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Chapter Text

When you have crossed the stream that parts the two continents, go on towards the fiery rising of the sun, crossing a waveless sea, until you reach the land of the Gorgons, the plain of Cisthene, where the Phorcides dwell, three ancient maidens of swan-like aspect, owning an eye in common and having only a single tooth, whom neither the sun with his rays, nor the moon by night, ever looks upon...

Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound. Trans. Alan H. Sommerstein

"The sentiment, generally, is that more time ought to be invested in the preservation of Wizarding tradition and considerably less devoted to fearmongering and paranoia, as they see it. I've taken tea with countless Wizarding households and I must tell you, I've not encountered a single host or hostess who has given credence to the return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," says Doge, flames lapping at his wispy hair. His voice, dry and thin, escapes his mouth as a sort of whistling. "Most are far more concerned with this shameful business at Hogwarts. Or the approaching holidays. I daresay they've been genial in regards to that subject, and most generous with fruit pies, in particular."

"Yes. Well, thank you, Elphias."

"But Remus, it is truly a disgrace to the Founders, and a great disrespect to Albus Dumbledore, that this woman, this Dolores Umbridge, should hold such sway. And with the Ministry's blessing, no less."

Remus Lupin rubs the bridge of his nose. He is tired, sitting on the floor with his joints rebelling, and it is nearing eight o'clock. What he has gathered from nearly twenty minutes' worth of attention paid to Elphias Doge is that the man has made his rounds only as much as it suits him, dropping in on those over the age of sixty-five to casually inquire whether they have heard any rumblings of anti-Muggle sentiment, listening sympathetically as they provide instead their opinions on formal robes.

From the opposite end of the room, Sirius snorts. "The Ministry hasn't a clue what's going on. Fudge least of all. I'd be surprised if Lucius Malfoy's curricular suggestions weren't making the rounds next," he mutters.

Remus quirks an eyebrow at him—sprawled on the sofa, listening to the conversation with only a passing interest, his gaze directed to the ceiling. He's given up pretending to read the Prophet, and so it drapes loosely to the floor. On the front page, Donaghan Tremlett and his recent bride, a willowy blonde with deep-set eyes, are waving away photographers. Remus catches the words "Brooding Bassist" and "Lovers' Quarrel?" before turning back to Doge. "Again, thank you for updating us on your progress, Elphias. We appreciate your efforts, as always."

"To live to see Albus Dumbledore's good name besmirched by—"

Down the corridor, the front door groans open. Footsteps follow, careful in their movement and muted by carpeting. Walburga does not wake.

"Hello, anyone in? Sirius?" Hestia, but not alone, judging by the sound. She enters the library, trailed closely by Dedalus Diggle, and both are pink-cheeked from the November chill. She’s beaming.

"Oh, Remus, you're here too. Wonderful. We've such news,” she says, clasping her hands together. She glances at the fireplace. “Oh, hello, Elphias.”

Doge, who has been working himself into a sermon, blinks a bit, his mind still plainly caught in the kingdom and the power and the glory, and he makes a face like a startled hare. For a good second, he doesn’t say a word, and then, his momentum utterly lost, he replies, “Oh yes, good evening, Hestia. Well, I’ll take my leave, then. The time has quite escaped me. Safe night, all.”

Remus climbs to his feet once Elphias Doge’s head no longer occupies the fire, dusting soot from his trousers. He shakes his head. “I wish you wouldn’t provoke him,” he says, and Sirius smiles.

“Never mind him,” says Hestia impatiently. “Now, listen. News. You both know that we’ve been keeping tabs on Talmage Selwyn for some time now.”

“Very unusual hours,” Diggle interjects. “Tricky fellow.”

“Right, well, we’d decided to do a bit of cautious observation near Chalford—he keeps a house there—and, as fortune would have it, he was on the premises. He’s been very crafty, Selwyn. No complaints from the Muggles, doesn’t venture into the villages much. Keeps to himself, it seems, when he’s in the area. Deds and I watched him, pacing about his garden—”

“Perfectly maintained! No groundskeepers in sight,” says Diggle.

“Oh good,” Sirius nods, sitting up. “How awful if someone’d come at you with a spade.”

“Do be quiet, both of you,” Hestia sighs. “Anyway, the entire time, he was scribbling into a journal of some sort, frowning and staring at it, and we watched him for the better part of an hour, until it grew rather cold out, and he ventured back inside the house. And we thought very sincerely about packing it up for the day. But then, who should show up but Gibbon, dressed rather smartly, we noticed (at this, Sirius makes a noise of feigned interest), and off the pair went to goodness knows where.”

“So we broke in,” Diggle announces, clearly pleased. “I told Hestia, ‘Look, he’s left a light on, just there in the window,’ and the next thing I knew, she’d taken out her wand and I was peering into the house, quite a long drop below me. Remarkable, how little security he’d given the place. I unlocked it without trouble and in we went, right into his study.”

“All very quickly, of course — oh, yes, thank you,” Hestia says, accepting the pour of brandy Sirius is holding out to her. Remus shifts a log around in the fire until it blazes, renewed. He sinks into an armchair.

“So, you’ve found something, then,” he says, and Hestia looks at him, slightly put-out at having her story interrupted once more, and, taking a delicate sip of brandy, tells him, “Yes, but you’ve not heard the brilliant bit yet.”

“Apologies,” Remus says.

“Yes, so, after looking through his desk drawers and along his bookshelves and finding only what you might expect from his sort—receipts, ledgers, nothing terribly incriminating—we’d all but given up. It was dreadfully hard to move quietly in there, and we weren’t certain if he had house-elves, you see, but alerting them to our presence would have done us no favors. We were terribly unhappy about all of it, but then Dedalus spotted a curious little painting on the wall.” She smiles. “Funny, we thought, that he should have a painting of a writing desk so similar to his own.”

Dedalus downs his pour of brandy in one excited gulp and nods, and before Hestia can continue, he’s taken control of the tale, his speech rapid: “Very funny, indeed. I walked right up to it and put my finger out to it, just like this—” he jabs at the air “—and would you believe, it went straight through! Charmed! It was like sticking my hand into a drawer, and I suppose that’s what I was doing, really, and that’s when I felt it—the journal he’s been squinting into lately.”

“Clever, just wonderfully clever,” says Hestia. “Show it to them, then.”

From inside his cloak, Diggle produces a black journal, leather-bound and thin, looking rather oily in the firelight. He passes it to Remus, who, upon opening it, furrows his brow.

“Charmed as well, is it?” he asks.

“Yes, entirely blank, but that’s recent,” Hestia replies. “We caught a bit of writing when we first opened it, but it disappeared almost instantly. We tried Aparecium, of course, with no success. You don’t suppose it’s a lost cause, do you? We were hoping it was simply a reaction to being read by the wrong person. A security feature, perhaps.”

“Doubt he’d set it to purge everything,” Sirius says, peering over Remus’s shoulder. “Not if he’s having to take it out and look at it all the time. Must be something he wants to keep track of.”

Remus hands the journal to him, and Sirius leafs through it, amusement playing at his features.

“So you do think it will be useful?” Diggle asks hopefully.

“Useful, I’ve no way of knowing,” Sirius replies. “But if there’s something to be found in here, we’ll find it."

“Have you tried asking it nicely?” Tonks suggests. “Offering it a biscuit and a chat?”

“I’ve tried everything I can possibly think of,” Sirius says, resting his chin in his hand. "Bastard thing won't respond to any of it."

“I don’t know how you’re going to break the news to Dedalus,” Remus tells him. “He imagines Selwyn as something of a club secretary.”

They’re sitting at the kitchen table, the journal open and empty, and overhead, various Order members are filtering in for the evening's meeting. Tonks had arrived directly from her shift, Apparating into the library in time to see Sirius sighing and lowering his head onto his folded arms, his hair wild.

"Mad-Eye's quite good at Concealment Charms," she says. "He could have a go at it." She regards Sirius over her mug of tea. "What? It's not like you're getting anywhere."

"Steady on," Sirius says, then, looking at Remus, "and don't you laugh at this child's antics. She's willful and I won't tolerate it."

"Yes, yes," Tonks nods, sitting down. She smiles, first at the accusations, then across the table at Remus, and he forgets, momentarily, the subject at hand. She's done her hair in a dark green, and he is reminded of dryads and mythical women, of travelers in the deep forests. Behind him, Kingsley and Moody are coming down the stairs. Their voices cut through his thoughts.

"Just make sure that Dung doesn't empty his pipe on it like he did with those maps," he says. "Or you can expect to witness his murder at the hands of Hestia Jones."

The journal is largely ignored throughout the meeting, with the exception of Hestia and Diggle, who keep eyeing it with anticipatory little glances, as though it might begin speaking in the middle of a lecture on pre-mission broom maintenance (this delivered by Moody, who has gotten so throughly derailed that he's now ending a sentence with, "—straight into a cornfield").

When—at last—reports have been delivered and posts assigned, Remus rises and stretches, fragments of conversation drifting toward him, overlapping, turning nonsensical. Tonks stops in front of him.

"Have you heard of a place called Byton Marsh?" she asks.

"No, why?"

"I spent the entire afternoon there, sat on an elderly woman's sofa, filling out a report on Sirius. Apparently she saw him through the window. Or, she conceded, after feeding me dry currant cake, it could have been the neighbor boy. I'll let you take a wild guess as to which we settled on." She sighs. "I don't smell like kneazle wee, do I?"

He laughs. "No, not at all."

"What's all these numbers?" (Mundungus Fletcher, speaking to no one in particular, speaking to whomever might provide an answer. He's standing near Sirius's now-abandoned chair, frowning down at the table.)

"What did you say?" Remus asks him.

"Just posin' a question, was all," Dung says, shrugging.

"Yes," Remus nods, "but what did you ask? About numbers?"

Dung eyes him warily and replies, "Yeah, was just 'avin a look at the numbers in this book here." He gestures to the journal, and Remus stares at him. By now, Dung has the attention of Sirius and Diggle, the latter having stopped on the staircase. He's grabbing at Hestia's arm, and she's swatting him away, saying, "Really, Dedalus, I'm talking to Emmeline, can't it wait?"

"Right," Remus says. "And can you see them now?"

"Of course I can fuckin' see—wait, 'old up, are you 'avin a laugh?" Dung leans over the black journal, picks it up, snorts, and says, "Well, they was 'ere. Funny, mate. Truly. You got me."

"What did you think they were?" Tonks asks him. He's clearly nervous at the number of eyes on him, and he glances around the room, letting out a laugh.

"I don't follow, love."

"Written down—what did it look like?" she says.

"I dunno. Maths, I reckon. Calculations. Thought Sirius was doing 'is accounts or some shite."

"But that's all you thought it was," Remus says. "Trivial information. Nothing worth examining closely."

"Look, if you lot are tryin' to make a point —"

"Oh, Merlin's arse," Sirius groans. "He's got it Charmed to be visible only when you're not interested." He grabs the journal from Dung, who gawps at him, face plagued by confusion. "But, just to be sure—Kreacher! Where are you?"

Sirius squeezes past Diggle and Hestia on the stairs, calling out the elf's name, his voice loud (too loud to avoid rousing the portrait, Remus thinks, but then again, Sirius has nearly perfected the art of quiet bellowing, his voice raised just enough to allow irritation and impatience to ride along with it).

Kreacher appears behind Tonks, his hunched figure perching atop a chair, and he knocks past her arm, hopping down to the floor. It's not a spry motion. It resembles something closer to a calculated fall. He stares up at them, eyes glassy and pale, piscine in their emptiness.

"Master has called for Kreacher, called him to witness this gathering of foul stock," he mutters. He glances up at Dung, adding, "This one thinks Kreacher does not notice his grubby hands leaving their finger-stains on Mistress's possessions. How she would thrash him, a lowbred pickpocket in her house, thrash him until he wept."

"How very mobile of her," Sirius replies. "Now, I want you to take a look at this Muggle notebook, Kreacher, and tell me what you see. We found it on a park bench in Brighton, right next to an empty packet of crisps."

"Kreacher does not wish to touch the dirty Muggle trinket," says the elf, turning away.

"You don't have to hold it. Just look at it. Here," Sirius tells him, crouching down. "What do you notice?"

Kreacher glances at the open journal, letting out a long-suffering sigh. "Numbers and sketches, as Master can see for himself. Kreacher knows he is being made to look foolish."

"Well, I've seen enough for one night," declares Moody, who's been watching from beside the range. "Whatever's in there isn't going to win us the war. Best case, it's racing bets and nudes."

"Do you see anything?" Sirius asks him, raising his eyebrows.

"Don't mistake a man's reservations for lack of interest, Black," Moody replies. "Whatever you've got there, might be nothing, might be something you don't want to go poking at."

The house-elf looks between Moody and Sirius wildly, his mouth slightly ajar. "Deceived! Mocked!" he spits, clenching his scrawny fists. He draws himself up, tiny and sallow, withered skin hanging, his face full of clean hatred. "Used for his Master's ungrateful agenda!"

"That'll be all," Sirius says, waving his hand. "Anyone care for a drink?"

"Now, which first, Dedalus?" Hestia holds up two glass bottles, both resting neatly between thumb and forefinger. "Desensi-Serum or Draught of Ennui?"

Diggle is sat at the end of the kitchen table, his hat removed and cravat loosened. "Well, I'm sure I don't know. Do you suppose it ought to be done in a certain order?"

There's a clattering on the stairs, and Remus peeks around the corner to see Tonks taking them quickly, her hair the color of cornflowers, one hand hovering above the railing. She loses her footing a bit on the last one, reaching out and steadying herself on his arm, asking, "Am I late? Have I missed anything?"

"Only Sirius complaining about not getting to do the honors," he replies. She's not moved her hand, and her skin's gone a bit rosy, but she smiles at him as Diggle says from his chair, "I found it, didn't I?"

"Just get on with it, you bunch of dunderheads," Moody growls. "I don't want to waste an evening debating nonsense. I'm only here to make sure Diggle doesn't end up in St. Mungo's."

"Surely it won't be as bad as all that," Hestia says, examining the bottles. "I'm not worried. You're not worried, are you, Deds? Just a bit of transcription, after all."

Diggle makes a noise that is perhaps an attempt at laughter but sounds far closer to wheezing, and he places his hands flat on the tabletop. Before him, the journal, a stack of parchment paper, and a quill are carefully arranged. He brushes a finger over the quill feathers and says, gathering his resolve, "To discoveries, then. You decide, Hestia. I'm not much good at it, I'm afraid."

"Give him the blue one first," says Sirius, gesturing toward the bottle marked, "Draught of Ennui" in rolling script. "I don't know that it'll make any difference, but it seems like this way, he'll not care that he doesn't care." He hops up onto the counter, his legs dangling against the bottom cupboards. "And then this whole sodding business can be done with," he adds. Moody grunts, as though in agreement on this matter, at least.

"Yes, all right," Hestia replies. She hands Diggle the bottle, and, after a moment's hesitation, he swallows it, followed by the other. His face contorts with disgust, slowly becoming a frown, then becoming rather blank.

"Well?" she asks him.

He seems to contemplate this, looking at the quill and picking it up before lowering it again. "Well," he repeats. "Well, indeed."

Remus hears Moody swear half-heartedly under his breath, apparently not willing to devote his energy to an entire string of profanities.

"Weeping Jesus, man, do you see anything written down or not?" Moody says, walking over to Diggle. His staff clunks heavily against the floor. Diggle regards him impassively.

"I see many things here," Diggle sighs, "but nothing which merits conversation. Tell me, are there any subjects in life which do?"

"Thank god we didn't give them to Sirius," Remus mutters, and Tonks bites her lower lip, stifling a laugh.

"Oh, Dedalus," says Hestia, fretting, "be a dear, won't you, and write down what you see—here, plenty of parchment for you."

"I cannot see that it matters," Diggle responds, dipping the nib in ink. "The illustrations are rudimentary. Unskilled. Clearly drafted by a crude hand. Outcroppings of rock, the paths of waterways. Very tedious. Completely lacking in any vibrancy—"

"Reckon Selwyn fancies himself a landscape artist?" Sirius asks.

"What about the numbers Dung mentioned?" Remus suggests. "Can you transfer those?"

"What would you have me transfer? An imprint that takes with it only the barest markings of the original?" Diggle shakes his head. "Copies are not copies, dear boy, they are examples of loss."

Tonks snorts, and Remus looks over to see her covering her mouth, laughter in her eyes. She touches his wrist. "I think you might have to be more direct with him," she says. He would think more of this—the touch, the suspicion that her words have an implication not at all related to Dedalus Diggle—but Hestia is massaging her temples and Sirius is growing restless in his countertop roost.

Before he can speak, however, Moody taps on the parchment paper with a scarred index finger and says, voice gruff, "Just make the copy, Diggle, and don't think so much about it."

They gather at the end of the table as Diggle begins to drag his quill along the parchment, sighing heavily. Sirius leans forward as much as his position will allow. Tonks blocks his line of sight momentarily and he pokes her with his wand. She swats at him.

"Stop your tomfoolery or I'll make the pair of you wait upstairs," Moody barks.

Tonks rolls her eyes and steps closer to Remus, her arm brushing against him. She stays like this, nearly-but-not-quite touching him, until Hestia lets out a breath and says, running a hand through her dark hair, "Well, I've no idea what any of this is. Fifty-four what? Over and over. And these here: two decimal one, two decimal three. Doesn't make a bit of sense."

Remus frowns and moves around the table until he's looking over Diggle's shoulder. He's been making a column down the parchment, each entry created and then promptly struck through with a thin, black line.

"You'll find life is rather like that," Diggle says, mostly to himself, almost in a daze. "A long parade of absurdities." He's just written a new entry: 54.6507, -2.18645. A line severs the numbers.

"They're coordinates," Remus says.

"What?" asks Hestia. She leans down, peering at the string of numbers as though her comprehension might be influenced by proximity.

"Latitude and longitude," he replies. He looks at Tonks. "The maps in the library—"

"I'll grab one, shall I?" she says, heading for the stairs. He watches as Diggle's column moves steadily down the parchment, and it becomes clear that Talmage Selwyn has been searching for something, though Remus isn't sure what, exactly.

"What do you suppose he's up to?" Hestia murmurs, and then, looking at Diggle's ink-stained hand, says, "Is there an end in sight, Deds?" It is a remarkably poor choice of words, for Diggle looks up at her, his eyes large and solemn, and he lowers the quill in order to pat her hand.

"Inevitably," he tells her.

"Journal. Locations," Moody reminds him sternly, and with a small shrug of indifference, Diggle resumes his work. When Tonks returns, she's carrying a folded, yellowed map. She hands it directly to Remus, rather than spreading it out on the table—a preference which does not escape Sirius's uncharacteristically restrained observations. When Remus glances at him, he raises his eyebrows and looks pointedly at Tonks. Remus ignores him.

"So, for example, this set at the top of his list corresponds to...this spot here, near the River Tees," he says, his hand hovering over Northern England. "He's marking locations along the North Pennines, moving generally toward the County Durham-Cumbria border. Where's the latest one? Here." He taps the map, a blood-red dot blossoming in the wake of his fingertip, coordinates appearing to one side.

"The devil is he looking for on the moors?" Moody asks, and Hestia responds with a shiver.

"Hags," she says, as though it's rather obvious. "What a disappointment."

"So, he's a missionary," Sirius laughs, jumping down from the counter. "He's bringing the good word of Voldemort with him."

"Black might be right," says Moody. "Painful though it is to admit."

"Well, he can't have accomplished much yet, judging by the number of strikes," Tonks observes. "Notoriously hard to track down, aren't they?"

"Typically they track you," Hestia replies darkly. "If you should wander near their homes."

"Giants, werewolves, hags. Rather fixated on recruitment, Voldemort," Remus says. "This entry here, just near the bottom—Selwyn's marked it through and then circled it, almost like he's debated on it. I wonder if he was quite close."

"He did seem terribly agitated," Hestia says. She looks at Diggle, who, having finished the bulk of his assignment, is sitting and frowning at his lap. "It'll wear off soon," she reassures him.

"So, might I suggest that we profit from all this industriousness and drop in well ahead of him?" says Sirius, gesturing at the map. "Moony, you're diplomatic. Pay the ladies a visit. Get a sense of where their loyalties lie. Let them read chicken bones for you, or whatever it is they do."

"It's foxes, actually. They use fox bones for osteomancy, and they're rather good at it," Hestia tells him. "My mother has stories, you know, from when she was a girl—people who visited them, sought out their services. She said they came back afterward with a haunted look in their eyes. They have an old magic, those women."

"If you do go up north, you'd best be on your guard, Lupin," says Moody. "Take Shacklebolt with you, or Bill Weasley if he can get away."

"I'll go," Tonks says. Several pairs of eyes, Remus Lupin's among them, settle on her. She shrugs. "They have me on rotating shifts at the Ministry. I'm due my three-day at the weekend. Timing works out better, unless you want to wait for Kingsley's schedule to accommodate your plans."

"It's probably a wise idea," Hestia concedes. She's taken a pocket mirror out of her clutch in order to check her hair, and she shuts it with a precise snap. "I believe they respond a bit better to females, and I'm afraid I'd be hopeless as a traveling companion. I'm not much for encounters with hags; I'd rather avoid it."

"You've all gotten remarkably far into planning this outing without a word of agreement on my part," Remus says. Tonks looks at him, her brown eyes very nearly apologetic. He finds her sincerity disarming, a welcome contrast to his dryness, and he cannot stop himself from smiling. "I'll go," he tells her.

"Then it's settled," announces Sirius. He has a deeply amused look on his face, something bordering on devilish. "Moony, Tonks, and a jaunt to the moors."

Chapter Text

Don't tarie by the river, childe
Or lean thy face so neare.
The water's home to dreadful sightes
To shake thy bones with feare.
And walkynge, 'lone, the frowie path
Is sure to tempte thy fate,
For thou mighte fynde thyself upon
A darke hag's dynner plate.

-"Don't Tarie by the River," Wizarding rhyme, author unknown

"You know, at some point, my desire for conversation might outweigh my amusement at how little you seem to need."

"Point reached, is it?" Remus says, glancing over at her. A flicker of a smile appears—the sort designed for these strange flirtatious moments.

The blue of morning has shifted into a sober grey. Clouds gather above the thatched grasses and cling, threatening rain. She's felt a few drops splash on her cheek, but nothing more. They've been following the river, and here the soil is darker, the terrain harder. The delicate flora has gone, leaving only shrub and tussock and cross-leaved heath—hearty things that pay little mind to the wind or the damp or the cold rock, igneous and ancient. When the Tees shoots over stacks of dolerite it takes on a milk-brown shade, peat-stained and frothing, darkening again once the landscape settles.

Their pace slows, and now they amble along, but for all their closeness they do not touch.

"I was just thinking," he says. "Hags deliberately conceal their homes by way of magic. You would assume that practitioners of magic, given their familiarity with its presentation, would have better luck locating them. But I wonder if it somehow puts us at a disadvantage."

"Getting so used to magical energy that you start to ignore it, you mean?"

Remus makes a quiet hum of assent. "Overlook it, potentially. Selwyn might have been searching very rationally for something which required him to put rationality aside."

"The duplicates—surely he went back to them for a reason."

"A juniper wood and an access road," he nods, mostly to himself. "Neither particularly remarkable, but he did go back." Tonks watches him sigh, sees the tangle of thoughts being pushed aside. He gestures ahead. "After this, southwest?"

"After this, lunch," she replies.

Blackberry preserves on fresh bread, dates, smoked ham, sharp white cheese—easily transported goods, the more involved items stowed away for evening, when they'll have both shelter and time. Tonks sits, warmed by magic, listening to the sound of the river.

"Preparing your marching orders?" she asks him. He's sat beside her, frowning absently at a map. He looks at her—hair tousled, one eyebrow quirking upward. God, there's a wild sort of something about him, like this. Not the dark and indulgent recklessness Sirius perpetuates or the mad, boyish excitement she recognizes in younger, less troubled faces. Perhaps it's that he's focused and confident and seemingly pleased, despite his quiet, when he's not in London.

"Am I imperious?"

"No, I don't think so." She leans back, propping herself against his rucksack. "I think you're in your element, perhaps."

"Scouring the countryside for hags?"

"The countryside, more generally." She nibbles at a date. "It suits you."

He looks flattered, embarrassed just slightly at having attention drawn to himself, of being the subject of her observations. "And what about you?"

Tonks smiles. "Believe it or not, paperwork and government cubicles are not a deep wellspring of joy. But I'm a bit of a workaholic, even so."

"Well, if ever you renounce your Ministry vows, there's a reverence to be found out here. And something like peace, if that's what you're after."

"Is that where you'd be? In this hypothetical future?"

It's a harmless enough question, but here, without the codes of propriety Headquarters so easily enforces, its interpretation runs unchecked. (Yes, but where would I find you? How could I seek you?)

He pauses, then folds the map, saying, "Possibly. Planning on joining me?"

Occasionally, she suspects that he might adore her, and she could lay out the whole of these moments—arrange them tidily—but remain just as far from an answer. He could never be accused of being overt, Remus. His sentences have too many potential exits, and if he has asked a question he has surely asked another simultaneously. And there is the gloomy but not absurd possibility that she is wrong about all of it, and that she has been inhabiting a rather Austenesque realm of over-analysis. She tosses a date at him.

"Come on, then," she tells him, climbing to her feet. It is as good a reply as any.

"...even in the British Isles, one might encounter these rather ominous beings, particularly in regions of Scotland and Northern England, where they are most frequently located. For instance, the traveler wishing to glimpse some of England's most scenic views naturally gravitates towards the valley of High Cup, where a demanding climb is rewarded by an awe-inspiring view of this glacial depression, carved thoroughly into the landscape and marked by pillars of dolerite and solemn faces of limestone. Within walking distance, the boggy Great Rundale Tarn leaks gradually into greater waterways, those of the Maize Beck and the River Tees, and for travelers with a particularly adventurous spirit, the beauty of Cauldron Snout can be found to the northeast. It is the author's suggestion, however, that the witch or wizard wishing to avoid hags will likewise avoid any prolonged wanderings in these environments, and that those who are undeterred in their roaming will be adequately prepared for such a meeting. Venturing toward Loch Rannoch..."

-excerpt, Hags in England and Abroad (1947), Michael Ross Arterton

Nearing sunset, and they have found nothing—have walked endlessly and had their faces pressed and chilled by wind. Among the grasses they've set up Moody's tent, a beaten shade of beige standing out against a field of russet and saffron and pale lavender. They have long since lost sight of the river.

She casts Repelling Charms around them.

Inside, it is stark, capturing some of the gruffness of its owner. It reminds her of cottages along the coast: bleached, the furniture crafted from something resembling driftwood. Squat lanterns hang along the wall, casting a lazy, yellowish sort of light. In the corner sits a rickety bed with a faded red quilt draped over it, the frame made of black iron. A curious sort of spyglass has been installed near the entrance, directed toward a blank wall. When Tonks peers through it, she sees instead the perimeter of the campsite and beyond, as though looking down from above. Gently, she adjusts the eyepiece, and it plunges her vision toward the earth, so that even the blades of swaying grass are brought into sudden focus. She yelps.

"Fucking hell," she mutters, as Remus steps inside the tent.

"What?" he asks, bewildered.

She's laughing now, only adding to his confusion. "Come here," she tells him, leading him by the arm. (He allows himself to be pulled along, she notes.) "Have a look through this. But be careful, it's incredibly sensitive."

She watches him, his eye pressed to the polished metal, and he says, "Not one for surprise visitors, our Mad-Eye." He tenses rather suddenly, then laughs. "I see what you mean."

He smiles at her, and she is tired and amused and at ease, and so she stands returning the smile until the air between them grows heavy. She feels pulled back into heated adolescence, pondering the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheekbone. She suggests dinner.

Later, when she emerges from a shower in the tent's cramped closet of a bathroom (the water had come down sluggishly, like standing beneath a slow tap), her hair damp and her legs aching, she finds him sprawled on the bed, reading.

"Ovid, the Muggle poet?" she asks, drying her hair with a towel.

"The very same."

Tonks bends and digs in her knapsack, finds what she's searching for, and walks over to him. He glances up at her.

"Pressed flowers in books—that old thing," she tells him, holding out the soft pink wildflower she'd spotted earlier in the day. Collected because it had stood out against the curling brown moor grass, magic cast upon it before being packed away.

It sits in his open hand.

"We can share the bed," she continues, while she has courage and momentum. "Mad-Eye's claim that this tent sleeps two fell apart the minute we found that thing." She gestures to the empty cot, and to her it appears both clinical and militaristic—crossed metal legs and stark, taut canvas.

The flower is still in his hand.

"My calves are sore," she says. "And I'm knackered. You must be, surely. Sleeping on that isn't going to help."

"All right," he replies, and she climbs past his legs to stretch out on what is now her side of the bed, and he removes the magic from the flower and places it between two eggshell-colored pages; afterward, he closes the book and the pink petals flatten between his hands, and she burrows below the thick quilt and props her head on one arm, looking at him.

"What did Ovid have to say, before I interrupted you?" she asks.

"How a certain nymph, by incantation and herbs too potent, changed the bodies of some boys into mute fishes," he replies. When she raises her eyebrows, he says, "Truly. That's where I left off. I was about to start Pyramus and Thisbe and then you began scaling the bed."

She laughs. "I've never considered Transfiguring men at parties into fish, but perhaps I've just lacked inspiration. I've known a few who, in hindsight, were positively begging to become carp." She rests her cheek against the pillow. "Pyramus and Thisbe, was it? Does he go after her in the Underworld?"

"That's Orpheus and Eurydice," he smiles.

"I waged a teenage rebellion against mythology," she says. "Completely unashamed. Tell me about Pyramus and Thisbe, what you know."

"What I know," he echoes, and then reclines onto the pillow. She studies his profile, his face so suddenly near hers, and she smiles a smile he cannot see.

"Pyramus and Thisbe occupied neighboring houses, and being young and romantic, fell into a young and romantic love. Their parents forbade their marriage, but (here he looks at her briefly, his expression wry) unsurprisingly, this only served to galvanize their feelings for each another.

"Often, they would meet and whisper through a thin crack in a shared wall, making declarations of love or pressing kisses to the stone. And one night—and because this is set in Babylon, I can only imagine it was a very balmy night—they slipped out of their houses and headed into the countryside, but separately, having agreed upon a meeting place, the tomb of King Ninos, where there stood an impressive mulberry tree.

"As Thisbe sat waiting for Pyramus, who was prone to forgetting his house keys and MetroCard and all manner of personal effects, a lioness freshly returned from a kill wandered into the area, and she fled, leaving behind her veil. Pyramus happened upon it en route to the meeting spot, bloodstained from the lioness and tattered, and assumed that Thisbe had been killed. He took his life under the mulberry tree, and afterward, emerging from her hiding spot, Thisbe found him and followed suit. And so mulberries were stained blood-red by the gods in recognition of their tragedy, making them a rather dramatic plant, all things said."

She closes her eyes. "What else do you know?"

"...of a darker variety. Indeed, all too frequently, hags appear in Muggle literature as 'witches'—a misinterpretation maintained by the authors, certainly, but in no small part encouraged by hags themselves, who have historically favored the more positive connotations of the label. In Shakespeare's Macbeth, for instance, the famed three 'witches' are quite clearly hags, signaled by their strong preference toward employing both animal and human remains in potioncraft (see: 4.1.4-32) and, of course, by their prophetic abilities."

-excerpt, Popular Portrayals of the Wizarding World in Muggle Media, Vol. 1 (1978), Mariam S. Hyslop

In the dim pre-dawn, she wakes. It has started to rain outside, and the sound is a steady drumming on the tent. She looks over at him, asleep beside her, looks at the soft lines about his eyes and the way his hair falls across the pillow. In her sleep she has draped an ankle over his leg. She does not move it, her eyelids heavy and her body warm, and instead drifts off again.

When she opens her eyes, the bed is empty, and—save for the rain—the tent is silent.

Tonks sits up.

She is swinging her legs over the side of the bed as he returns, hair wet with rainwater.

"I've found something."

Chapter Text

Quickly the one who haunted those waters,
who had scavenged and gone her gluttonous rounds
for a hundred seasons, sensed a human
observing her outlandish lair from above.

Beowulf, Trans. Seamus Heaney

Through the bleak early morning, he dreams. He stands in a field. A juniper tree, writhing upward like a lover, grows from the soft ground. Berries sprout among its needles, blue-white and glaucous. Beside him, Tonks says, "It went straight through," and her voice is hushed, as though confessing a secret. She presses her fingertips against his lips; he sees in their trajectory that they are stained the deep color of wine. She kisses him. Face pale in the cold light, she walks toward the tree, but, passing behind its base, does not re-emerge into view. And after, he stands on a frozen river, black and polished in the sudden darkness, and watches as the ice cracks, spreading out like veins. Straight through, he thinks. The water covers him.

He wakes to the tapping of rain, a sound like fire, his body tense. She's sleeping sweetly next to him. Her hand rests beneath her cheek. Motionless, he listens—her gentle breathing, the insistent thrumming above them—and tries to shake his sense of disquiet. Her eyelashes, dark and lovely, stand out against her skin. She is curled toward him, trusting and peaceful, and Remus lets himself look at her only briefly. His anxiety, perhaps the product of strange and fragmented dreams, refuses to leave him, and now he considers the possibility of some unseen threat and moves quietly out of the bed. Tonks stirs and then settles, one arm reaching outward.

She'd woken him throughout the night, sometimes nudging into him, sometimes entangling a limb with his, her face serene. He slides his jumper over his head, glancing at her and finding himself deeply, shockingly protective. Her body in repose. Her lips slightly parted.

Remus takes his wand and exits into rainfall. Here and there, puddles have accumulated where the earth dips, water gathering into shallow pools edged by tall grasses, rippling under the constant barrage—a dappled interruption, capturing all the grey light of the sky. He scans the distance, vision limited by fog. There are no trees to break up the landscape, only rush and sedge and brown heather that clutch at the ground, and beyond, the rise of hills. They slope skyward and disappear into the mist. He walks around the little camp, attempting to find some sort of satisfaction, some indication that his alarm has been in error, and around him, the day is tranquil, revealing nothing. No enemies approaching, no evidence that anyone has visited while they slept. The magic has held, apparently untested. He feels his pulse begin to slow.

His patrol has taken him to the boundaries of the camp, and he moves past the range of its enchantments, keeping an eye on the tent. The rain soaks through his clothing, chilling him. There is a silence to the area that he can't quite interpret, and even now, his guard lowering, he feels overwhelmed by it. It is a stillness, a lack of animal sound—so stifling that he welcomes thunder or a sudden gust of wind. His hands are tingling, but he does not relax his fingers, wrapped around his wand as he walks.

He thinks: she became the mist, she became the river. In stories, children were always snatched on riverbanks, weren't they? Men wandered into great fogs and stared face to face with crones, who, laughing, turned substanceless. Hags, mistaken for witches. Grindylows, mistaken for hags. Literature poured out of such encounters, muddying the knowledge of these peculiar women until they became aquatic, incorporeal, nightmarish. They came in with the rain, dwelt in bogs, sat—spectral, menacing—on sleeping chests. They rose from the water and brought with them, death. And if they rose, they surely sank.

It's so quiet.

Remus frowns, standing with his skin prickling into gooseflesh, the rain preventing any clarity of thought or sight. His eyes fall upon a broad puddle where it stretches out, flat like glass, droplets dancing on its surface, and he notices: black. Black reflecting back to him, spindle-thin and branching. But can find no source, nothing suggesting it amid this muted grey. Even the darkest grasses have blades of a distinctly nut-brown pigment.

He moves toward the water and kneels, feeling a bit mad, the cold mud giving way under his knees. In it, he sees the uppermost reaches of a tree, distorted under rainfall, but visible, and it sways as if by wind, moving across the puddle in a steady rocking motion. His mouth has fallen open, just barely, and he thinks he might laugh.

Straight through.

He dips his hand into the water, and it sinks and sinks.

"You're soaked," she tells him, sliding off the bed. She reaches for her wand. "God, it's cold out, isn't it? Aren't you freezing? Here, let me—"

It had been cold, yes, but he'd been rather preoccupied at the time, caring little about uncast charms. It isn't exactly the response he'd anticipated, returning to the tent dripping and determined, but Remus feels himself instantly warmed and dried, and he thanks her.

Tonks nods, bent over and doing up the laces of her boots. Her voice is slightly muffled as she asks, "So what is it?" Sleep-tangled hair falls into her face. She tucks a few strands behind one ear, hands working quickly, methodically.

"I'll have to show you for it to make sense," he says. Even then, he supposes, it might not make sense. A puddle seemingly without a bottom, reflecting something not there. He'd plunged his entire arm into it before heading back to her.

They walk through the wet grasses, and when they near the pool of water, he takes her elbow instinctively.

"What?"

"Look at the reflection," he tells her. "Notice anything unusual?"

She looks—at the puddle, back to him, her eyes searching his.

"Now, watch," he says, letting go of her arm. He crouches down and lowers his hand into the cold water, first to his wrist, then deeper, past his forearm. A disappearing act of sorts, immersed now to his bicep.

"Does it—where does it go?" she asks, but he suspects that she has already reached a conclusion not unlike his own. It goes where we have to go, wherever that is.

"I plan to find out," he replies. She watches, frowning, as he rises again and removes his shoes.

"And what do you expect me to do? Stand here and cross my fingers that you don't drown?"

"I'm not going to drown," he smiles. "I'm going to have a quick look and come back, and then we'll figure out our next move."

"Cast a Bubble-Head at least, will you?"

"I thought perhaps you might turn me into a fish," he says, and she responds with a smile of her own, pressing her lips together.

Given the circumstances, he thinks he can be forgiven for flirting with her. It's too tempting, watching the rosy pink tinge spread across her cheeks, her hair a vivid plum, the fabric of her over-large wool sweater enveloping her frame as she wraps her arms about herself.

Last night, she had fallen asleep as he'd recounted old stories, her eyes on him until they'd grown heavy, and her expression (quilt pulled up around her) had been charmingly girlish. In moments such as these, marked without question as spectacularly unprofessional, he finds himself slipping, affection clouding his judgment. And that is, ultimately, what it must be: affection. A fanciful sort of crush on a pretty girl. (But she is more than a pretty girl, and in fact, he admires her, seeks out her company, confides in her, and these things create in him an attachment more complicated than he'd like.)

"Be careful, please," she says, waving him on. And he does take her suggestion, creating a pocket of conjured air before sitting on the ground and easing himself into the water, giving her a look of reassurance before submerging himself completely.

The darkness is near absolute. The circle of sky above him, a whitish, moon-like thing, sends no true light into the water, instead offering only a vague sense of orientation, without which he would float, suspended, having no understanding of up or down, forward or backward. He knows he is plummeting only when the circle grows smaller, its glimpse of rain-heavy clouds losing all distinction. It parts with each note of grey or blue, becomes a vague beacon—a rounded, unremarkable shape overhead.

Arms outstretched, he feels nothing.

He is painfully cold here, sinking as he is, wild thoughts trying to worm into his head (fears of prophetic dreams, fears of death in this unfamiliar place). Remus casts a light, but it exposes very little, having nothing to settle upon but detritus, this taking on an appearance similar to dust. And so he lets himself descend, wondering if it can be called that, really, as there must be some exit to counter his entrance. He pictures Tonks, pacing on land that feels very far away, and he realizes dimly that he should warm himself, and even as he makes the motions (far more challenging, underwater), he finds he does not particularly care about their result. The heat comes over him like an afterthought; he barely notices the stinging leaving his limbs.

Remus watches the ever-diminishing ring of light, and he thinks: this isn't right. The thought passes.

How absurdly easy, to remain here. Requiring nothing, the body drifting. No sound, to interrupt. No tossing or thrashing, but peaceful weightlessness. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape.

His mind wanders, and he lets it. Once he'd gone strawberry-gathering, gone with his mother, her voice soft and musical, and sometimes she'd spoken Welsh and he'd listened, her rolling words carrying with them their own magic. James Potter, swinging around his red-haired bride, and they'd been drunk, all of them, singing and stumbling. There had been a girl in Amiens—she'd taken him to bed in early '82, when his days had been fractured by loss, no clear signs of morning or night, just a forward push of time, and neither had entertained any delusions of love, but she had touched him and held him and given him something, a reminder of sweetness, perhaps, or of acceptance. He'd stood on a bridge the following year (a stretching stone construction, all endless arches) and had thought about stepping off the edge, down into the ink-blue water, but had gone and filled himself with whisky until he'd vomited, sometime later, in the empty road. Peter, oh Peter—he'd missed that opportunity, but so had Sirius, and off he'd scampered.

Off he'd scampered.

Poor Pads, pacing the length of that bitter house like a phantom, jailed in a new sort of manner, people filtering in and out in unpredictable rotation, his cousin being eyed by his closest living friend—and he is, he knows, or he has been, eyeing her, Nymphadora Tonks, who places wildflowers in his hand, who shares her blankets with him. In bed with a wolf. There were stories about that, too. Perrault had warned of the "gentle" wolf, setting his sights upon some unsuspecting young woman—a caution against seduction. What a laughable word.

It will wear off soon enough, her interest, if it can even be said to be interest. Perhaps he has interpreted in her kindness something he wishes to find, and it occurs to him that this is rather likely as he plunges through the depths. Far more satisfying to imagine her apparent ease around him as an indication of some sense of intimacy than as a confirmation of his bland, sexless presence in her mind.

Down, he goes.

And then he thinks of her flushed skin, her habit of chewing on her bottom lip, as he sees beneath him the faint glow of something other, a circle much like the one he's lost sight of.

It is like being rinsed—his mind snapping, his meandering thoughts leaving him, and he realizes with quick alarm that he has no sense of the time, no way of knowing how long he's been dropping. The new circle is laced with branches, swaying. He can just see their splitting outline, faintly at first, then coming into greater focus.

It's good enough, he thinks. Good enough to return, good enough to begin propelling himself upward, good enough to seek out the place he's come from, where she will, with any luck, be waiting on him. The journey back to camp passes quickly, as though he has not ventured very far at all, and he must tell her—don't let it catch you, the darkness. Don't let it pull at you. That is how you are lost. That is how you become the water.

But when he surfaces, heaving himself onto the wet earth as water splashes out with him, Tonks latches onto his arm. She drags him fiercely, closely, until he is sat on the solid ground, the puddle rippling behind him. Her face is white.

"You've been gone nearly an hour," she says, clearly trying to keep her voice steady. "So much for a quick look round." She can't laugh, though. The sound catches in her throat.

She appears to be on the verge of tears, and so Remus does the only thing he can think to do: he pulls her toward him. She falls easily into him, holding on, pressing her forehead against his neck, into his wet hair. Her hands weave into his sodden jumper. It's stopped raining. They're on the ground, coiled around each other.

"I'm sorry," he tells her.

"I should have come in. I waited like an idiot."

"No, it's better that you stayed." He can feel her breath against him—warm, her nose brushing his throat. Her hands are still clinging to him. He'd like to kiss her. More than anything, he'd like to kiss her. He says, instead, "Anyway, I'm alright. And it goes through. It opens into the reflection."

She looks at him, her face very close to his.

"I'll take you," he tells her. "If you want to see what's on the other side."

Chapter Text

'Little sharp old wife, tell me your age.'
'I saw the seal-haunted Skerryvore,
When it was a mighty power;
When they ploughed it, if I'm right,
And sharp and juicy was its barley.
I saw the Loch at Balefuill
When it was a little round well,
Where my child was drowned
Sitting in its circular chair;
And I saw Leinster lake in Ireland,
Where children could swim across.'

J. Gregorson Campbell, "The Sharp-Witted Wife"

Emerson Fawcett had been in love with her, and he'd touched her awkwardly, always with an over-eager, stumbling enthusiasm, face flushed with sincerity and lust, and when she'd broken up with him he'd stared at her like a small, broken bird. All those feathers falling.

This is what she's thinking when Remus pulls her from the water, his forearm digging into her ribs. Up and out. He props her against a hollow log, and she looks at him, blinking, her eyelashes sticking together.

"Here, are you cold?" he asks. He reaches for his wand, and Tonks watches blankly as her clothes dry and turn light again, followed by his own. He's knelt in front of her.

"It's like a thousand distractions," she says, "and all of them seem important."

He smiles a little. "Fairly effective means of keeping out guests. The feeling should pass soon."

Thin trees rise up around them—damp, leafless. She cannot tell how far they stretch; they seem to continue into the sleepy fog, some growing so near one another as to overlap, their branches creating a tapering network overhead. There is no breeze here, no rainfall, but from the soft ground, an organic smell—a rich smell, heavy on her tongue.

She had felt weightless in the cold water. Nonexistent, aside from the slow rolling of her thoughts. His hand had been clasping hers. He'd not let her drift.

Tonks sits awkwardly, her rucksack pushing her slightly forward. Uncertain whether they'd have an opportunity to return to the campsite, they'd elected instead to bring the campsite with them. Her arms hang at her sides.

"Do you remember those songs about being drowned by hags?" she asks him. "They always made it seem so violent. It isn't, really. You wouldn't even realize."

"Can you stand?" he says. He holds out his hand, and she takes it, climbing to her feet. She's still reeling at this noticeable shift between them, some new tension brought about by touch—more likely now to be near one another, far less to discuss its implications. The strange consequence of having her face cradled against him.

Remus plucks a bit of debris from her hair (a dead leaf, perhaps, wet and glossy between his fingers) and she says, "What now?"

"We keep walking, I suppose," he replies.

The forest—or is it a grove? she isn't sure; she can't determine its size—is static, their presence like an interruption. She walks cautiously, her hand near her wand, her senses unsettled in the mist. When they pass over freshly fallen twigs, the resulting snap echoes outward. Tonks glances up, expecting sudden bird flight. Beside her, Remus pauses, says quietly: "Listen."

Ahead, a sort of rustling—somehow forlorn, somehow empty, and now her wand is out. It isn't jumpiness, necessarily, but she has no desire to be caught unaware. She glances at Remus. He's listening with a frown, trying to get a sense of direction.

She moves cautiously forward, and he announces to the fog, "If someone is there, we mean no harm. We have come here to negotiate an accord. We represent Albus Dumbledore, not the Ministry."

"And do you intend to conduct this negotiation by force?" comes a voice, throaty and amused. "You can lower your wand, dear. We'd have killed you by now, if we'd been so inclined."

Tonks peers into the mist and sees a form begin to take shape, hunched and veiled, leaning heavily on a staff. She lets her hand drop gradually. Her fingers remain curled around her wand.

"You've found our stepping stones," says the woman, approaching them. Her pale, earth-stained feet are exposed as she walks; her body is draped in layered fabric —once black, perhaps, now grey. It seems to flow over her, living and swaying. She lifts a thin finger to gesture at the puddle.

"There are more of them, then?" Remus asks, watching her.

"Oh yes, of course," she confirms, words reinforced by the bobbing motion of her veil. "Scattered about rather conveniently, we find. We've done them as we like—gives us a good sense of what's going on in the region. Makes it easy to travel in and out of the wood." Her face is obscured, except for her eyes, which are coal-dark and sharp.

She tilts her head, chuckling low at Remus. "We've been terribly entertained by you, you know. Cyneburg thought you'd give up and drown, but I felt you had a bit more sense. You wouldn't have been the first, but I'd have been rather disappointed after all that work you put into finding us."

"You saw?" says Tonks.

"We see everything we care to see," the hag replies, and it is easy to imagine an upward twitching of her lips, the motion hidden behind her veil. She steps closer. Hers is the scent of wilted flowers and woodsmoke. "And now you have come to us, so we will receive you. But not here, among the trees. We are not so uncivilized as that."

"You mentioned someone named Cyneburg," Remus says, as they follow the hunched woman through the forest. "Are there others here?"

"Just Cyneburg, Bodil and I," she tells him, "in this place. There's Aldgyth not far off, but she's quite solitary. She wouldn't have let you cross. Temperamental, Aldgyth. Always has been."

"And you?" he asks.

"I am Morwen." She stops, turning around to face him. "What do you call yourself?"

"Remus."

"Suckled by wolves, were you?" she says, then emits a coarse little laugh. Her eyes shift to Tonks. "And how does it feel, having such an illustrious traveling companion? A Dark creature, by my reckoning. You want to know how I know, what magic I've used, but I'll tell you it's no magic but strong intuition. Your kind might develop it, if you ever ceased with your indulgent wand-waving." She shifts her weight, repositioning her hand on the staff. It's a gnarled thing, rising just over her bent body.

"I can tell I'm right," she continues, looking at Tonks. "You've got an open face, and more, I can tell that you don't care for me, but I'm fain to ignore it, so long as you keep your head about you. What do they call you?"

"Thisbe," Tonks replies, keeping her eyes on Morwen's.

"Remus and Thisbe, our unlucky wanderers," she murmurs. "We'll show you some hospitality before releasing you to the wilds, I think. And you can elaborate on this negotiation you mentioned."

She turns again, guiding them, and Tonks steals a glance at Remus. His eyebrow arches, but he says nothing.

"Here," Morwen sighs. "Home again."

They are approaching a squat wattle and daub cottage, thatched with heather and rush such that it seems blanketed by a thick coat of brownish red and grey, all of this sloping downward to form a sturdy roof. A pile of wood rests to the side of the house, some of it having tumbled down, and smoke comes heavily from the chimney.

The door, a series of weathered wood planks fastened by iron, creaks as Morwen opens it. She crosses the threshold, disappearing into the dark room beyond it, and Tonks hesitates momentarily.

Behind her, voice low, Remus says, "After you, Thisbe."

She can't interpret his tone—something bordering on amusement, but falling just short. She doesn't have a chance to look back at him. Morwen is beckoning them in.

The cottage is full of shadow and light, a fire going in the hearth. It's an assault on her senses. Smells of herbs, some bitter, some sickly sweet; the metallic odor of butchered meat; smoke from the fireplace, hovering. Two women sit rocking by the firelight, garmented in long fabrics. One is bare-faced, and her lips are stained a deep and unnerving purple, the color of a bruise. Her skin is wrinkled and near-translucent, all the blue veins visible just below. Like Morwen, both women regard her with dark eyes.

The veiled hag appears to have been reading, and the sound of her book closing is brittle and ancient.

"You've brought them with you," she says.

Morwen makes a gruff noise of acknowledgement. "Seems they want to discuss Wizarding affairs, of all things. One's a Dark creature, by all His halwes! Can you believe—they shun us and seek us quite predictably." She lifts her hand, returning to Remus and Tonks.

"Remus, far from Alba Longa, and Thisbe, of Babylonian design," she declares, gesturing between them, "and these, my sisters, Cyneburg and Bodil."

The two women stand, bowing their heads briefly.

"Of course, they are not sisters by blood, you understand, but I have spent so long in their company I have quite forgotten ever having been without them," Morwen says. She speaks to the one named Bodil, whose face remains partially cloaked. "Some burdock root tea, I think."

"Are they hungry?" asks Cyneburg. "We have quinces. Have her stew some with cloves."

"I'm afraid our standard fare rarely appeals," Morwen tells them. "Carnivorous, our kind. Bodil will prepare something for you."

"Don't go to any trouble on our account," says Remus, who is promptly waved away by Morwen's hand.

"We don't often have visitors," Bodil admits, rummaging through a vast assortment of glass jars, each containing some sort of dried herb or carefully preserved ingredient. From a distance, Tonks can only make out a handful of labels: River Mud, Hair of a Drowned Woman, Baneberry, Marsh Calla, Capercaillie (Breast Feathers), Woodbine, Anise. She watches Bodil's hands roam over them, as though determining their contents by touch, and the hag continues, "Most are absolutely petrified, if they manage to get past the stepping stones. Isn't that funny? We certainly think so. And then there are those Muggles, dropping in from time to time, offering us coins for all number of things."

"Dreams, mostly," Cyneburg says in a rather dismissive tone, having taken up her seat by the fire once more.

Bodil nods, absently. "Yes, quite a few blindly seeking dreamwork, determined to find answers to questions they dare not ask aloud. It used to be that hags offered these services routinely, until certain Muggles experienced—shall we say 'unpleasant'—visions, and they gave us a rather bad name."

"Nachtmerrie," says Cyneburg. "Danced with the devil, rode off with their horses. What rubbish."

Morwen, having watched Bodil's slow progress throughout the exchange, lets out a sigh and crosses the smoky room, muttering, "Bodil, dearest, you really must organize in some fashion." She lets out a dry little laugh and looks over her shoulder at Remus, holding up a jar for him to see. "This ought to interest you."

The label, peeling and yellowed, reads: Eye of a Werewolf, Post-Change.

Tonks tenses, and from her chair, Cyneburg makes a noise that is something like a giggle—if hags could be said to giggle—her sharp teeth flashing in the firelight.

"Morwen, don't be dreadful," she says. She rocks in her chair. "Our humor takes some acclimation. The result of close quarters all these years. You'll forgive us." Her eyes are on Tonks. "We'll not hurt your husband, pet. That was taken from a corpse, not a living, breathing creature."

Tonks feels her face grow hot, the weight of the woman's assumption hanging in the air, her thoughts returning to the previous night—a shared bed, her body next to his, all that rain drumming down. She'd fallen asleep listening to the sound of his voice, wondering what it might be like to have his hands running over her.

"Goodness, your hair's gone quite pink," says Bodil, looking up from the jars. She's found the one marked Burdock, Root and is holding it up in one hand, the lid in her other.

"She's a Metamorphmagus," Remus replies. "Aren't you, Thisbe?"

Tonks looks at him. His eyes are bright with a private laughter, but he smiles at her rather gently, saying, "And far too polite. She's happily unattached. I'm too fond of her to do her the disservice of marrying her."

Cyneburg chuckles. "I apologize, then. Morwen is better at reading people, but I'm normally not so far off the mark."

Bodil hangs a black kettle of water over the fire, and Tonks can only seem to stare.

"Now then, you have come to us extending the proverbial olive branch on behalf of Albus Dumbledore, who evidently could not be troubled with the task himself," Morwen says, once they have taken tea (sweet and vegetal) and Tonks has made her way through a bowl of steaming, rose-pink quince (oddly palatable, perhaps in part due to her hunger).

They are sat around a circular table, teacups nearly drained.

"Respectfully, Dumbledore cannot attend to every matter arising in wartime," Remus says carefully. "Often he is called to delegate both tasks and authority to a select few, which is why we are here in his stead."

"And that is what you consider it? Wartime?" Morwen asks.

"What the Ministry acknowledges and what's already in motion are two very different things," Tonks tells her. "Cornelius Fudge would happily have you believe that claims about Voldemort's return are empty; he sees them as political opposition. The Prophet's no help either. It has the public convinced of its safety."

"But you think he's back," Bodil says. She pours more tea into each cup present.

"We are certain of it," Remus nods. "Voldemort has been moving rather cautiously, gathering his old followers, recruiting new ones. He's been courting Dark creatures in particular, using their marginalized status to stir up support for a violent takeover of Wizarding society. I can only imagine he's made them countless promises, none of which he intends to keep."

"Do you suppose Lord Voldemort might take the time to show up at our door?" Cyneburg asks Morwen, who ignores the question with a grunt, leaning forward.

"And what makes you think he's any interest in hags?" she asks.

"A number of things, but most convincing among them, we recently confiscated a Death Eater's private documents," he replies. "We believe he's been attempting to locate you, or others like you. We've simply beaten him to it."

"That surly looking fellow," Bodil nods, and sensing Morwen's irritation, says, "and don't pretend that you weren't going to mention him eventually. We've been watching that one for weeks, bless him. We thought he might figure it out, but he hasn't, so far. Even if he does, I expect the water will claim him. So does Morwen. Don't you?"

"I rather hope he surprises old Aldgyth," says Cyneburg with a chilling smile.

"Speaking on behalf of my sisters, and indeed, on behalf of our kind, we're not interested in affiliations. We've fared well enough without them; we'll continue to manage without them, I'm sure," Morwen states. She looks at Tonks. "Your lot flatter themselves, supposing that we secretly hope for inclusivity. The truth is that we don't particularly care what your society does to itself, provided that it doesn't drag us into the mix. What little it attempts to understand of us does us no great favors, in truth. Look at your stories, for instance. Consuming children is as widespread among hags as it is among Wizarding folk. But mistruths spread easily, and ignorance seems to be handed down like an heirloom. What you can tell Albus Dumbledore, concerned as he might be, is that we remain contentedly neutral."

"And you feel this position will be shared, generally?" Remus asks.

"I should think so. No self-respecting hag with any measure of intelligence will offer to side with a faction who will assuredly turn on her, when all is said and done," Morwen replies.

"Not to mention, it requires ever so much discussion, this war business, and as a conversational topic, it's quite dull," Bodil tells them. "I move that we push it aside in favor of something more entertaining."

"Agreed," says Cyneburg. She gestures to Remus. "Allow us a bit of divination, if you would? It is a party trick we rarely have the chance to perform these days."

"Yes," agrees Bodil. "That's much more interesting."

Chapter Text

Her color chang’d; her face was not the same,
And hollow groans from her deep spirit came.
Her hair stood up; convulsive rage possess’d
Her trembling limbs, and heav’d her lab’ring breast.
Greater than humankind she seem’d to look,
And with an accent more than mortal spoke.

Virgil, The Aeneid, Trans. John Dryden

"Ground melampode," says Bodil, selecting a small jar from her collection. "Tricky stuff, this. Forgot to wash my hands once after using it and put my finger to my mouth." She shakes her head. "Couldn't walk straight for a week."

"Melampode?" asks Tonks. She lowers the bottle of dried lichen she's been inspecting.

"Black hellebore, Christmas rose, however you're familiar," the hag replies, waving her hand.

"I'm surprised you walked at all," Tonks says, raising her eyebrows. "Hellebore's highly toxic."

"Well, that's rather the aim," Cyneburg nods. "So do stand away from the cauldron, if you would."

Remus smiles as Tonks steps backward, a dubious frown on her face. She's got her arms folded. In front of them, Cyneburg holds a cutting board over the cauldron, scraping finely diced stinkhorn mushrooms into it. A few soft, salmon-colored pieces stick to her knife. She runs it over the cauldron edge, loosening them.

"I don't follow," says Tonks. "Why brew poison? What do you do with it?"

"You'll find there are many ways to divine the future, some riskier than others," Cyneburg tells them. "Bones, for instance, have a good deal to say, when you heat them. All those fine little cracks spread out and tell stories, but ever so many at once. Interpretation can be taxing. Like listening to a roomful of voices, all speaking about different subjects."

She dumps something into the mixture which looks rather like ash. Remus watches as the cauldron glows bright, then slowly returns to its dusty black.

"Personally, I've always maintained that trances do the job rather well," Cyneburg continues. "But not many are willing to enter them, sadly. Even our Bodil here."

"I don't like breathing it in," Bodil sulks. She hands Cyneburg the jar she's been dutifully holding.

"You inhale the fumes," says Tonks, eyebrow arched.

Over the course of the afternoon, her efforts to hide her distaste for the veiled women have crumbled a bit, and while her face lacks outright contempt, she nevertheless appears rather annoyed—weary, perhaps, as well, Remus thinks.

He catches her eyes, but asks, "Like the Pythia?" (She smiles, gives him an exasperated look.)

From the corner, Morwen snorts. She's been stooping over a large, shallow basin, the contents of which he cannot discern, though he's briefly considered the possibility that it might be a Pensieve of sorts. Her pale hand clutches what looks to be a very long needle.

"The Pythia," she says, "were a succession of damned charlatans." She turns to him. "Anyone with limbs can pitch idiotically to and fro and shriek gibberish at you."

"And what is it you do?" asks Tonks dryly.

"We convey," says Cyneburg. "Be a dear and hand us that ampoule—yes, that one, just there."

Morwen, having turned back to the basin, lets out an exasperated growl. "Naff off, you. Turn home." She brandishes the needle angrily, and Remus is reminded of elderly witches shooing strays from their gardens, hands raised in the same fist-shaking gesture. Curious, he approaches her, and she glances up at him, adding, "Stubburn cur doesn't know when to give up."

The basin contains a pool of oily water, suspended in which are perhaps a dozen round bubbles. They hang and seemingly bob in the liquid—shifting only slightly, clinging to one another and then separating cleanly, their movement languid. In them, he catches the semi-distorted rise of hills; the trickle of cold riverwater over stacked and tumbling rock.

"Your stepping stones?" he asks.

"Aye," she nods. "Look here. The one we spoke of, earlier. Not alone this time."

She's right. Through the drifting opalescent bubble he observes Talmage Selwyn taking long steps up the hillside, his dark robes blown back, and behind him, a familiar, sturdy-looking young man. Broad-chested, he is far less crane-like in his movements.

Tonks has joined them. She stands at his side, letting out a breath. "That's a bit more dedication than I expected from Selwyn, honestly. Who's he brought along?"

"Pherick Bole," says Remus, frowning. "He can't be long out of school."

He'd been a trying student, Bole. The type whose enjoyment came from others' mishaps. And more often than not, mishaps he'd caused. Antagonize, injure, deny. Bole's Sequence.

"He must have kept back-ups—copies," Tonks says, looking up at him. "Or else he's committed those coordinates to memory, though I can't say I see it, really. His sort doesn't do more work than is necessary."

"Wandering about as often as he does, I imagine he's become familiar with the region," Bodil chuckles. "And oh, he does wander."

"No matter," Morwen tells her. She steadies the long needle, and in one downward motion, pricks the bubble. Selwyn and Bole's forms disappear quite suddenly. The hag makes a noise of vaguely triumphant satisfaction. "Try and get here now, you great dalcop."

"Remus, as this undertaking is for your benefit, I'll need your assistance," Cyneburg says from her post at the cauldron. "Please hold out your hand, either one, yes, that's right—keep it there," she instructs, and then, taking up a small blade from the table, proceeds to deftly slice open his palm, adding quickly, "and you mustn't be upset with us. It works so much better when it's taken by surprise, you understand."

He stares as hot blood trickles over his palm and down, running into the cauldron, reacting with the simmering mixture and turning it a vivid, startling yellow. His hand feels as though he's pressing it to scorching metal. The pain travels up his wrist and into his forearm.

"Episkey," he says, holding his wand somewhat awkwardly. The blood continues to flow.

Morwen, who has been observing from a distance, shakes her head. "You'll have to let that one heal naturally. Everything in this house is imbued with Dark magic, of a kind. Even the teacups."

"For God's sake," mutters Tonks.

He glances back to see her rummaging through her knapsack. Cyneburg, meanwhile, regards him with black, shining eyes.

"She'll have you sorted out in no time, I'm certain," she smiles, lips spreading over her teeth. "It was dreadful of me, I know. But it truly makes a difference, and you've behaved so admirably about it."

"Almost a pity to use it for divination," Bodil says absently. "Blood of the werewolf is so hard to come by." She laughs, embarrassed, after noticing his expression. "However, we are most happy to do so, in your case."

"You might have spared my wand arm," Remus tells Cyneburg, who gives him a mildly sympathetic look.

Tonks returns with a roll of gauze and a small bottle of essence of dittany, her expression one of tightly controlled anger.

"But now you've an opportunity to improve your wandless magic," Morwen says.

"Yes, that'd be all well and good," Tonks mutters, "if he weren't routinely dueling Death Eaters, and I can promise you, none of them are sitting around working on going wandless." She's got his hand in hers, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"You'll get it on yourself," he tells her, and her eyes flick up to him.

"What? It's fine, it's fine, I don't care." She holds an eye dropper full of dittany over the cut. "Doubt this'll do much, but it can't hurt," she says. "Here, sorry, I'm not brilliant at—"

"Fortunately, it appears the vapors are ready," Cyneburg announces, interrupting them. "You'll pardon me if I start the process. They don't last forever."

Remus watches as the hag cloaks her head in the same odd, flowing fabric from which all their clothing seems to be made—grey as charcoal, rippling at any movement. He expects for one second that it will catch flame, hovering so near the fire as she bows her head down over the cauldron, but it seems to always dance away, lifted continually just beyond reach.

Bent, head hidden, she stands and inhales deeply.

He can see the expansion of her chest, and when she retreats, her arms upraised, her breaths come out in shuddering and frantic spasms. Tonks has paused midway through wrapping his hand, mouth dropped slightly open.

Quickly, Bodil drags a chair across the floor, positioning it behind Cyneburg so that she can sink into it. It rocks backward a bit as she collapses. Dust stirs and floats up around the chair legs. Cyneburg's hands are shaking violently, all her thin, white fingers wriggling about, clasping at her long dress, twisting it in fistfuls.

She throws her head back, panting, and then forward, so that her torso slumps over. Here she stays, a mournful, ragged moan erupting from her mouth.

When she speaks, it is not a sound he recognizes. Out come words in a language as old as stone, as old as nightfall—a chanting, consonant-heavy clash of teeth and tongue. Syllables, endless, empty from her lungs. She speaks into the still room and he cannot interpret any of it, but he feels a sort of chill pass over him, as though doused. She could be foretelling the end of days, and to his ears, it would be only rambling glossolalia, its meaning lost.

She sucks in tremendous breaths between each utterance, and soon her gasps are crackling, her throat strained. And then, she goes silent.

Her rocking is the only discernible noise: fabric rustling, the wooden chair whining. Her feet, uncovered, scrape back and forth on the floor.

"When the father's flesh has left him," she says, voice cracking, "the son shall be his champion."

She jerks once, then falls from the chair.

"Very well, then," says Tonks under her breath. She tightens the gauze on his hand, inspects it, then adds, "Not too shabby, all things considered."

Morwen and Bodil come forward, lifting Cyneburg's slack body from the ground. They prop her upright in the chair, and she slides down, groaning softly.

"Fetch a cup of water from the pail, Thisbe," Morwen says gruffly, holding Cyneburg in place.

"And some salt of hartshorn, if you'd be so kind," adds Bodil. She points to a wooden beam running the length of the ceiling, where dried flowers of all varieties are strung up. "It should be under the snapdragons."

Tonks, frowning but acquiescing, searches in the cramped kitchenette. She looks up every so often, clearly bewildered by the hanging plants, most of which have grown to resemble each other in their preserved state.

Bodil, clucking, says, "No, that's foxglove, dear. You're looking for something resembling teensy skulls. Wee screamers, Morwen calls them. There ought to be a glass bottle labeled 'Hartshorn' nearby."

Cyneburg, meanwhile, continues to sink in the wooden chair, slithering down only to be abruptly pulled back up. Tonks spots the bottle, delicate and plugged by a glass stopper, and brings it over quite carefully, which Remus supposes has less to do with concern for its contents and more with a desire to avoid clumsiness (and further criticism) in their presence. He offers to get the water, but she shrugs and tells him that she might as well, since she's playing nursemaid. Afterward she winks at him, and he smiles rather stupidly, but then forces his attention back to the hags.

"Here we are," Morwen says, removing the stopper and lifting Cyneburg's veil. She passes the bottle beneath the other hag's nose and Cyneburg starts.

Morwen continues, "That's it. You'll be right as rain erelong, I expect. Might be a touch wobbly." She accepts the cup of cold well water Tonks is holding out to her and hands it to Cyneburg, who sips at it.

"Well," she asks hoarsely, "what came of it?"

"Something about dead fathers and heroic sons," Tonks replies.

Morwen, ignoring Tonks, repeats the prophecy in full, and Cyneburg sits, mulling it over.

"Have you any children?" she asks Remus, whose raised eyebrows are apparently enough of a response, as she says, "No, I didn't suppose you had. Though perhaps you will, or, well, I don't see any reason why you might not be the son in question. But that seems less likely, I'll admit." She frowns. "And 'flesh' is a curious word as well, isn't it? It might mean 'flesh and blood' or it might mean death, which seems more sensible, given the championing. At any rate, someone's affairs will be set in order, I suspect."

Tonks, who has been listening with a somewhat amused expression, says, "Not very specific, these prophecies."

Cyneburg looks at her. "Perhaps not, but they're always significant." She stands up slowly, reeling a bit, and Bodil moves to take her arm, but is waved away. "No, Bodil, allow me to walk about and collect myself." She moves gingerly through the cottage, occasionally bracing herself on door frames and tabletops.

"She's right, you know," says Bodil. "Only important matters come through. They're slightly rough in their presentation, I'll grant, but such is the nature of divination. I'd challenge any hag to take knowledge from the vapors and offer it more clearly than Cyneburg."

"Thank you, Bo—hells and horrors!"

A wet, clattering sound reaches Remus's ears, and he, along with everyone in the cottage, turns to see Cyneburg knelt over the now-empty basin, swearing quietly as the water spreads across the floor.

"So few things are set in stone, and there exist beyond your vision a thousand, thousand possibilities playing out their ends," Cyneburg had told him, rubbing her closed eyes.

Perhaps.

Lying on his back, he sees the heavy fabric of the bed curtains—a dusty powder blue, slightly coarse to the touch—and if he tilts his head just so, the rafters and roof battens above him come into view, arranged in a careful grid. The room itself feels rather caught in time: a small, shuttered window; a plain washbasin and pitcher on a squat, rough-hewn table; an ancient straw mattress, and atop it, bedding stuffed with feathers.

Remus wonders idly how many bodies have stretched across this bed—whose bodies, moreover. He isn't particularly tired, and his palm stings when his fingers stir. Almost a pity, indeed. An incoherent prophecy that he can't possibly begin to unravel and a significantly impaired wand arm. But they're sticking with him, those words, and he can't seem to shake them. There's a candle burning away beside him, and even when he closes his eyes, he can still make out its flickering light.

"There'll be no exit for you tonight," Morwen had sighed. "We might be able to bring forth new stones by tomorrow midday, but mind you, they don't come about without effort." (At this, Cyneburg had made a disgruntled, deeply embarrassed noise.)

"Good thing we brought the tent, eh?" Tonks had smiled. He'd suspected that she'd been fairly glad to witness an accident not of her own doing, shoving her hands in her pockets and relaxing her shoulders.

"Nonsense," Bodil had told them. "We have room for you. You'll stay here and remain our guests. Why, we even have wine. We so rarely indulge."

Up had gone Tonks's shoulders again, a little frown forming.

Remus shifts his head on the pillow.

If this were Number Twelve, he'd roam the long corridors, or else settle in the drawing room to examine reports, going over the handwritten documents until his eyes grew tired and light began to fall through the windows. Possibly Pads would be awake, another member of the restless and sleep-deprived, and they'd sit, watching the fire and drinking. Or Tonks might join them (and lately she has been), sparring with Sirius in that familiar, playful way of theirs, which Remus can only assume is something akin to sibling affection, having none himself, his experiences with nearness and closeness and comraderie confined to adolescence, when he'd most felt it.

He doesn't want to open Ovid. Her flower is in there, pressed between its pages, and it might come fluttering out, moth-like.

Tonks. Somewhere below him, sleeping, or perhaps awake.

Christ, if hags can detect his—their?—behavior, how must it seem to the Order? Sirius knows, or thinks he knows, but then, he's always taken childish delight in such observations, and anyway, his opinions are undoubtedly mellowed by decades-old friendship. The others, however...

He isn't concerned with what they might think of him. Not in this instance, at least. But he's not terribly pleased about the idea of distrust by affiliation, which nags at him in a quiet, insistent voice. And there are some, he knows, who look at him and feel an uncomfortable sense of doubt; it ranges from the comically overt to the unconscious. The Order is a relatively forgiving segment of society, however, and despite her idealism, she's fully aware of the general sentiment toward his kind. She doesn't deserve to be dragged along into it.

But when she looks at him, he doesn't see the flash in her eyes, the one signaling suspicion, hesitation. She trusts him. Trusts him enough to curl toward him, reaching. He imagines kissing her fingertips, how light they might feel against his lips.

Remus exhales, runs a hand over his face.

This is an exercise in madness.

He's about to blow out the candle when he hears a cautious creaking on the stairs, almost as if the sound itself is hesitant to be heard, and he sits up. The rapping that follows is soft.

He knows it's her before he opens the door.

"Did I wake you?" she whispers. She smiles a sheepish little smile. "I can't sleep."

"No," he replies, opening the door wider, letting her pass through it, "I was awake."

"I kept thinking about what they might look like sleeping, and then I thought, what if they don't close their eyes for some reason, and that got stuck in my head," she sighs. "And it's a fantastically creepy thing to be thinking as you're trying to fall asleep one room over from them."

He smiles. "So, as an Auror—"

"I fucking left, yeah," Tonks nods, wrapping her arms around herself. "I thought you might let me room with you and pretend not to be put out with me."

"As long as you don't take to kicking."

"No, I won't," she murmurs, climbing into his bed, not really waiting for his response. She's wearing a loose grey jumper, and it slips down over her shoulder as she moves. He can't seem to look away, and so he glimpses the fine protrusion of one collarbone before she settles, looking back at him.

"How's your hand?" she asks.

He slides in next to her. "Cut."

Tonks rests her head on the pillow, and when he does the same, he's met with her doe-eyed gaze and goes quiet. It reminds him of children whispering late into the night, their bodies turned toward each other, voices kept low.

"I visited the hags and all I got was this lousy prophecy," she says, running her fingers over the gauze, careful not to inadvertently touch the wound. "Vaguely, a thing, and from it, perhaps. So sayeth I."

"That's rather good. You ought to open up shop," he tells her.

"I might," she says, breaking into a grin. A strand of hair has fallen across her face, but she remedies it, tucking it behind one ear. "But you kind of believe in it, don't you?" she asks. "You're the most skeptical person I know, but an old lady huffing fumes seems like a plausible source of information to you."

Remus laughs. "I'm not sure what I believe. Though, if you're planning on taking the piss all night, I'll make you sleep downstairs."

"No, you won't. And I'd rather be here," she replies.

"Not with Morwen? Perhaps she'll take a shine to you."

"Actually, I rather think they fancy you," she says, nudging him with her foot. "Your room's much nicer than mine. My bed was a little thing. They've given you the impressive accommodations."

"They're just hoping I'll donate my organs to them."

Tonks shivers. "Fucking hell, don't remind me—that eye."

"I wish you'd seen your face. I thought you'd faint," he says, and smiles at her quick indignation.

"Bollocks, I never faint."

"You blush rather nicely."

It's out of his mouth before he's really thought about it—something he'd not say to anyone else, and she knows it. She goes a little pink in response, but she tilts her head closer.

"How dare you speak to a well-bred Mesopotamian woman so immodestly?"

"Utterly ignoble of me. Sincere apologies."

"You are pardoned."

She smiles, and then she does something: she takes his hand, and he is utterly lost by the sweetness of it, its simplicity. So he stays there, as he is, holding her hand.

He wishes it were a confession, but it's so easy, in these private moments, to assume—that these gestures have a deeper meaning, that his own labyrinthine feelings map onto hers. He's never been more confused by a woman in his life, her seemingly brazen moments giving way to sudden, rosy shyness, keeping him forever teetering at the edge of some sort of understanding. And he's a remarkable coward, he knows, because he cannot bring himself to say any of it.

And yet.

She is here, in his bed, holding his hand.

It isn't really the place, he thinks, for what he's inclined to do. Rejection, eager consent—neither fit well into the framework of a shared bed in the attic of a cottage of hags, and if by some strange providence it's the latter, he plans to discover what makes her cry out and do it until she can't anymore.

The thought enters his head as he's looking at her, and she looks back at him, amused.

"Are you blushing?"

"Go to sleep, Thisbe," he says, and leans back to blow out the candle.

Chapter Text

Although Fair Welcome listened and kept still,
Fearing the hag, he could no motion make
So cautiously that she could not perceive
The thought behind his simple countenance;
For well she knew the ancient dance of love.

Guillaume de Lorris et Jean de Meun, Le Roman de la Rose, translated from the Old French

There's a vulnerability that comes with sleeping beside someone. More often than not, she's left an unfamiliar bed long before morning, unused to the demands of angled legs and elbows, uneasy with the idea of feigning comfort. Why pretend? To soothe? Why soothe?

She doesn't bring many people to her flat—security, you know, she says with a vaguely apologetic shrug—but the underlying benefit is a morning of solitude and quiet, the ability to stretch her arms and legs out wide across her sheets, to walk about topless, to sit at the window with a cup of tea and the Prophet, laughing at outraged letters to the editor. Waking men interrupt this, she finds. Waking men want things, sex being the least demanding of them. Affection, conversation, polite returns of their niceties (I had fun—Yes, me too), polite returns of their insincerities (I'll be in touch—Yes, all right).

She's young and she's very old, and she thinks it likely means something that she can no longer contemplate sex and intimacy without her thoughts swinging to him. The act itself would feel like an infidelity—had felt, the last time she'd gone home with someone, so she'd stopped it abruptly and left. Afterward, she'd sat at her kitchen table, asking herself whether she was falling in love with Remus Lupin, who sometimes made her tea, who sometimes took high-risk assignments, who routinely let her approach him and settle into him, always with the sense that she was nearing a jungle cat, of a sort, whose preference it was to survey the world from a distance. But he'd not had terribly sharp claws, it'd turned out.

She worries that she's setting herself up for a spectacular crash, but she can't stop herself from testing it, because she's not yet found his limit.

Beside her, Remus is asleep. Tonks touches her fingertips to his so lightly that it might not be a touch at all, except that he stirs, knocking his hand against hers and ducking his head down on the pillow. He has a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones, barely visible, certainly not detectable sitting across the table from him.

She smiles, feeling foolish. It's difficult not to observe him while he sleeps. His face becomes boyish. It loses all its wry English solemnity, turns gentle.

Sleep, then.

She turns onto her back, but the motion tugs at the bedding enough to wake him, and he draws in a breath. His hand reaches for hers, almost as though to make certain she's alive and warm next to him, and when she looks over at him he relaxes, appearing slightly embarrassed.

"Dreams?" she asks.

"No," he replies, blinking. "No, I forgot where we were."

He probably does this often—waking to foreign surroundings, processing them rapidly, checking for signs of danger. She turns to him.

"Still at the worst bed and breakfast in Britain," she tells him, and he smiles, burying his face in the pillow. He lets out a quiet sigh.

"If they've not managed to restore a way out, I may end up murdering them."

"Not before I do," she says. "Come Monday morning, if I'm not back, Kingsley's going to have to make up a clever excuse, which opens up an unfortunate line of interrogation as to why he's privy to knowledge that the rest of them aren't."

He seems to consider this. "Let's get you home, then," he replies, propping himself up.

The pale light coming in through the little window catches the silver in his hair and she thinks, oh, staring at him quite openly. He notices and looks at her. A heat curls and uncurls in her belly.

Tonks shifts, deeply aware of the weight of the thick blankets, of his gaze. From somewhere below them, there is music—a soft, plaintive sound, plucked and echoing in the cottage.

"Sunday service," he jokes, but she can tell he's caught in it too, this humming thing between them. Her ears are ringing. He stares at her—lifts a hand and runs his fingers back through her hair where she rests against the pillow, slowly, like he's concentrating on what each strand feels like as it parts between his fingers. She keeps her eyes open, watching him, uncertain whether she's breathing. She has a wild impulse to nip at his wrist, to see his reaction, to see if it might provoke him to rest his weight on top of her, but he withdraws his hand and says, "Care to investigate?"

Tonks presses her lips together.

"I'll go dress and meet you down there."

"Thisbe, good, you're awake—have this. You needn't be alarmed. It is merely saloop, entirely free from enchantment," Cyneburg says, pressing a hot mug into Tonks's hands. In the corner, Bodil sits playing what appears to be a very old lute, her fingers perched on the instrument's neck, coaxing the strings. It's an oddly familiar song, the type which has passed through inns and taverns for centuries, but she can't put a name to it.

"Saloop?"

"Made from orchid roots, in part," Cyneburg nods. "We've had to be rather clever, accommodating your diets, such as they are."

Tonks sips hesitantly, pleased to find that the drink tastes mostly of rose water and something that might be nutmeg. From her chair, Bodil begins to sing.

"I'll crown thee with a garland of straw then, and I'll marry thee with a rush ring," she warbles. "My frozen hopes shall thaw, then, and merrily will we sing."

Behind them, Remus can be heard descending the attic stairs, and he enters the firelit sitting room with an unreadable expression, as if lost in thought. Cyneburg thrusts a mug upon him, and he takes it, thanking her automatically, then asking what it is that he's holding.

"Saloop," Tonks tells him, and he nods, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. Her mouth quirks into a half-smile. "One day, you'll stumble upon something you've never heard of, and I hope I'm there to see it," she says.

"Name a band," he tells her, taking a drink. "Wizarding band," he adds after.

"Kikimora," she replies. "Holda's Hunt."

"There you are," he smiles. "No idea."

"And prithee, love, turn to me! For thou art the man that alone art the cause of my misery," sings Bodil, hanging her head low. She pauses only for a moment before starting up another song, and Cyneburg sighs.

"Prone to occasional melancholy, Bodil," she explains. "Best to let her keep on. She comes through it eventually."

"We were hoping to speak with Morwen," Remus says, and Cyneburg gestures to the cottage wall.

"Outside, plotting new stepping stones," she says, "though should you approach her, make certain to indicate your presence beforehand. There's a gate—you might give it a good knocking. She's not quite there when she places them." She taps a finger against her dark, purplish lips. "You know, Remus, I sat thinking last night about what came through the vapors, and 'champion' seems like a word with a variety of interpretations. Retribution perhaps, but perhaps too another meaning—to defend, to protect the interests of. Something to consider."

"She wept and she kiss'd him ten thousand times o'er," Bodil's voice rises over their conversation, wavering, not quite on key but very earnest. "O I am contented to lie by thy side, and in a few moments, this lover she died."

Tonks lets out a slow breath, amused, still flustered. She'd sat half-dressed on her bed, her pulse a deep, insistent throbbing; the floorboards had creaked overhead as he'd moved through his room.

"Let's see how it's coming along, then," she says, pulling herself from her thoughts.

Outside, the air carries a chill, blowing over them as they walk and causing a loose shutter to smack repeatedly against the housefront. She casts Reparo at it, snapping it solidly in place, and Remus glances sidelong at her.

"No reason to leave it bashing about," she shrugs.

He smiles but does not comment, and they round the cottage, coming into view of a small, fenced garden. Here, plants spring up haphazardly from the tar-black soil, growing together in a dense tangle, their petals and leaves bright and healthy despite the cold. Fungi sprout alongside the fence, some bulbous, some layered like wafers, ascending, and she sees every so often a mound of disrupted earth with what is surely white bone protruding—clean, small, certainly animal, though she has yet to see any signs of animal life in this strangely quiet place.

Morwen sits on a short, three-legged stool, the bottom of her dress dampened by mud, and on her lap she holds the shallow basin that, just yesterday afternoon, had been filled with floating entrances and exits. Her eyes are closed, her face lifted upward.

She's humming.

Beside Tonks, Remus calls out to the hag, and when she does not respond, face caught in that serene expression of concentration, he follows Cyneburg's advice and gives the gate a brisk shake. The latch rattles loudly, stirring Morwen. She turns her head to them, her veil picking up in the wind.

"Come to make your demands, have you?" she chuckles. "I've nearly finished, you'll be happy to know."

"May we enter?" he asks.

"If you watch your footing," Morwen nods. "Don't come trudging in here carelessly."

They approach her with caution, stepping over ivy vines and clustered growth, Tonks walking just ahead of Remus. She sways at one point when the loose soil gives underfoot, and he steadies her, reaching out a hand and gripping her shoulder. Morwen watches them.

"Well?" she asks, when they reach her.

"Are you able to see whether Selwyn is still in the area?" Remus asks. "Where he might be?"

"Aye," Morwen replies.

"I might ask you to place us near him," he says.

Tonks stares. "Don't be stupid. You're—"

"I'm fine," he tells her. "Slightly slower than usual, but—"

"Yes, that's exactly why it's stupid," she says, raising her eyebrows. "And Bole is with him, remember?"

He shrugs. "Pherick Bole was a remarkably poor student and rather content in his ignorance. Unless he's pursued private study after Hogwarts, I doubt much has changed."

"Which makes him more likely to go full offense if he's threatened. He'll only bother with what he thinks will win him the fight."

He looks mildly irritated, and opens his mouth to reply, but she cuts him off.

"Have a go at me, then. Let's see if you're as fine as you say."

"Are you—what? No. I'm not—"

"Because you'll lose?" she suggests, nodding to his hand.

"Because the first one of you to start trampling my garden, I'll lay hands on," Morwen says, looking between them. "You want to quarrel, do it beyond the fence."

"It's not a quarrel," Tonks replies, rather curtly, and when she looks at Remus she finds something like amusement in his expression.

"I wouldn't suggest confronting them if I thought I couldn't manage," he says. His tone has softened. "But Bole's neither quick nor bright, and he's far more adept at handling a bat than he is with a wand."

"Some might call that hubris," she says. "If you want me on board with this plan, you'll have to convince me you're capable of carrying it out."

"I'm not going to hold back," she tells him, once they are safely away from Morwen's garden. The hag sits at a distance—a spectator of sorts, keen on witnessing their duel. She's far enough away that Tonks can ignore her biting observations, which she offers freely. But the wind carries only fragments, dulling her voice to background noise.

"I wouldn't expect it," Remus replies. "Though if you wanted to hex me, you might have just done it."

Tonks looks at him. "Why would I want to—no, this isn't about...nevermind. You find me overly careful, well, I find you overly confident."

"What a reversal," he says, studying her face.

"Yeah, well, I was mentored by a man who's afraid of blasting off his own arse, so I think I'm fairly reasonable, all things said." She manages a smile. "If someone's going to knock you out, I'd rather it be me than Talmage Selwyn or his burly compatriot, understand?"

"As you like," he relents. His lips tug upward. "If I get satisfactory marks in this gauntlet of yours, do I get some sort of reward, or—"

"Sod off, Remus."

She strides over the dark ground, creating space between them. When she turns to him, he's still not drawn his wand on her, and she shouts over the wind, "You'd better arm yourself. I'll not hesitate to send you flying."

He's a fast duelist, she knows. Faster than opponents expect, which he frequently uses to his advantage. And he's rather ruthless. She's seen him come back to Headquarters with bloodstains she knows aren't his. But, standing as her opponent, he seems to stall.

And so Tonks raises her wand, forcing him out of hesitation. She shoots a Disarming spell at him, but in the brief time it takes her to cast it, he's drawn his own wand, and he deflects it neatly. She sends another, but this too, he manages to evade. She can tell it's painful, his grip on the wand. His movements seem stiff. But she's not really let loose, and she wants to see how he might fare, were he under sustained spellfire.

She exhales, and then she attacks.

When her breath is rapid and her hair is sticking to her temples, she calls it off, and they are both still standing. Her skin is flushed, and Remus is rubbing a fresh welt on his forearm, courtesy of a Stinging Hex he'd not quite avoided.

Tonks approaches him, noticing that he, too, is winded, and he asks, "Did you just give me the magical equivalent of a smack with a ruler?"

"I mostly cared," she replies, steadying herself, "to see that you could keep up. Wasn't out to maim." She inspects the welt, chuckling a bit. "That's quite a good one you've got there, Lupin."

"Oh, are you proud of yourself?" he asks, laughter in his voice, and from her seat in the garden, Morwen hollers to them, "If you've worked that out of your systems, you might be pleased to know I've laid a stone for you."

"It'll be a bit of a walk, but you'll be close enough, I think," Morwen observes, looking up from the basin.

They've moved into the cottage, and all present are crowded around a table—even Bodil, who had abandoned her lute when they'd entered, her curiousity apparently stronger than her desire to pluck out depressing folk songs, though perhaps, Tonks imagines, her repertoire had been dwindling, making the transition somewhat inevitable.

"I've placed our end nearby," she continues. "So you've a better chance reaching them before they get too far." She gestures to a bubble, in which two figures roam, beleaguered by rain. "Once you're out, you'll want to head up that hillside. You'll be shielded by this bit of rock, here, but it's not grand as far as concealments go, so you'll want to avoid dallying about."

"Thank you," says Remus, "for your help."

"We did so enjoy your company," Cyneburg tells them. Next to her, Bodil takes a snapdragon pod from somewhere in her layered, flowing dress and presses it into Tonks's hand, adding, "You really must study your plants, dear, if you're going to practice magic with any degree of aptitude."

"Right, then," Remus announces, before Tonks has a chance to respond. He looks at her. "All right, Thisbe? No reservations?"

"Lead on," she replies.

Together, they exit the little cottage.

Chapter Text

Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom’s atom...

John Keats, "I cry your mercy-pity-love! -aye, love!"

"One moment," Tonks tells him.

They have stopped beside Morwen's stepping stone, and he peers down into the water with a vague frown. When viewed from the hags' wood, the moor seems chaotic—endless rain, the grasses rippling. There will be no time to sit, dazed by travel, once they surface; they'll have to move quickly.

He glances up. She's looking into the distance, and Remus watches as her features shift and change: her nose becomes wider; her lips, thinner. Finished, her hair has turned a peculiar coppery red. Dutch vermilion, the stuff of paintings.

"No sense in giving them a chance to identify me," she says, flashing him a smile.

He nods. His fingers are stiff, and he flexes them. The motion makes his palm ache. Over the years he's gotten rather good at ignoring such inconveniences—when he needs to, when it matters. He can put them quite easily out of mind. Of course, he'd not told her this in the garden when she'd stood questioning him, lecturing him with no real bite, just as she'd attacked him with no real force. She'd not wanted to hurt him, though she could have, certainly, if she'd taken a mind to it. Instead she'd hurled a long series of mild hexes and disarming spells his way, citing speed as her objective—reaction times—and that'd been that.

Except that she'd touched him after, teasing, relenting, and when they'd strolled back to the cottage her fingers had brushed against his (accidentally, purposefully—they'd been walking close to one another) so he'd interlaced them with his own. He'd done it deliberately. Distant from the world, it had seemed entirely natural, taking her hand. He'd wanted to; he had. And she'd not rebuffed him, just as she hadn't when he'd touched her rose-pink hair, splayed across the pillow, soft between his fingers. She'd pretended to listen to Morwen's extensive commentary, making the occasional retort, all the while tangling her fingers in his like a well-kept secret.

He cannot help but feel that it has an element of enchantment about it, this thing between them; that passing through the dark water will strip it away neatly. He wonders: in London, will she address it? For that matter, will he? Perhaps it will exist only here, now, and she will be contented to leave it as such.

So what he finds, looking down at the smooth puddle, is that his thoughts are not on Death Eaters and their acolytes, as they had been, but on her, and on something that might or might not be "them," and it makes him feel slightly unhinged, as if his mind is racing ahead of him.

"Reckon this'd be easier if your head were empty," Tonks mutters, and once more he shifts his gaze from the water, thinking perhaps he's spoken something aloud, but he sees her staring down at the reflection with her brows pinched in thought. "How'd you get us through?"

He thinks, then says, "I had a clear purpose in mind, I suppose."

"That's it?" she asks, looking at him. "I can manage that."

"Good," he replies. "I can't."

"Well," she says softly, "you can't do everything, Remus." She takes a breath, clapping her hands together. "I'll have a go at it, shall I?"

"Never again," Tonks shivers, when they have returned to solid ground. The rain pelts their faces. "Absolutely never again."

Her wand is out. She dries them both with shaking hands and places an Impervius Charm on their clothes, and meanwhile, he sits blinking, his brain sluggish.

"Was it bad?" she asks him gently, noticing his silence. She climbs slowly to her feet. "The water?"

He looks up at her. "You got us here," he tells her. He doesn't care to dwell on his thoughts (jumbled and unpleasant at best) and adds, "That's all that matters."

Behind her, the Whin Sill rises up, grey and rain-slick, and curves toward the valley below, fragmenting. Dolerite wall transitions to the occasional dolerite pinnacle, surrounded by rubble which takes on the appearance of coal as it topples over the grass.

Remus stands. He takes their packs and places them against the rock face, murmuring, "We'll come back for them."

He doesn't want to risk being spotted—opts not to venture far from their natural cover and decides instead to climb up the escarpment where it tapers toward the earth, hoping for a better look at the area. His fingers press into the cold stone. It's not a bad climb. It would be easier by far, were it not a rainy November day, but he manages it. The rain comes down heavily and blurs his vision, but he can make out two figures in the distance: Selwyn and Bole, roaming the opposite side of the valley. An entire geological depression between them. Either Morwen had been very clever, or they'd gotten quite lucky.

"Will he know you?" Tonks asks as he descends.

He brushes his hands against his trousers, wiping away dirt and grit, and shakes his head. "Selwyn? I doubt it. I've only come across him the once—years ago, shortly after Voldemort had fallen. He was in Diagon Alley; there were a lot of people around. No reason for him to remember it."

She studies him. "And you?"

"He was the man behind Benjy Fenwick's death—not a great way to go. No body to return to his family, no funeral. And Selwyn was out enjoying his Saturday; he'd not been sentenced to Azkaban. One of the many crying Imperius." He sighs. "I thought about killing him. I followed him. He was oblivious the whole time." Remus runs his hand back through his hair, clearing his line of sight. "But I didn't. It wouldn't have changed anything. I wouldn't have slept any easier."

She regards him with something like understanding. Close enough to it, at least. She's young and hasn't yet lost anyone, hasn't lost parts of herself, and occasionally he wonders if he seems unfeeling. Those first few months around her, he'd gotten the impression that she'd found him rather harsh. Never wary of him, but somehow surprised if he'd laughed—even more so if he'd teased her, shock and delight and mischief blooming on her face. And at some point, the surprise had faded away and had been replaced by familiarity and anticipation, and she'd learned him well enough to know that an arched eyebrow carried no derision with it. That had been roughly the time she'd started telling him what he would and would not do, always with a look of playful, knowing satisfaction. He'd liked—still likes—to make mild, empty threats, just to see her reaction, just to hear her deny them. The only one with truth, however, is the one he never says: You had better not linger near me, Nymphadora Tonks, or I'll want to love you.

"Sickle for your thoughts?" she asks, and he clears his throat.

"I'd rather not take them by surprise," he says. "Bole's an idiot, but he's very young. I've a feeling he's signed on without giving it much thought." She lifts an eyebrow and he adds, "I try not to kill former students, Tonks, when I can avoid it."

"Going to convince him to go home, are you?"

"I'm going to offer him a chance," he replies. "And hope that he takes it."

They Apparate within range of the two men, their feet sinking down into the wet grass. It'd be easy to fall, he realizes, and hopes he's not miscalculated the risk involved in being here. Beside him, she trudges ahead, seemingly handling the inconsistent terrain. Her red hair blows wildly behind her. Boudicca without her warpaint. He smiles.

The sound of their arrival is masked by rainfall, and so their targets continue to press forward until Bole, apparently feeling himself watched, glances over his shoulder and comes to an abrupt halt. His eyes grow wide with a mixture of confusion and sudden recognition, and he grabs hold of Selwyn's arm.

"Unusual day for a stroll, Pherick," Remus says, as Selwyn turns to face him.

There is something of Irving's schoolmaster about Talmage Selwyn: leggy, rather gaunt. He towers over Bole's stocky frame like a marsh reed, the wind tugging at his cloak. His eyes are sharp.

"Prof—" Bole starts, then, catching himself, continues in a considerably more aggressive tone, "—what are you doing here?"

"I might ask the same of you," Remus replies. He glances to Selwyn, whose hand is already twitching near his wand. "But it appears your companion here isn't very keen on questions."

"We've business to attend to," Selwyn says, looking him over. There's a note of suspicion in his voice, as though he's weighing the likelihood of the culprits in the recent theft of his journal also tracking him doggedly in the Pennines. For now, he seems to decide against it. He inclines his head ever so slightly, dismissing them. "And we've no time for unwanted interruptions. Pherick?"

"I know him," Bole mutters, gesturing at Remus. "He's—he's a werewolf. Used to teach at Hogwarts." Selwyn's brow furrows quite suddenly.

"Correct," says Remus, "though he's standing right here. You can address him accordingly."

"Is that so?" Selwyn remarks—haughty, very nearly amused. "Well, I'm afraid we don't extend common courtesies to wild animals. We handle them as you might expect: as a potential threat, ready to be eliminated, if need be."

Tonks makes a partially surpressed little noise, indignant, and Selwyn glances at her, as though he has just noticed her as an individual and not merely as a troublesome bystander.

Remus smiles at him. "And this business on the moors—no doubt it's with parties who might equally be dubbed 'wild.' Do they escape common courtesy as well? Not a particularly orthodox approach to building working relations, but then, you do seem to be getting nowhere rather quickly." He looks at Bole. "You really ought to choose your friends carefully, Pherick. Wouldn't want to get in over your head. Easy to do, especially around here."

"I don't need your advice," Bole snarls. Clearly embarrassed, his normally pale face has gone red.

Remus raises his eyebrows. "It seems to me that a young man, fresh out of school and looking to make a name for himself, might be drawn to whomever might promise him an opportunity to do so. Whatever he's told you, nothing good will come of it, I can assure you."

"Enough of this," Selwyn interjects. His eyes are dark and narrowed. "If you don't run along, I'll strike you both down where you stand and leave you here to rot, starting with her. No one's going to miss a werewolf and some red-headed bit—"

He doesn't quite finish his statement, flying backwards and skidding across the rain-soaked moor grass. His breath comes out in labored, gasping sound when he lands, and he clutches at his chest. Tonks has her wand raised, a look of rage darkening her face.

And suddenly, they spring into motion: Remus pointing his wand at Bole, who stands stupidly, blinking; Tonks deflecting a curse that Selwyn has thrown at her as he scrambles, hunched over and wheezing, to his feet. His robes tangle around his thin body. Mud clings to the heavy fabric.

Bole takes off down the steep hillside, moving erratically and ducking behind a column of rock; he somehow maintains his balance as the steady rain drums down upon him. Remus follows. He slides a bit as he dodges an unexpected flash of violet light that glides past his head, then regains his footing.

Tonks had been right, he realizes, as another curse whizzes by. Threatened, Pherick Bole draws from a very limited pool of remarkably vicious magic.

Rapid spellfire lights up the grey sky behind him—turns the grass an eerie hue, casts shadows along his path. Further down the hillside, Bole is flinging curses with little regard for accuracy, swearing, beginning to stumble. Remus watches as a jet of vivid green soars upward, several feet to his right: the Killing Curse, cast with total abandon. Bole is panicking. The rain mingles with thick smoke and sets a fog about them, catching all the colors of their exchange.

"Come on, then," Bole shouts. His voice is strained. "Do you think I won't kill you? I'm not afraid to kill you."

But you are afraid to die, Remus thinks, because he's heard the same tight, alarmed tone before, delivered through the mouths of allies and enemies alike—the tone that says I need to survive. That's the trouble with personal need and warfare: they so rarely mingle. It leads to mistakes, fixating on that need. It lets fear and emotion come rushing in, and then all bets are off. But he's not interested in killing Pherick Bole, not unless he's forced into it, though should the boy direct his antics toward—no, he'll not let him have the opportunity.

"You're devoting your energy to the wrong pursuits, Pherick," Remus calls out. "Do you think Voldemort feels the loss of one fallen follower? Do you suppose he knows your name? Do you suppose he cares to?"

"Shut up," Bole roars. "Fucking werewolf. Talking to me like—"

"Like someone with a clue as to what goes on in war? The reward for your loyalty is no reward."

Bole lunges between two pillars of rock and narrowly avoids being Stunned as Remus nears him. His broad, surly face is screwed up in anger, and he proceeds to duck behind the rock again after firing another spell. There's a familiar cracking sound, loud enough to cut through the rain, and Remus does not wait to see if Bole will re-emerge. He's Disapparated, perhaps to safety, perhaps to join Selwyn.

Remus takes off up the hillside. He's losing patience.

Coming into view of the skirmish, he sees at first only Tonks and Selwyn, and even then, merely as vague, shifting forms in the downpour. But he catches dark and fluttering movement in his periphery and turns his head toward it. Bole has managed to crawl onto a narrow outcropping of dolerite and, crouching low, has raised his wand to target Tonks. Her back is turned to him. In front of her, Selwyn is in constant motion, his robes torn and flapping. She's too far away to hear a warning, though Remus suspects that a hasty shout in the midst of battle would only serve to catch her off guard.

He flings Bole from his perch with a flick of his wand, watching as he crashes into a pile of dark rubble. The boy's wand breaks under his fall, jamming between bits of hard debris at an awkward angle and snapping. He appears dazed, moving into an upright position and staring at the wand in disbelief. His scraped and bloodied hands hold up the two severed pieces, and his eyes look back and forth between them. His mouth is hanging ajar. Remus suspects the fall has knocked out some teeth, because there's a fair bit of blood staining Bole's lips.

There's a strong wind beginning to pick up, blowing the rain fiercely into his face. He walks into it, slowed, blinded. Pherick Bole has his arms up, shielding himself from it, still clutching the broken wand.

Then, without warning, the rainfall ceases. The only noise is that of Tonks and Selwyn, who are still in the process of exchanging curses, and the high-pitched howl of wind. She drops to her knees as Selwyn fires a bolt of green light over her head, and suddenly, she too seems to notice the change, glancing around quickly.

All are temporarily stalled, sensing some new danger, unable to name it. Remus stares as a stooped figure proceeds to rise from the damp earth, cloaked in ragged grey robes which billow and twist frantically, seemingly as alive as their owner. He abandons Bole for the present, leaving him gawping, and strides quickly toward Tonks, who stands closest to the newcomer. He takes her elbow, pulling her back and away, and she comes willingly, transfixed by the strange movements of what is certainly a hag—a hag significantly more ominous in appearance than the previous evening's hosts.

"Think it's tempermental old Aldgyth?" she says, slightly out of breath.

"That would be my guess," he nods.

The figure clutches a tall staff, the wood of which has a burnt and blackened appearance, and her bony fingers wrap around it protectively, hatefully. Wind is whistling in his ears so loudly he feels as though he is caught in a scream, and he winces. Tonks moves to cover her own. He nudges her behind him, apprehensive.

Selwyn, who has been watching with a manic glimmer in his eyes, takes a step toward the veiled woman, not bothering to wipe the blood and dirt from his face, and declares, "On behalf of the Dark Lord—" but does not have a chance to finish, for she jerks into frenzied motion and lets out a shrill scream, plunging the staff toward the ground. The grass surrounding it withers.

There is a distinctive pop as Bole flees the scene, unwilling to confront a wrathful hag—or any opponent, for that matter—with a destroyed wand and a mouthful of broken or possibly missing teeth. Remus takes another step back, moving Tonks in the process. Selwyn is muttering something he cannot hear, addressing the hag with a mixture of controlled anger and something that he suspects is desperation—possibly even fear, though not of the woman standing in front of him; rather, fear of failure, fear of returning unsuccessful.

The hag advances on Selwyn, dragging her heavy staff across the earth, leaving a trail of dead grass and dried soil in her wake. Tonks grips Remus's shoulder and shouts over the wind, "I'm done with hags, I think. Accio, rucksacks."

The camping gear comes hurtling toward her from a distance, catching the attention of Aldgyth, who shrieks and lurches in their direction. She swings the staff easily, as though it were weightless, extending her heavily draped arm in one wide, sweeping motion, and an immediate gust of wind knocks them onto the cold ground. His focus is on protecting them, and so he does not expect the sudden weight of their knapsacks when they crash into his side, preventing him from rising. Selwyn, standing behind the hag, appears rather triumphant and seizes the opportunity to aim his wand at them, and then, Remus feels Tonks take hold of his arm, and the overwhelming sensation of spinning.

A clock ticks pleasantly above him, almost cheerfully. When he breathes—he can breathe, so he surely cannot be dead—he smells a soft, floral scent. Jasmine, some kind of light musk. Remus opens his eyes.

He is sprawled on the floor of a quiet sitting room that he realizes must be hers. Tonks stretches out beside him, breathing hard, grass in her hair.

"Oh, you are full of good ideas, Remus Lupin," she tells him. She's got one arm draped over her eyes. "Death Eaters in a rainstorm? Why not? An insane hag will show up? Right, brilliant. Even better."

"To be fair," he mutters, rattled, "I didn't anticipate the hag."

They are positioned between a tall, cluttered bookcase and a cherry red sofa, their knapsacks jabbing into them awkwardly. He pushes his back and out of the way, letting his arm rest on the rug. His pulse begins to slow. He's still clutching his wand, and he uncurls his fingers from it.

"Imagine if we'd showed up on her doorstep," Tonks says, glancing over at him. "The routine with the knife seems almost friendly by comparison."

"Not too much of an issue, that," he replies. "Especially given Pherick's terrible aim."

And then she starts giggling—a joyful, genuine sound, making him smile.

"Selwyn—announcing himself to her," she says, and he laughs. When she has settled, she sighs contentedly and morphs away the copper hair, the unfamiliar features; she turns dark-eyed and lovely. His eyes linger on her, and she shifts onto her side, facing him.

"Your flat?" he asks.

Tonks makes a humming noise, nodding. "It was time to come home."

"Thank you for saving us from my terrible ideas," he murmurs.

"Someone has to." She rests her head on her arm. "Stay," she tells him. There is something wonderfully girlish about her demeanor, playful and uncertain. She knocks one long leg against his. "Will you? I'll get Mad-Eye on the Floo and tell him to set a meeting for tomorrow night."

"I'm covered in dirt, and so are you."

"I live in an incredibly modern building, Remus, equipped with indoor plumbing," she smiles. "It'll astound, guaranteed."

He watches as candyfloss pink hair, wet with rainwater, falls across her cheek. It creates such a vivid contrast that he stares at it, slightly mesmerized. There's a deep, hazy feeling in his head—like waking, or perhaps hovering at the edge of waking. She seems very real and very much like an apparition, and he should like to run his fingers along her skin to determine which is true.

"Aren't you tired of me by now?" he asks her.

She seems to consider this, studying him for a moment before leaning over and placing a kiss just to the side of his mouth—bravely, he thinks, but very softly—and when she moves back she looks both proud of herself for having done it and anxious about its reception. His heart aches a bit with how full of hope she suddenly appears; how utterly delicate, the way she looks at him. So, it has come to London with them, whatever it is. It hasn't been left behind.

She says, quietly, "Not tired of you," as he smooths the wet hair from her face and then falls silent as he kisses her.

Her hands seek him out, touching; her lips part and allow the tentative suggestion of her tongue, but it is when he rolls her back, his hand beneath her head, that she whispers stay, stay, against his lips, beyond them, and he can only nod, communicating agreement through the press and slide of his fingertips.

In his head, a hundred images and thoughts, and among them, Let me love you, Nymphadora Tonks. Let me keep you.

It is a long while before either can speak.

Chapter Text

December 1995

Nymphadora Tonks shifts on the sofa; stretches her legs over Remus Lupin's and rests them there—the weight of her calves on his thighs an acknowledgement of this developing thing, unnamed and lovely, between them.

His hand curls around her ankle, and this too seems an acknowledgment. Distracted affection: notes in a stack between his fingers, tea leaves wet and cold in a cup, the scattered table before them. Someday soon they will have to develop a spoken language, she thinks, and it will surely feel crude and inadequate. Words are words are words: imperfect—lines running parallel, meaning alongside meaning. She prefers touch to all things: the solid weight of his body on hers; his fingers unbuttoning some article of clothing, finding her skin beneath; their current state of casual entanglement, sitting as lovers sit—terribly obvious, terribly content.

Any intruder would know immediately.

Last night, November ending, she'd kissed him on the kitchen stairs. Molly had been chopping root vegetables below them (the rhythm of her knife precise; the thin, yellowish parsnips arranged neatly before her). Above them, Emmeline's voice had been soft and incoherent, too distant to pick apart the individual words—a string of sounds, nearly musical as she'd traveled up and down the hall.

She'd kissed him, but he'd kissed her—indiscreet, hungry. There had been a meeting yet.

Later, they'd found each other again, away from whatever conversations persisted in the house, their hands insistent.

Disappearing acts. Up the stairs, out the door, around corners. Wrists tugged gently, imploringly.

Looks exchanged.

She is certain Sirius knows, though he has not announced it. In the usage of 'we'; in the tendency to orient themselves toward one another, he observes them. When Remus leaves the long subterranean kitchen, Sirius's silence fills it, and his eyebrow races upward (he knows, of course, that she will see); a smile spreads over his mouth. He rustles the Daily Prophet and smirks. Saying something, saying anything, would only confirm his guesswork. He's very clever. And she wants to keep it—all of it—to herself for now.

"Dung, do you reckon?" Remus asks her, nodding toward the hallway.

The front door's closed heavily behind some recent arrival, and she swings her legs from his with a sigh, stands and stretches in the heavy afternoon light. Remus sits and watches her— something like lust and fatigue passing across his face and disappearing, a look of private resentment obscured by her body when Mundungus Fletcher appears, shuffling off sleet, buried in a thick overcoat.

"Sirius in?" he asks, by way of greeting.

(So afternoons slide forward, when they are quiet afternoons, when there are only reports to receive.)

In the evening, she slips beneath the sheets and looks at the man next to her. How strange to smile and talk of inconsequential things, to shed her clothes and let him touch her, when outside a careful, coordinated war paces and scratches against the bedroom door, against the very bed frame—the delicate process of discovering one another protected, their voices fading by morning.