making me wait this long."
"You could try," Tonks murmured, eyes fluttering shut. "Wouldn't work."
They didn't speak after that. Not for a while. The candles flickered quietly. The air was warm and still.
And then, just above a whisper, Ismelda said, "How long do you think this'll go on? This game of yours?"
Tonks kept her eyes closed. "As long as it needs to."
"And after?"
"I don't know," she whispered. "I haven't thought that far ahead."
Ismelda didn't press her.
Instead, she lay down beside her. Not touching. Just close.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Monday morning came far too quickly.
The kind of morning where everything felt too loud and too bright. The chatter in the Great Hall bounced off the walls like someone had jinxed the acoustics. Tonks wove her way through the usual chaos—flapping owls, overturned ink bottles, a second-year sobbing into toast—and felt her stomach lurch in that tight, uncomfortable way that had nothing to do with hunger.
She spotted them straight away.
Chiara was at the Hufflepuff table, perched with one leg tucked beneath her, elbow-deep in a bowl of porridge she clearly had no intention of finishing. Penny was beside her, skimming the Daily Prophet with a look of pure disdain. "Honestly," she muttered, "absolute rubbish, this." Across from them, Badeea sat perfectly straight, clutching a teacup with both hands like it might hold her together.
Tonks dropped onto the bench beside Chiara with the flair of someone preparing to die dramatically. She sprawled across the table like a tragic heroine mid-monologue, arms splayed.
Chiara didn't even blink. "Well," she said, cheerfully, "someone's feeling theatrical this morning."
Tonks groaned into her sleeve.
"I take it something's happened," Penny said, not looking up from her paper.
"I'm in trouble," Tonks mumbled, voice muffled by wool.
Chiara grinned, stirring her porridge half-heartedly. "Proper trouble, or your usual 'I've developed a catastrophic crush and don't know how to cope' sort of trouble?"
Tonks sat up and narrowed her eyes. "You lot are insufferable."
"Oh, completely," Chiara said. "Now tell us everything."
Tonks cast a wary glance around the hall, checking for nosy Ravenclaws or particularly smug Slytherins, then leaned in, dropping her voice to a whisper. "It's Lupin."
Badeea blinked. "Professor Lupin?"
Penny looked up sharply, eyebrows climbing. "You fancy him?"
"I never said that," Tonks said quickly, cheeks already turning a deep, betraying shade of red.
"You didn't need to," Chiara said, smirking. "It's written all over your ridiculous face."
Tonks groaned, dragging her fingers through her hair until it flopped unevenly over one eye. "I don't know what it is, alright? He's just—he's different. He doesn't treat me like I'm in the way. He listens. Properly listens."
She looked at them then—eyes wide, voice quieter. "And today we're starting these… lessons. Private ones. Just me and him. And I know it's meant to be about the curriculum, timelines and Goblin rebellions and whatnot, but part of me—Merlin—part of me wants to just… talk."
Badeea's expression softened. "That doesn't sound so bad."
"It sounds adorable," Chiara said, shoving a grape into her mouth. "So what's the crisis?"
Tonks slumped forward again, face half-hidden behind a goblet. "Lily. That's the crisis."
The table fell silent for a beat.
Penny blinked. "Lily Potter?"
"Evans," Tonks corrected bitterly. "Well. Lily 'Evans'. Technically."
Chiara's jaw dropped. "Her? Wait—she's still around?"
"She's not a student," Penny said slowly, frowning. "She's too old for that."
"She's a visitor," Tonks muttered. "Or so they say. Looks like she and Lupin go way back. Childhood friends. Or… something."
She poked at a slice of toast with unnecessary aggression. "I saw her in the Hospital Wing the night I went to see him. Perfumed to the heavens. Lipstick, heels—the works. Looking like she was about to meet someone for drinks at Madam Puddifoot's."
"Merlin," Chiara breathed.
"And the way she looked at him—" Tonks shook her head, the words catching in her throat. "Like she already had him. Like she knew she could walk in and he'd be right there. Waiting."
Badeea reached out, tentatively brushing Tonks's sleeve. "Maybe it's not what it looked like."
"Maybe," Tonks said. "Or maybe I've already lost a game I didn't even know I was playing."
Chiara snorted. "You? Lose? Don't be daft. You're Nymphadora bloody Tonks. The only person I know who could make falling flat on her face look charming."
Tonks managed a weak smile. "That's not technically true. I once knocked over Professor Sprout and a rack of Mandrake seedlings."
"See?" Chiara said brightly. "Iconic."
Penny folded up her paper and gave her a long, appraising look. "Alright. So you fancy your professor. He may or may not have a thing with a childhood friend who looks like a model. And you've got a one-on-one lesson with him in—what? An hour?"
Tonks glanced at the clock. Her stomach flipped. "Forty minutes."
"Right," Penny said, standing. "Then you've got thirty-nine to get your act together."
"And what," Tonks asked warily, "does that mean?"
Chiara grinned. "It means we're raiding your wardrobe."
"Wait—what happened in the Hospital Wing?" Badeea asked softly. "Lily visited him while he was ill?"
Tonks nodded. "I went to check on him, just to see if he was alright. We were talking—nothing mad—and then she just appeared. Glided in like it was her common room and stood next to his bed like she belonged there. I couldn't… I didn't know what to say. I left."
"You stormed out?" Penny asked, already leaning in, visibly delighted.
"Not stormed," Tonks snapped. "Just… left. Quietly. Mostly."
There was a pause. Then Chiara broke into a wicked grin. "Oh, babe. You were jealous."
"I was not!"
"Oh, come off it," Penny said, smirking. "You're practically glowing. Look at your cheeks!"
Tonks clapped her hands over her face. "It's just warm in here."
"It's October," Chiara pointed out sweetly.
"Lily," Badeea murmured, brow furrowing. "She's the one with the hair. The red hair. I think we saw her when we were coming back from the courtyard."
"And the energy of someone who knows exactly what she looks like in a mirror," Penny added. "Perfume in the Hospital Wing, though? Bit tragic."
"Heels, too," Chiara said, scandalised. "Can you imagine? Who wears heels to visit a bloke with a fever?"
"Exactly!" Tonks burst out. "Like—what was the point? She's already fit and clever and knows him from before and probably has a signaturescent or something. And I'm just—" She stopped herself with a sharp breath, suddenly aware she was rambling. "I shouldn't have left. He probably thinks I'm a total child. Ruined it before anything even had a chance to… I don't know. Be."
"No, no, no," Penny said quickly, her voice gentler now. "You're just in the early stages of falling for someone. Perfectly natural. Mortifying, yes. But natural."
"I'm not falling for him."
"Yes, you are," Chiara said, practically beaming. "And it's adorable."
"It's a nightmare," Tonks muttered, flopping forward so her fringe hung over her eyes.
"You're cute when you're jealous," Penny said, nudging her.
"You're cute when you're not plotting the collapse of the school social structure," Chiara added.
Badeea reached across the table and gave her fingers a small squeeze. "It's alright to care about someone, Tonks."
Tonks didn't answer straight away. Her hands were still warm from Badeea's, her heart thudding in a way she hated—quick and hopeful and far too exposed. It was terrifying, letting even a little of it show. One look from Lily, one whiff of that smug perfume, and she'd felt like glass.
But here—surrounded by girls who weren't pretending, who saw her and teased her and never asked her to be anything else—Tonks felt something shift. Not quite ease, but close.
She cracked a small smile. "I still think it's a mistake."
"Probably," Penny said cheerfully. "But those are usually the best ones."
"And if Lily is your rival," Chiara added with a dangerous grin, "we'll hex her shoes right off her feet."
"You lot are completely mental," Tonks said, rolling her eyes.
"And you're completely in love," Chiara sing-songed.
"I am not—!"
But they were already laughing, and Tonks—despite herself—was laughing too.