"So Harry got away unscathed yesterday and avoided Bagman?" Draco lazily turned the pages of a newly retrieved, snakeskin-patterned book from the Restricted Section, searching for any possible traces of Klein blue ink, while glancing over at Hermione.
"That's right. Harry's getting cleverer all the time, isn't he?" Hermione carefully turned a page of a burgundy-covered volume without looking up, as though afraid of missing something. "I can't shake the feeling that Ludo Bagman is hiding something. Harry said he looked dreadful when he showed up yesterday."
"That doesn't surprise me," Draco said, pressing his lips together. He picked up a new eagle-feather quill and crossed a title off his parchment list. "There are plenty of people chasing Bagman for money — not just wizards, either. The goblins are on his case, and they don't give way easily."
"Perhaps," Hermione said, lost in thought.
After a moment's silence, she set down her book and said seriously, "Draco, there's something I need to do."
"What's made you look so grave?" Draco glanced up, his pulse quickening.
When Hermione Granger wore that particular expression — looking directly at him with that steady, unhesitating resolve — she was about to do something significant.
He couldn't think what had happened recently to produce it. Something inside him beat a rather chaotic rhythm.
Hermione watched his brow furrow and, after a moment's consideration, said simply, "Listen — I need to speak with Krum."
The eagle-feather quill snapped clean in two between Draco's fingers, emitting a faint, mournful creak.
"What — what do you need to speak to him about?" He shot to his feet as though Hermione had just announced she was going to meet Merlin. Or the Dark Lord.
"Draco, don't panic — let me finish." Hermione stood quickly, moved around the table, and caught his sleeve. "He's using Harry as a go-between. Yesterday, he asked Harry to tell me he wanted to talk. To be honest, I'm tired of the awkwardness. I don't want to keep avoiding him."
Draco stared at her, gripping her hand tightly, his mouth gone dry. "What does he want to say to you? What is there left to say?"
"Draco, there are things I should have said to him a long time ago." Hermione was half-amused by how tense he'd become. "You know I have absolutely no interest in him beyond friendship. If you weren't so jealous, we might even have been pen pals..."
She watched his eyes go wide and added quickly, "Given your current state of mind, all I want to do is tell him where I stand and say goodbye on good terms before he leaves Hogwarts."
"Your feelings — your feelings for him —" Draco stuttered, his expression rigid as thousand-year-old timber.
"Draco, what are you thinking? You know exactly how I feel — I like you, obviously!" Hermione's face flushed, but she held his gaze. "Of course I mean you."
Draco glanced at her pink cheeks, and after receiving that cheerful declaration, he really should have smiled. But a small, obstinate sulkiness remained.
"Hermione, can you not go?" He stopped looking at her, dropping his eyes. He was afraid of being refused. His voice came out stiff, awkward, and rather petulant. "I don't want you to talk to him."
He was extremely, extremely, extremely bothered by this.
Hermione sighed.
"Don't look away. Look at me." She wrapped her arms around his neck and tilted her head to meet his eyes. "I've always thought you have a serious problem with trust. You seem to hold back with everyone by default — and you're especially prone to insecurity."
Draco said nothing in his defence, because she wasn't wrong. He was damnably insecure.
"I imagine you've always been like this — I can see it in how your old friends have adapted to your ways. But as your girlfriend, I don't think it's a healthy pattern for the two of us," Hermione said earnestly.
A cold unease spread through Draco's chest. Was she tired of it?
Anxiety flickered in his eyes, but he forced himself to hold her gaze. He wasn't leaving until she pushed him away. She had him caught in the circle of her arms, and he had no choice but to stand there and listen.
"Draco, I'm not blaming you — please understand that. What I'm asking for is a little more trust. Trust that I'll keep your secrets. Trust that I won't hurt you. Trust that I can handle this myself." The girl smiled up at him and softly kissed his lips.
"It's not that I don't trust you," Draco said at last, with some difficulty. "The problem is that I don't trust them. I'm a boy too. I know exactly what goes through the heads of boys like that. Especially him — his intentions have never been innocent."
"What nonsense? What do you mean, not innocent?" Hermione's curiosity got the better of her. "Since you know so much about what boys are thinking — tell me. What do you usually think?"
"Uh —" He opened his mouth, the words circling his throat, and said nothing.
His ears turned red first — red as poppies at the edge of the Black Lake.
"Well?" She looked at him with clear, bright, waiting eyes.
Draco's mouth opened and closed like a fish breaking the surface of water, and for a moment he genuinely could not breathe.
As a master of Wizard Chess, he realised with some chagrin that he had neatly cornered himself.
How could he possibly tell her about the obsession he couldn't shake, the greedy desire to chip away at her careful reservations, those vivid and beautiful dreams in the dead of night?
He reached up and gently ruffled her thick hair, reminding himself that whatever those words were, they absolutely could not be said to those innocent eyes. Not now.
"I was speaking loosely," he said quickly, retreating from his own trap. "Looking at it properly, I was probably overthinking. There's nothing to it."
"So we have no problems at all? Wonderful. You just said you trust me." Hermione smiled and rose on her toes, pressing a fond little nuzzle to his cheek. "Let me go and speak with him, then — just a few words. All right?"
"All right... fine." Though still not entirely happy about it, Draco felt the worst of his resistance soften at her initiative. "Hermione, he won't carry you off on a broomstick or something, will he?"
"Draco, you've already swept me off on your broomstick. I'm not going anywhere." Hermione's eyes crinkled. "I want to be a decent Hogwarts student — polite to an outstretched hand of friendship from a visiting school, instead of spending all term dodging and fleeing. That's not who I am."
"Fair enough," Draco said quietly.
Hermione Granger didn't run from things. She faced them head-on, no matter how unpleasant. She always had. Why would this be any different?
Understanding her was one thing. Feeling easy about it was quite another.
He pressed his advantage: "Can I watch from a distance?"
"Why not?" She looked at him openly, her pleasant voice carrying a note of mischief. "In fact, that arrangement might be better — it means there's a clear witness to my entirely above-board behaviour, and a certain jealous person has no grounds for misunderstanding."
Draco wanted to object to being called jealous, but found himself lacking compelling evidence to the contrary; her logic, as always, seemed rather watertight.
At midday in late May, beside the Black Lake, Colin Creevey — on his way to interview the Durmstrang students — was fortunate enough to capture a classic scene with his camera:
The aloof Slytherin platinum boy stood beneath a large, leafy oak tree, face thunderous, hands on his hips in his signature Slytherin pose.
Colin was quite certain he was glaring daggers at Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum, who were talking together on the lakeshore not far away.
"Merlin," Colin thought, ducking behind a clump of holly, a feverish light swirling behind his eyes. "This is extraordinary. Will there be a duel? Dennis would be devastated to miss this."
Colin should have been noticed. He should have been seized by the collar and flung into a holly bush by an alert Slytherin — if Draco Malfoy hadn't been so entirely consumed by his anxiety about Hermione that he'd completely forgotten to pay attention to anything else.
Fortunately for Colin, the handsome statue of the stern-faced boy was far too preoccupied for surveillance today.
He maintained a focused, unblinking, thoroughly wound-up mental state throughout:
Krum seems fairly civil today. Hmph — putting on his best behaviour to win over a naive girl, no doubt. Not that Hermione is naive. She won't be taken in by him.
Wait — he's spoken. What did he just say? Why does he look so serious? Why is he staring at her like that?
Open your eyes — she belongs to someone else. Have you no consideration for how that looks? Draco seized a freshly bloomed poppy growing beside him and tore its petals to shreds.
As for Hermione — his Hermione — her profile was beautiful. She seemed to be smiling at Krum. Merlin, why did she have to smile like that? What was she saying? And why was Krum smiling back?
She was laughing too freely — what on earth was so funny? Draco stared with an increasingly stormy expression.
Then both Hermione and Krum looked in his direction.
Hermione smiled at him from across the distance, her long hair swaying in the breeze, bright as a lovely dream — and Draco immediately gave her a rather helplessly flattered smile in return.
She glanced at him with that smile, then turned back to Krum. The conversation continued.
Merlin's silver cufflinks, when would they finish? Wasn't it supposed to be "just a few words"? This had already gone well past a dozen. Draco's expression darkened again, and he gritted his teeth.
Why was Krum suddenly earnest again? Was he planning to abduct Hermione in broad daylight — tie her to the Durmstrang ship? Draco stared fixedly at the space between them, as though afraid that if it disappeared, Krum would reach out and touch her.
He didn't notice that he had begun absent-mindedly plucking at the long-stemmed red flowers beside him again, entirely unable to control his anxious hands — just as he was unable to control the dark thought occurring to him about how, exactly, one might quietly sink a large ship in the middle of the night.
Only when Hermione turned at last, smiling, eyes bright, and walked briskly toward him, did the poisonous fog of anxiety in his chest begin to thin.
"All done," Hermione said cheerfully, stopping in front of him.
"Very swift — just a few words, was it?" Draco said dryly.
"If you don't rein yourself in soon, this will turn into a scene of botanical destruction!" Hermione glanced at the ground and seized his hands before he could do more damage. "Draco — what has this patch of poppies ever done to you?"
Draco noticed then that the ground around his feet was littered with torn petals, which — had they mouths — would surely be filing a formal complaint.
"I was distracted," he said, chin up, attempting to look as though the carnage around him was entirely normal.
"We talked about this. The flowers deserve better," Hermione said, glaring.
"I know." He stopped, his expression pained. "But I missed you. You were so far away."
"It's barely fifteen feet! I was visible to you the entire time!" Hermione said, incredulous. "And even if you did miss me — that's still no excuse to harm them."
She hesitated, moved by his innocent, forlorn expression, but also genuinely grieved by the fallen blooms.
"Hermione, I've never been a particularly good person," Draco said stubbornly, staring at the scattered petals. "I may never have natural empathy for the defenceless, or the instinctive awareness of hurting others. I don't have your kind of compassion. I can cause harm without even noticing — unless you stop me."
"I can hear the threat underneath that," Hermione said, staring at him with a look caught somewhere between exasperation and helplessness. "As though you'll just keep going unless I'm here to intervene."
"Exactly," Draco said, with breathtaking audacity. "If you put distance between us and don't come and stop me, I might destroy this entire flower bed. You'd better keep an eye on me."
Hermione stared at him. Draco, behaving like a child who'd go on a tantrum if denied his sweets, was causing all this in order to have her attention.
"I'm fairly certain you've temporarily lost your mind," Hermione said calmly, watching his cheeks puff up like a Puffskein. "Are you having a sulk? What have I done to upset you? Was it jealousy?"
Draco stared off to one side and said stiffly, "You smiled at him too much."
"Draco Malfoy, do you have any idea how adorable you are —" Hermione burst out laughing and rushed at him, taking his face in both hands and squeezing away every last trace of his grievance. "You absolute child!"
"Hmph —" Draco let her squash his flustered face without resistance, his eyes fixed on her laughing one, and finally couldn't stop himself. "What exactly did you two talk about?"
Hermione laughed harder. The way he stood there, scowling but obediently letting her manhandle him, made him look like an enormous cat convinced it was fierce and actually just very docile and soppy.
"His feelings, as it turns out," she said, observing the tension in his furrowed brow, "are his sincerest good wishes — to both of us."
"Well." Draco's expression cleared entirely. The relief was palpable. "That's — very decent of him."
"He also mentioned..." Hermione added with a smile, watching his face closely, "...that if we ever broke up, I should go and find him."
"Right." Draco reached into his pocket for his wand. "I'm going to challenge him to a duel."
"I told him you wouldn't give him the chance." She caught his arm and looked up at him with steady, sincere eyes. "You won't, will you?"
"Absolutely not," Draco said through his teeth.
He turned sharply, only to find that Krum had long since disappeared.
Too late for a duel, then. He thought with a stormy expression, very reluctant to unclench his hand from hers.
"Then let's prove it to him." Hermione hugged him happily, inwardly rather charmed by the relentless parade of silliness he was producing. "I don't want you to give him the chance either."
The cold-faced boy felt the last of his temper dissolve under the warmth of her arms and her tone. His expression softened slowly.
He lowered his head, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and then gathered her in and buried his face in her hair. "You're mine," he said quietly. "You always will be. I won't give anyone else a chance."
Colin Creevey crouched behind the bushes, barely daring to breathe.
Merlin's milk bottle — what had he just accidentally witnessed?
The most terrifyingly cold-faced Slytherin at Hogwarts, whispering sweet nothings into Granger's hair?
And so naturally. So easily. So tenderly.
If he spread any of this around, he'd probably be jinxed in his four-poster bed by this menacing male protagonist before the week was out.
His mind was full of fear. His hands had other plans, pressing the shutter on his silent camera again and again.
He couldn't control them. He really couldn't. Colin thought, breaking into a cold sweat, and pressed again.
He crouched until his entire body had gone numb before the two figures in his viewfinder finally left the lakeshore together, entirely wrapped up in each other.
Colin stood up from behind the bushes, shoved the photographs hurriedly into his robes, and swaggered off toward the Durmstrang ship.
Their private dynamic was exactly as he'd suspected — entirely different from their public one.
Some things had become very clear today: Malfoy did sulk at Granger with a thunderous face, and the looks he'd been shooting at Krum were downright ferocious. Definitely not someone you'd want to cross.
And then, completely without warning, he had gone adorable. Not just adorable — childish, silly, easily-mollified adorable. He'd practically been begging for her attention with his eyes.
As expected, Senior Granger had been completely unfazed by him. She'd defused this hot-tempered young man with a few words and a laugh. She'd even touched his face without hesitation — like a bold cat pulling a tiger's whiskers — and the tiger had stood there blushing, entirely incapable of refusing her so much as a single finger.
Under the long influence of Gryffindor common room opinion, Colin had firmly believed that a Gryffindor-Slytherin pairing must be a deeply toxic arrangement.
But now, having seen how sweet they actually were together, he felt strangely convinced they were well-matched.
No, no, absolutely not! Colin pounded his own head. Gryffindor to Slytherin, it's obviously a terrible idea, too much suffering, too much drama —
Wait. Why aren't they suffering at all? Did nobody actually have a problem with this? Weren't there supposed to be obstacles?
"WHERE'S THE PREJUDICE???" Colin shouted at the Black Lake, startling an entire flock of gulls and egrets into the air.
That said — didn't his idol Harry Potter object? As Colin pondered this, passing the Beauxbatons carriage in the distance, he arrived at a thoroughly convinced conclusion:
No wonder Harry was his idol. His attitude was extraordinarily tolerant.
Harry had to be one of those rare, genuinely open-minded people who fully supported his friends' choices.
"But then why doesn't Harry date? Doesn't he fancy someone? If we ever get to interview him, could we ask that?" The school newspaper founder's eyes gleamed with journalistic greed, and he began muttering to himself.
Just as Colin was deeply absorbed in speculations about his idol's romantic life, a pale blue figure stepped in front of him — Fleur Delacour.
She stopped him in her heavily accented English: "Hey, Colin Creevey?"
"Yes!" Colin went still, staring at his shoes with great focus.
Ever since being reduced to tears by Fleur's devastating critique the last time, Colin had been genuinely frightened of the beautiful Beauxbatons champion and had not once managed to meet her eyes.
"Why are you so scared? I'm not going to bite." Fleur's voice was bright and cheerful as she continued in her careful English, "I received your new interview questions by owl. They are good questions. I have decided to accept the interview. However, I would prefer to reply in writing — my written English is more accurate than my spoken English, and I would hate for misunderstandings to creep in."
"That's — absolutely no problem!" Colin had fully expected another rejection. He bowed at her in a frenzy of gratitude. "I await your reply eagerly! Thank you, thank you so much!"
"You're welcome." Fleur waved a graceful hand, turned, and glided back toward the Beauxbatons carriage.
Colin stood and watched her go, so happy he nearly did a split on the spot.
Merlin above — what an absolutely extraordinary day. Thank you, Merlin!
His emotions, like a balloon carelessly let go, floated aimlessly into the clear blue sky over Hogwarts. He gripped his camera tightly, struggling to contain his excitement, and continued along the Black Lake, head full of grand plans.
Professor Trelawney had been right — his fortune today was truly exceptional. If this kept up, the interview with Krum would be effortless! Colin hummed a tune, and let himself daydream even further:
Who knew — by evening, his idol Harry Potter might drop by for an interview of his own!
Whether Colin Creevey's daydreams would come true remained to be seen; what was certain was that Remus Lupin had already resigned himself to missing his afternoon rest.
On the far side of the Black Lake, near Hogsmeade Village, Lupin was making his way slowly along a stone-paved path.
He had no interest in admiring the shimmering water in the distance. He was too busy mentally composing a very pointed letter to his old friend about his unchangingly reckless, careless, and frankly absurd approach to things.
Why would Sirius, knowing full well about Lupin's condition, send him — a werewolf — to interview a prospective Order member who happened to be a rookie Auror?
If his sensitive identity as a werewolf accidentally came to light, it could easily become an incident:
Would this young Auror, upon discovering what he was, immediately and bluntly notify the Werewolf Capture Unit of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?
Or would they simply haul him in, perhaps as a neat item for the Ministry's monthly performance quota, rather than having an honest induction conversation?
The dull thudding of these worries accompanied Lupin up the path until he arrived at the door of the Three Broomsticks. He rubbed his temples irritably. Even so, he was constitutionally incapable of being late. He glanced at his watch — five minutes until the appointed time — straightened his tie, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.
This interview was going to be testing. For both of them, Lupin thought. He looked discreetly around the pub and found it pleasantly quiet, with only three or four people scattered about the bar.
He still had no idea which of them was the Auror he was supposed to meet.
The Auror had not revealed their identity or their gender. Their letter to Sirius had simply stated: "I hope the interviewer will be able to find the person they're interviewing."
Interesting. Lupin smiled slightly, amused rather than annoyed.
A quiet, eager gleam appeared in his grey-green eyes as he surveyed the bar:
First, there was a hooded young man in the corner, nursing a glass of whiskey without ice. The moment Lupin entered, he paused briefly in his sipping and gave him a sharp, assessing look.
Beside him was an elderly woman in black robes with a deeply lined face, wearing a witch's hat decorated with a stuffed vulture specimen. She fixed Lupin with a stern glare and went back to holding up her glass, asking Madam Rosmerta for more water.
Deeper into the pub, there was a young witch with bubble-gum pink hair. She had dropped down from her stool and was crouched beside a pushchair, making faces at a crying baby. The baby's sobs turned to delighted laughter.
Who was it? Lupin stayed calm, working through the possibilities swiftly.
If the Auror was this confident about not being recognised, they presumably had some special method of concealment — perhaps they were very skilled at disguise.
Any of the three could be the one. The elderly woman in black was no less likely than the sharp-eyed young man. Or perhaps — he should go directly to the least likely candidate.
Lupin slowed his pace. He passed the first two without stopping, and came to a halt in front of the witch with the pink hair, who was still crouched over the pushchair.
"Hello," he said softly.
The witch looked up at him. For just a moment, she had a pig's snout where her nose should have been, and a broad smile.
The baby in front of her was reaching out both hands, trying to touch her face, laughing so hard it had nearly dissolved.
"Can I help you?" The pig snout vanished, revealing a lovely, fair, heart-shaped face with bright, dark eyes.
She was sizing him up openly, and there was a glint of sly satisfaction in her expression. This was the first time she'd looked directly at him since he'd come in.
That extravagant pink hair actually suited her face quite well, Lupin found himself thinking.
"I'm here for the interview," he said, with a composed smile.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," she said, entirely straight-faced, and began to turn back toward the baby.
"When you're in a public space, people instinctively look up at anyone passing through their immediate vicinity. Only someone who has reason to avoid drawing attention will deliberately not look — because they're already focused on watching. You should have glanced at me when I walked over," Lupin said gently. "Honestly, if you hadn't looked up at all, I might not have been able to pick you out."
"That does make a fair amount of sense," the young witch said frankly. She made a face at him, leapt to her feet, and in doing so caught the baby's bottle on the edge of the table and sent it toppling.
"Oh no!" she cried. In one fluid movement, Lupin reached out and caught it before it hit the floor.
Amid the mother's profuse thanks, Lupin set the bottle back on the table and gave them both a nod. The witch apologised to the baby and the mother with genuine contrition, and then followed her interviewer upstairs without further protest.
"Thank you," she said, with a trace of admiring curiosity. "You're remarkably quick. That's quite a talent."
Lupin smiled at a strange angle. The speed was not a talent — it was a side effect of his condition, the heightened reflexes of a werewolf, something he regarded as more of a curse than a gift. He would gladly have been slower.
"You're welcome." He paused, then asked, apparently casually, "Are you — a fan of the Weird Sisters?"
He had noticed her outfit some time ago. The T-shirt with its distinctive print, the eccentrically patched jeans — she had the look of a playful young witch who had just stepped out of a concert.
It was an unexpectedly carefree choice for someone who had apparently chosen one of the most dangerous careers available to a witch or wizard.
"You spotted the T-shirt?" she said with enthusiasm. "Brilliant, isn't it? I bought it at their last show. On weekends when I have nothing pressing, I like to curl up on the sofa and listen to them all day."
She walked alongside him up the creaking stairs. She noticed his formal attire, looked curious. "If you recognised the shirt — are you a fan too? Have you heard their new release from the beginning of the month?"
"I've heard it. It's very good," Lupin said.
"Well then! Kindred spirits." She said cheerfully, and whistled a bar of the new song.
The melody drifted up the stairs, and Lupin smiled in spite of himself. The tension he'd been carrying since leaving the shop eased, just slightly.
This cheerful, forthright young witch was entirely unlike the interviewee he'd been imagining.
She seemed to possess a particular gift for immediately making unfamiliar company feel warm and easy.
He was already, against his better judgement, rather looking forward to the conversation ahead.
Whatever came of this, Lupin thought, it would not be dull or dreary.
He opened the door and led her into the room Sirius had reserved from Madam Rosmerta — the same room, in fact, where Sirius and Draco often met in private. Had Draco happened past, he would have recognised it immediately.
"What would you like to drink?" Lupin sat down across from her, ready to offer the menu.
"Butterbeer —" She ignored the menu entirely, plopped herself onto the opposite sofa, and said happily. "I've been craving one for ages."
Lupin smiled faintly, tapped the menu with his wand, and a moment later Madam Rosmerta knocked and entered with two foaming glasses of Butterbeer.
"Thank you, Rosmerta," he said warmly. "Could you close the door behind you?"
Rosmerta gave them both a curious, faintly knowing smile and swept out with her empty tray.
"Allow me to introduce myself." Lupin gave a light cough and extended his hand. "My name is Remus Lupin. You can call me Remus."
She hesitated for a moment, then extended her hand in return. "You can call me by my last name — Tonks. My first name's not particularly nice, and nobody really uses it."
"How bad can it be?" he asked, looking with gentle curiosity at the young witch who had suddenly gone rather glum.
"I'll only say it once," she warned, pouting. "My name is Nymphadora — a gift from my thoroughly well-meaning but naming-challenged mother."
Lupin's eyebrows rose. "Oh. It's a pleasure to meet you, Nymphadora."
"Don't call me Nymphadora," she said, with a visible shudder. "Call me Tonks."
"Of course, Tonks." Lupin's lips twitched in a manner that was very nearly a smile as he shook her hand.
"Laugh if you want," she said, catching his expression. "Everyone does when we exchange names. I've made it part of my friend-making routine."
Lupin tried to hold it in. He couldn't. He laughed, and asked, "Why would your mother choose that name for you?"
"Because my mother married my father, and the family considered her a traitor for it — marrying a Muggle-born, as they put it." Tonks said this without a flinch. "She was cast out. She took every insult the Black family threw at her and, in return, gave me the most outrageously embarrassing name she could find."
"I'm sorry," Lupin said quickly, his smile fading. "I didn't know —"
"It's quite all right," Tonks said, entirely unbothered. "It's no secret — just one of the more colourful entries in our family history."
"Your mother sounds like a brave woman," Lupin said, with genuine respect. "The pressure she must have faced back then..."
"My foolish mother is extremely brave, yes." Tonks said with a smile that was unexpectedly fond. "She has one flaw — she can't name things. But I've always admired her."
"Would you mind telling me her name?" Lupin asked, with growing interest.
"Andromeda. She was Andromeda Black; now she's Andromeda Tonks," Tonks said easily.
Lupin opened his mouth, and then experienced a brief but distinct sense of mental obstruction.
"Ah — do you know Sirius Black?" he asked carefully.
"I know of him. Sirius Black calls my mum 'cousin,' which I suppose makes him my uncle, by some reckoning." She shrugged. "He was released from Azkaban a couple of years ago, wasn't he? Mum used to be very close to him. Then Azkaban happened, and she was heartbroken — she believed he'd betrayed his friends, gone over to You-Know-Who."
Lupin, wearing a strange and private smile, asked: "Have you seen him since his release?"
"No. Mum says he wrote her a letter though." Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Is something wrong? Why all the questions about Sirius Black — I thought you were here to interview me."
"Do you know who you've been corresponding with?" Lupin asked, with a mildly peculiar expression.
"How would I?" Tonks replied. "Whoever it was, it wasn't you."
She looked him over. The person who had written to her had a certain arrogance — you could tell from the decisive way his words landed on the page, from the breezy nonchalance of his tone. The man across from her was gentle and perceptive. Entirely different.
She lifted her chin and looked at him with satisfaction. "Was I right?"
"Quite right. You have a sharp eye. The person you've been corresponding with is Sirius Black — your rather distant 'uncle'," Lupin said, a note of appreciation in his voice. "He was otherwise engaged today, so I'm standing in for him."
"Well — what a coincidence! Mum would be delighted if she knew. I might get to meet her much-talked-about cousin before she does." Tonks grinned.
"I imagine Sirius would be very glad to know he still has family who care about him," Lupin said, filing away one more piece of background on this prospective Order member. "Right then. Let's have a proper chat."
"What would you like to talk about?"
"To start — why do you want to join the Order of the Phoenix?" Lupin asked easily.
"I don't know a great deal about the Order, actually. Alastor recommended me." Tonks's easy manner gave way to something more serious. "By the way — how is his recovery going?"
"Much better than before," he said.
"But how did he get hurt?" she pressed.
"There was a minor incident," Lupin said vaguely.
"I don't believe that. With his abilities, a 'Bombtail' putting him in St Mungo's?" She took a thoughtful sip of Butterbeer. "He's a professor at Hogwarts, yes, but I suspect there's dangerous work happening in the background. Was it connected to Order activities?"
"I can see you're worried about him," Lupin said with a slight smile, drinking alongside her, without quite answering. "What is your relationship with Alastor, exactly?"
"Of course I'm worried. He's my mentor. He's shared more with me about the realities of being an Auror than anyone else ever has. He deserves every ounce of respect he gets —" Tonks said admiringly, slurping her Butterbeer. "You'd be hard-pressed to find another Auror who'd devoted their whole life to the work with that kind of conviction."
Lupin watched her drink with quiet amusement. "You think very highly of him."
"He earns it. His one flaw is that he keeps absolutely everything locked up tight! I asked him directly what happened, and he wouldn't say a word — only that joining the Order of the Phoenix was the only way I'd ever find out." Tonks made a face at her glass. "Infuriating man."
At that moment, Lupin noticed something. As she spoke, her hair had shifted from pink to sky blue.
"You're a Metamorphmagus," he said.
He thought back to the pig nose downstairs, entertaining the baby. He hadn't registered it then, but now it fell into place.
She was considerably more complex than she appeared.
"Correct — a natural-born Metamorphmagus!" Tonks said with unabashed smugness. "I can alter my appearance freely. Hair colour, features — as many times as I like. Ideal for concealment and disguise, yes?"
Lupin agreed. He understood at once why Alastor had recommended her. In the right situation — at a critical moment — her abilities could prove invaluable.
She was, in this sense, genuinely formidable.
"Though I'll admit," Tonks said honestly, "I'm not always great at stealth and tracking. I can be a bit reckless too — or so Alastor keeps telling me."
"That's all right," Lupin said warmly. "Everyone has strengths they work with and weaknesses they develop. And you're already very capable. Experience can be built up."
Tonks brightened considerably at this. "So if I join the Order of the Phoenix, will I get to put that into practice? Remus — could you tell me more about what the Order actually does? I've heard of Dumbledore's organisation, that it opposed You-Know-Who years ago. But isn't he... gone?"
"People have always thought You-Know-Who was gone. But in truth, though he has vanished, his fragmented soul is still out there," Lupin said, speaking quietly. "You can see for yourself that things have been increasingly unsettled in the wizarding world lately, and some alarming events have already occurred —"
"The Dark Mark at the Quidditch World Cup," Tonks said, apparently casually — but a sharp, analytical light moved through her dark eyes. "I've felt from the start that something is off about that. My parents think there's something bigger going on behind it."
"Your instincts are right." Lupin drew the threads together and explained to her, carefully and methodically. "Certain Death Eaters have been stirring again after years of dormancy, and that would not have been possible without help from You-Know-Who himself. What the Order needs to do is prevent him from regaining his full strength..."
Tonks leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, watching the quiet man opposite her as he spoke. She listened intently, something in her expression shifting from bright curiosity into something quieter and more resolved.