When Remus opened his eyes, he saw nothing.
A thick, suffocating blackness swam in front of him—so complete that for a disorienting moment, he wasn't sure whether his eyes were open at all. He blinked once, twice. Still darkness. His limbs felt weighted, pinned down by an invisible force. Even the smallest movement made his bones groan in protest. His head ached dully, a throb behind his eyes, as though someone had stuffed his mind with fog.
Where…?
There was a faint chill in the air. The smell hit him next—antiseptic, unmistakably sharp, tinged with lavender. A scent he'd grown too familiar with.
Hospital Wing.
Of course.
He should've guessed. His body knew it before his mind could catch up. The stiffness in his spine, the strange calm in the air, the faint rustle of fabric somewhere nearby.
Then—footsteps. Soft, steady. Followed by the gentle swish of curtains being drawn aside. He turned his head slightly, barely able to lift it from the pillow.
A figure moved closer, her silhouette cutting through the gloom.
Madam Pomfrey.
Even in the haze, he recognised the brisk compassion in her movements. But tonight… her face was different. There was something in her eyes. Not scolding. Not exasperation. Relief.
She let out a breath, her hand resting briefly on the edge of the bed.
"Thank goodness," she murmured, her voice thick with feeling. "You're awake."
He tried to sit up. Foolish. The pain was immediate, burning low in his muscles. He gave up with a quiet wince, collapsing back against the pillows.
His throat was bone-dry. "What… happened?" he rasped. He meant to sound calm, perhaps even a little detached, as he often did. But the words came out broken, raw. Pathetic, really.
Madam Pomfrey's gaze swept over him with a healer's scrutiny. "You collapsed," she said, gently but firmly. "Exhaustion, Mr. Lupin. Pure and utter exhaustion. You should've come to me long before now."
He gave a breathy sigh. Of course I did. That sounded exactly like him.
She straightened, smoothing the blanket over him with practised hands. Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "She stayed with you. For hours."
He blinked slowly, frowning. "She?"
A faint smile touched the corners of Madam Pomfrey's mouth. "The young lady with the pink hair. Sat here like a worried owl, wouldn't leave your side."
Remus stared at her, struggling to piece things together through the molasses-thick fog in his brain.
"Ms. Tonks?" He said, his voice laced with disbelief. "Why would she—?" He tried to sit up again, groaned, and gave up. "What time is it?"
"Seven," she replied, already tidying the tray at his bedside. "She'll likely be back soon."
Remus opened his mouth to ask something else, but before the words could form, the doors creaked open.
And he knew.
He knew it was her before he saw her. That strange, unspoken sense—like the air changed, like something in his chest tugged toward the doorway before his eyes could catch up.
Tonks stepped into the low light. Her hair was a muted shade tonight—less electric, more shadowed. A quiet kind of pink. There was weariness in her posture, but her eyes still held that glint—mischief, maybe. Or something kinder. He wasn't sure anymore.
Madam Pomfrey made herself scarce with a murmured excuse. Her footsteps faded down the corridor, and then it was just the two of them.
Tonks crossed the room slowly and sank into the chair beside his bed like her legs might give out. She looked exhausted. Her robe was creased, hair slightly frizzy around the edges, as if she'd run her hands through it too many times.
"You didn't have to come," Remus said quietly. He meant it. Whatever had brought her here, he didn't want it to be guilt. Or pity. Or duty dressed up as kindness.
Tonks didn't look at him. Just stared at the floor, her jaw set at a stubborn angle. "I know."
He watched her, waited. "Then why?"
There was a silence that stretched longer than it should have. Her fingers twisted the edge of her sleeve like she was trying to wring the answer out of it. Her boot tapped against the cold stone floor, irregular and soft—nervous energy barely restrained.
"I don't know," she said at last, though her voice betrayed her. There was something there. Something she wasn't saying.
"I just…" She paused. "I wanted to make sure you were all right."
That made something shift inside him. Something small and sharp and long forgotten.
People didn't check on him. Not like this. Not with sincerity. They asked, sometimes. Out of politeness. Out of obligation. But this?
He studied her more closely. The way her shoulders curled in slightly, like she was bracing for impact. The faint tremble in her fingers that she kept trying to still. She looked exhausted. And too young to carry that kind of weight behind her eyes.
"You were… worried about me?" he asked, not unkindly. It came out gentler than he expected. He even smiled a little, though it didn't reach his eyes. "You hardly know me."
That made her glance up.
And when her eyes met his, the smile dropped from his face.
Because the humour was gone. All that remained was clarity.
"I know enough," she said.
There was no defensiveness in her voice. No bravado. Just something terribly quiet and terribly certain.
"You're Remus Lupin," she continued, voice soft but steady. "You teach History of Magic—though I've still no idea how you make that sound even remotely interesting."
He huffed a laugh at that, low and surprised. But her tone hadn't changed. And the words that followed weren't meant as a joke.
"You try to blend in. But you walk like someone who used to lead people. Like you don't trust yourself to do it anymore."
Remus looked away. He hadn't expected that. Not from her.
"You're kind," she went on, and the way she said it—like it was something rare, something worth preserving—made his chest ache. "Too kind. You hold the door open for people even when your hands are full. You ask about students who never answer back. And you're quiet in that way people are when they've been alone too long."
His throat tightened.
He should have stopped her. Should have said something. But he couldn't—not when every word felt like it was pulling the curtain back on things he didn't let anyone see.
"And you're tired," she added, barely above a whisper. "Like someone who gave up on being happy a long time ago."
That was the one that broke him.
He turned away quickly, eyes lifting to the ceiling as if it might offer him a distraction. A lifeline. A place to put the pain.
No one was supposed to see him like this. Not really. Not all the way through.
But somehow—she had.
He swallowed, his mouth dry. The silence stretched between them, but it didn't feel heavy. It felt… bare. Like truth spoken into the quiet.
Then, as if his brain had tripped over itself to escape the weight of it all, he muttered, "Six-foot-two."
Behind him, she blinked. "What?"
"You said six-foot-one earlier," he said, glancing at her now with a faint, almost embarrassed smile. "I'm six foot two."
There was a pause. Then a snort. And she laughed—short, breathless, unexpected. It filled the room like a fire catching kindling.
"Well," she said, leaning back in her chair with a grin that didn't quite mask the relief, "I was bloody close."
He smiled, properly this time. It wasn't bright, and it wasn't big. But it was real.
She smiled back. Tired, yes—but warmer than anything he'd felt in weeks.
They sat in silence after that. A better kind of silence. One where neither of them felt the need to fill the space just for the sake of it.
"Anti-social is accurate," Remus murmured, almost to himself.
The words slipped out before he could catch them, like something that had sat too long in the dark and now refused to be buried again. He hadn't meant to say it aloud. That kind of honesty was usually reserved for empty rooms and sleepless nights.
But this time… he didn't regret it.
Tonks's eyes lit up—not with pity, thank Merlin, but with something far better. Curiosity. Delight. As though he'd handed her a puzzle piece she hadn't expected him to share.
A slow, triumphant smile curved her mouth. "There it is," she said, wonder colouring her voice. "Was that an actual smile?"
He scoffed, waving a dismissive hand, trying—and failing—to regain control of the moment. "No. Must've been a twitch. Muscle spasm."
She let out a laugh that seemed to fill the entire room—bright and alive and somehow warmer than the fire crackling in the grate. "You definitely smiled," she said with certainty, her eyes dancing. "Don't even try to lie about it."
"I've never smiled in my life," he replied deadpan.
His mouth betrayed him again with the faintest twitch.
"Liar," she whispered, positively beaming now.
Her laughter echoed off the stone walls like something rare and necessary. It wrapped around the moment, softening all the jagged edges. He looked at her—really looked—and found himself utterly caught. There was something unapologetically present about her. As though she didn't know how to do anything halfway. Even joy.
And Merlin help him, he didn't want her to stop.
A warmth stirred in his chest—tentative and unfamiliar. Not fear. Not guilt. Something gentler. Something he wasn't sure he had the name for anymore.
"I'm not good with people," he said suddenly. The words landed like stones in water, quiet but heavy. "I never have been."
Her grin didn't falter. If anything, it gentled.
"Lucky for you," Tonks said, tilting her head slightly, "people are my thing."
Their eyes met—and held.
It wasn't intentional. He hadn't meant to. But once it happened, he didn't look away. Couldn't.
Something shifted between them—like the room had subtly changed shape, and now they were the only ones inside it. Her gaze didn't pry or prod. It just… saw him.
The silence was different now. Not awkward. Not empty. Just honest.
Then, softly, carefully, she broke it.
"Professor…"
His heart gave a small, stupid jolt. He told it to calm down.
"…Would you consider giving me private History of Magic lessons?"
Remus blinked. "Private lessons?" he repeated. It sounded absurd. "Why? You're not behind. You've barely had time to fall behind."
She leaned back slightly, that familiar gleam in her eye. "Why?" she echoed, mock-innocent. "Because I saved your life, didn't I?"
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it. "Heroism doesn't usually earn extra credit," he said. "Though I'll admit, it's a novel excuse."
"I'm full of novel excuses," she said, grinning. "I'm also wildly creative. And charming. And frankly, underappreciated."
He raised an eyebrow, dry as dust. "Modest, too."
"Oh, terribly. It's exhausting, really."
He laughed then—quiet, but real. And somewhere beneath all her cheek and sparkle, he saw it.
That flicker of something softer. Vulnerability. The thing she hid behind the jokes. She didn't just want lessons.
She wanted time with him.
And the strange thing—no, the dangerous thing—was that he wanted that too.
"All right," he said finally, the words sticking slightly on the way out. "Next Monday evening. Seven o'clock."
Her whole face lit up like sunrise.
"I'll be there," she said, with something close to reverence.
Remus gave a small nod, eyes dropping to the desk as if he might find his sense of reason buried somewhere beneath the lesson plans. He wouldn't. He knew that.
But still—just for a moment—he let himself enjoy the quiet.
And the knowledge that next Monday, she'd be back.
Before he could respond, the curtain rustled aside.
Madam Pomfrey's head appeared, her expression brisk. "Remus, you've another visitor."
And then—another voice, warm, unmistakable—floated in behind her.
"Hope I'm not interrupting."
Remus looked up—and his heart gave a small, foolish lurch.
Lily.
She hadn't changed, and yet she had—older, surer, a little sadder around the eyes.
He sat up straighter. "Not at all," he said quickly. "Don't worry; we were just finishing up."
Lily's eyes drifted to the young woman beside his bed—mild curiosity there, a flicker of recognition maybe, nothing more.
"A student?" she asked, glancing between them.
"Yes," Remus replied evenly.
But beside him, Tonks had gone very still.
He didn't need to look to feel it—the sudden withdrawal. The subtle shift in the air, like she'd pulled herself inward in one breath. Her body went rigid, shoulders drawn back too sharply. The colour in her cheeks drained.
Then she stood. Abruptly. The scrape of the chair legs on stone was loud—jarring.
"I was just leaving," she said, voice clipped and distant, already turning away.
"Ms. Tonks—" Remus started, pushing himself to his feet—too fast. The world tilted, vision blurred for half a second. He reached for the curtain to steady himself.
"Ms. Tonks—wait."
She stopped.
Turned.
Her face was flushed now—not from embarrassment, but from something deeper. Her jaw was tight, her mouth pressed in a line that trembled slightly.
"What?" she said. Sharp—but the sharpness cracked at the edges. She wasn't angry. She was wounded.
Remus stared at her, caught off guard by how much it hurt to see her like that. He raised a hand, then let it fall uselessly.
"Ms. Tonks, Lily's—"
"I know who she is," she said, too quickly. Too brittle. "You don't have to explain."
Her voice caught on the last word. She turned again, making for the door.
He took a step forward. "That's not what I meant. I'm not dismissing you."
She paused, her back still to him. Her spine was stiff, like it was holding her together.
"I get it," she said softly. "It's not my business."
And then she walked out.
Her boots echoed in the corridor—each step impossibly loud. Like punctuation marks on something that hadn't quite been said.
Remus stood there, still gripping the curtain, staring after her long after she'd disappeared. The hospital wing felt colder without her. Quieter.
Behind him, Lily didn't speak. She didn't need to.
After a moment, she walked over and sat in the chair Tonks had abandoned, resting her hands in her lap. Her presence was gentle, familiar—but her eyes were watching him closely.
"You all right?" she asked quietly.
Remus sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, running a hand over his face. "I don't know," he admitted.
Lily gave a soft hum, not quite agreement but not disagreement either.
"She likes you," she said eventually.
Remus gave a short, bitter laugh. "She shouldn't."
Lily arched an eyebrow. "And why's that?"
He shook his head. "Because I'll only disappoint her. And it's not right; she's a minor."
She didn't argue. She didn't offer easy reassurances. She just looked at him with the same unflinching steadiness she always had.
"Maybe let her decide that for herself. She's probably almost seventeen."
He didn't reply. Couldn't, really.
The place where Tonks had stood still felt warm.
And empty.
The Room of Requirement shimmered like someone's over-the-top fantasy—something out of a dream you wouldn't dare admit aloud. A place stitched together with glitter and charm, all honey-warm lighting and a reckless sort of magic. Fairy lights drifted lazily above velvet pouffes, and tipsy students slouched in little piles. A gramophone in the corner sighed out an old jazz waltz—slow, sultry, curling through the air like cigarette smoke or secrets whispered too close to your ear.
The drinks table was doing its best to be obscene—charmed bottles refilling themselves, fizzing, sparkling, glowing in ways no responsible adult would ever approve of. And that was the point, wasn't it? This place was made to forget.
Tonks stepped in like she meant it. Swagger sharp, chin high, every step of her boots striking the floor with purpose. Her hair was cropped close, a riot of bubblegum pink, like she'd rolled out of bed and dared the world to question her choices. Her eyeliner glittered in the half-light. She looked like chaos in lipstick.
That's what they wanted, wasn't it? Wild Tonks. Loud, mad Tonks.
So she gave it to them.
Even if her stomach was twisting in knots.
Even if her head was back in the hospital wing.
With him.
Remus Lupin, looking so fragile it made her heart curl in on itself. The way his eyes had softened when he looked at her—so bloody gentle, like he didn't think he deserved anything kind. And then…
"Lily."
Just one word. One name. One ghost of a woman who still lived in his bones.
And Tonks had stood there like she was invisible. Like it didn't sting. Like it didn't leave her wondering if she'd ever be enough.
She clenched her jaw. Rolled her shoulders. Smiled wider than she felt.
This isn't heartbreak, she told herself. This is survival. This is pretending so hard you forget how much it hurts.
"Tonks! Finally!"
Penny's voice cut through the hum of conversation and floating music—bright, grinning, and far too sharp to be welcoming. She stood on a chair with a half-drunk Butterbeer in one hand and glitter on her cheek like war paint.
Tonks gave her a lazy salute, already halfway through the door. "Oi, don't start the carnage without me."
The room laughed—because, of course, it did. That was the part she played.
The chaos, the comic relief, and the girl who made you believe rules were for other people.
So, she acted the part. She always did.
Some Ravenclaw boy—Julian? Jasper? Something with a J—was loitering near the stairs, cradling a drink that glowed faintly blue and looked vaguely illegal.
Tonks clocked him and, loud enough to stir the nearby crowd, said with mock affection, "That's my boyfriend, apparently."
He didn't even blink. Just sipped the drink and adjusted his scarf.
"Brilliant," Tonks muttered. "I could turn my hair green and set myself on fire, and he'd still call me 'that pink-haired Hufflepuff.'"
Chiara, standing nearby, stifled a laugh behind her fingers. "He's the emotionally unavailable aesthetic."
"Ugh," Tonks groaned theatrically. "The worst kind of aesthetic. No plot development, just vibes."
That earned a few scattered chuckles. Penny clinked her bottle against someone else's in salute.
Then—
"Wow."
Tonks turned at the word, soft and shaped like surprise.
There she was—Badeea, standing at the edge of the party like she wasn't sure she was allowed to be three-dimensional in here. Her hands twisted the hem of her sleeve into knots. Her bag was still slung across her shoulder like she hadn't decided if she was staying or fleeing.
Tonks blinked. Had she invited her? No. Probably Penny or Chiara. The two of them liked to collect strays. Thought it was kind.
Badeea looked at Tonks like she'd just watched her walk out of a book she wasn't brave enough to read.
Tonks shoved her hands into her pockets. "You alright?"
Badeea hesitated, then nodded—but it was the kind of nod you did when 'yes' was easier than the truth.
"I'm fine," she said, then added, almost like she was trying the words on, "You're… good at this."
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "At what? Loud entrances?"
Badeea looked down. "No. At… being here. Talking. Acting like you belong."
A beat.
Then Tonks sighed. "Oh, love, no one actually belongs at these things. We just fake it better every time."
Chiara drifted closer, sensing the shift. "Speak for yourself. I thrive on social chaos."
Tonks laughed. "You survive on snacks and spite."
"Correct," Chiara said sweetly. "But that is thriving."
Penny reappeared, drink sloshing. "Want something to drink, Badeea? I know you're still a minor, but who cares, right?"
Tonks shot her a look. "Be nice. She's with me."
That surprised even her a little. But she didn't take it back. Badeea looked stunned—and maybe a bit hopeful.
Penny raised her hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Hufflepuff heart to the rescue."
Tonks turned back to Badeea and, softer now, said, "You don't have to say anything clever. Most people here are just repeating sarcasm from last week or making up fake backstories."
Badeea blinked. "Fake backstories?"
"Absolutely. Julian over there tells people he's descended from Merlin. That girl by the bookshelf says she's a quarter Veela. Total lies. Total fun."
Badeea gave a small, nervous smile. "What's your backstory, then?"
Tonks grinned. "Oh, I'm a cursed Inferi raised by pixies and sarcasm. But only on Thursdays."
That actually made Badeea laugh—a quiet, startled sound like it had slipped out before she could catch it.
Tonks tilted her head. "See? You've already passed the vibe check."
"I didn't know I was taking one."
"You always are." Tonks slung an arm around Chiara again, but her eyes stayed on Badeea.
Merlin.
She's too sweet for this place.
Too gentle, too earnest, too real.
Tonks could already feel it—how the room would eventually chew Badeea up and spit her out a bit more brittle than before. The sharp, jagged sort of brittle that smiled through it anyway.
She should've steered her away. Should've warned her.
Instead, she scanned the crowd. Near the drinks table, she clocked Rowan Khanna—animatedly chatting to himself and the punch bowl.
"Oi! Khanna!" she called.
Rowan looked up like he'd just been summoned by fate, then practically skipped over, eyes bright and limbs too long for his enthusiasm.
Tonks gestured vaguely between them. "This is… Badeea."
Rowan blinked, then lit up. "Oh! Badeea. Right. You're the one who—what was it—built that floating sculpture out of self-writing quills and copper wire?"
Badeea startled. "You… you know about that?"
"Know about it?" Rowan laughed. "I wrote to my cousin in Delhi about it! You're, like, quietly legendary in the Ravenclaw study rooms."
Badeea turned a shade of scarlet that should've been impossible. "I didn't think anyone—"
Rowan waved a hand. "Rubbish. You've got 'brilliant mind with secret powers' written all over you. Come on, I'll show you the only bookcase here that isn't cursed."
Tonks caught Badeea's eye as they started to walk off. She gave her a thumbs-up. Badeea, still pink, smiled—a small, flickering thing, but genuine.
That's good. That's safe. That's someone else's problem now.
Tonks turned away before she had to see her stumble into Rowan's orbit. He was harmless, in that way bookish boys were. Full of theories and metaphors and absolutely no clue how the world could gut you like a fish with a smile on its face.
She moved deeper into the room—past the music, past the too-loud laughter and the fairy lights that tried too hard to look effortless. Someone shoved a drink into her hand. She took it without looking.
The glass stayed full. Her grin stayed fixed.
She didn't want fun tonight.
She wanted oblivion.
She wanted noise loud enough to drown out the voice in her head that whispered, You'll never be her.
Not Lily. Not anyone worth remembering.
That voice knew exactly where to cut—clean and brutal.
You're the storm. The mess. The cautionary tale. And even your chaos is starting to wear thin.
She stared into the crowd and saw nothing she wanted. Not really. Just bodies orbiting one another, fuelled by nerves and fizz and that desperate hope that someone, anyone, might look back at them and see.
For a heartbeat—for the barest flicker—she thought of Badeea again. The way she'd looked at her. Like she was something enchanted. Like she mattered.
And for that single, impossible moment, Tonks had almost believed it.
Almost.
But not tonight.
Not yet.
She knocked back the drink and felt the burn. Not strong enough.
A laugh burst out nearby—sharp and golden and so familiar it made her want to smash something. Or kiss someone. Or disappear.
Instead, she stood there.
Surrounded.
Smiling.
And still, somehow, so achingly alone.
Much later.
The party had melted away, leaving behind velvet shadows and the ghost of laughter. The kind of laughter that clung to the air like perfume—soft, fading, not quite real anymore. The fire had long since burnt out, but something in the atmosphere still glowed, like embers too stubborn to die.
The Room of Requirement had shifted again. It always did when no one was watching. When someone needed. It had read something in her—some ache she hadn't spoken aloud—and responded like a loyal but slightly unhinged friend.
The chaos had gone. In its place: quiet.
Pillows piled like clouds. The lights had dimmed to a low violet glow, casting soft halos across the floor. Lavender hung in the air, sweet and calming and maybe a little bit sad. The gramophone had stopped singing. Even the magic had gone still, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Tonks sat cross-legged on a cushion floating an inch above the ground, cradling a drink that fizzed green and sweet on her tongue. She wasn't drunk.
She wished she were.
Because even now, in the hush, she could still hear it.
Lily.
That name didn't belong to her. Never had.
Her name was Nymphadora. Tonks, if she got the choice. But never Lily.
Movement.
Tonks didn't look round. She just lifted her chin slightly, eyes still half-shut against the dim glow of morning-after candlelight, and said, "You're up. Morning."
A rustle. A faint groan.
Badeea blinked awake, tangled in a haphazard nest of cushions and a robe that wasn't hers. She looked like she'd been carefully misplaced by the universe and only just realised it.
"Why am I…?" She murmured, eyes squinting, voice soft and hoarse.
"You had three Firewhiskies, darling," Tonks said, tone light as a breeze drifting through a cracked window. "Went down like a legend. I floated you over before you knocked out a molar on the coffee table. Might've let your head tap a beam or two on the way. Whoops."
Badeea groaned again, rubbing at her temples. "I did that?"
Tonks finally turned to look.
Merlin.
What a mess.
Hair wild and sticking up like a static-charged hedgehog, lipstick smudged into a faint echo of colour beneath one cheekbone. She looked like someone had tried to paint her and then given up halfway through. But there was something heartbreakingly gentle in the wreckage. Something fragile, like a rain-soaked postcard from another life.
"You looked like a rag doll trying to swim through curtains," Tonks added, grinning now. "Honestly? I was impressed. You got tangled in your own scarf like it was attacking you."
"I… oh no." Badeea covered her face with both hands, utterly mortified. "Was I—did I say anything awful?"
"You mostly kept asking if Rowan's nose was real or a spell," Tonks said, casually flicking her wand to summon a glass of water. "And then you cried about how lovely clouds are. You're safe."
Badeea peeked between her fingers. "I cried?"
"Only a little. Something about 'the ephemeral beauty of condensation'. Very poetic."
"I have to leave."
"You can't even stand up, sweetheart." Tonks passed her the water, voice warm despite herself. "Here, drink this. Then let me fix your face."
Badeea accepted the glass with shaking fingers. "My face?"
"You've got mascara doing a tragic one-woman show under your eyes. Very moody. Very 19th-century governess haunted by past sins. Cute, but dramatic."
With a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation, Tonks cleaned up the smudges and straightened Badeea's fringe, coaxing it back into some semblance of order.
Badeea flushed, pink blooming across her cheeks like sunrise on parchment. Her eyes flicked around the room, only just beginning to register where she actually was.
The drapes were wine-red and velvet-soft, the flickering candles floated lazily in the air like they couldn't be arsed to fall, and the picture frames on the walls morphed seamlessly between different versions of Tonks—pulling faces, sticking out her tongue, and one where she had blue hair and winked every seven seconds.
"This is your house?" Badeea asked, voice hushed like she was in a museum.
Tonks shook her head, leaning back on her elbows. "Still the Room. I just bent it a bit. Made it look like my dad's old flat in London." She let her eyes wander across the space. "Or how I remember it, anyway."
"Really?"
There was something reverent in the way Badeea said it. Like she wasn't just seeing a room—she was seeing a map of someone's heart.
"It's beautiful," she added after a pause, almost like she didn't trust herself to speak.
Tonks shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. "It's memory-heavy. But yeah. He was… connected."
Connected. That was the word she used when everything else was too tangled.
Complicated. Chaotic. Gone. But connected sounded tidy. Easier to say.
Badeea looked at the walls again. "That one," she pointed to a moving photo, "with your hair bright green—what were you doing?"
Tonks peered. "Oh, that? Trying to cook an omelette and accidentally setting the cooker on fire. Took out the entire kitchen wall. He laughed for ten solid minutes, the nutter."
"You look happy in it," Badeea murmured.
Tonks didn't answer right away. She just watched the photo repeat the moment. Laughter caught mid-motion. A second suspended in magic.
"I was," she said finally. "That's the worst part."
Silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but dense. Like the air was full of things that hadn't yet been said.
"You don't… talk about him much, do you?" Badeea asked quietly.
Tonks shook her head. "Not unless I've had at least four Firewhiskies and someone starts playing old Muggle records. Then I get sentimental and terrible."
"I'd like to hear about him," Badeea said. "Even without the records."
Tonks looked over. Badeea's face was still flushed, eyes still tired, but there was something steady in them now.
And that—
That made something shift.
"Maybe," Tonks said. "One day."
There was a pause. Badeea caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and froze.
"Is that… me?"
Tonks set down her drink. "You're gorgeous," she said before she could stop herself. Her voice came out more honest than she meant it to. "Thought you might want to wake up looking… well, brilliant."
She tried to laugh it off. Like it wasn't a need, a longing, this quiet craving for connection. For closeness.
For someone to look at her like she was more than just a distraction.
"Smokin' hot," came Penny's voice as she strolled in, all hips and confidence. Chiara trailed after her, quiet and moon-pale.
"I'd want to look sexier for our next job," Penny added with a wink, stretching like a cat across the arm of the settee, her boots somehow still pristine despite the night they'd had.
"Job?" Badeea repeated, blinking slowly. She still looked half-lost, like someone waking up in the wrong fairytale.
"We freelance," Penny said breezily, flopping onto a nearby beanbag like she had invented gravity and decided she was exempt from it.
Badeea tilted her head, frowning slightly. "Like… helping Madam Pince catalogue the library?"
Tonks snorted, one eyebrow arching in silent amusement. "Not quite."
"Oh," Badeea said again, clearly unsure whether this was still a joke. "Then what do you do?"
Penny smiled—sharp-edged, all teeth and charm that had seen too much. "We date sugar daddies."
The silence was immediate. Whole. Heavy.
"What?" Badeea breathed, voice barely more than air.
Tonks leaned back, arms behind her head, eyes on the cracked ceiling tiles above. "It's just sex," she said, matter-of-factly. "Paid. Stupid money, too. A couple of hundred Galleons for one night. Sometimes more, if they're lonely or trying to prove something."
She said it like it was the weather. Like it had stopped stinging ages ago.
Badeea looked around the room, really looked this time. The golden thread woven into the cushions. The crystal perfume bottles lined up like glittering trophies. The robes stitched with seams that shimmered if you stared long enough. Luxury conjured by desperation and charm.
"But…" she tried, faltering.
Tonks spread her arms, a gesture that was half defiant, half exhausted. "This place? Got it through a sponsor. 'Daddy', if you want the proper term." Her voice curled with dry irony.
"Daddy," Badeea repeated softly, like it was a foreign word she was trying to translate into something familiar. Something safe.
Chiara stepped forward, the quietest presence in the room, her voice the gentlest spell. "We like you, Badeea. You could stay, if you want."
Tonks was watching her closely now. That flicker in Badeea's expression—hesitation, shame, longing—she knew that look too well. She'd worn it once. Somewhere in someone else's bedroom, surrounded by silk and promises. She knew what it meant to want something you didn't understand, just because it looked like belonging.
"You don't want this, do you?" Tonks asked. Not accusing. Just… wondering. Hoping, even.
"I do!" Badeea said quickly. Too quickly. Her voice pitched high. "I do. But…"
"But what?" Penny said, already bored, already reaching for a bottle of something sparkling. "She's not like us."
Tonks stood, suddenly drained. "Go, Badeea," she said gently. "I shouldn't've brought you into this. I get carried away. Try to fit people into places they're not meant for."
She hesitated, something catching in her throat.
Then, quieter: "You stay soft, yeah? Stay whole. We've already cracked. That's our thing now."
Chiara gave a small nod, arms crossed loosely over her chest. "It was short," she murmured. "But we liked you."
Tonks turned, ready to disappear into the next room or maybe the next life—
"Wait!"
Tonks stopped. Badeea had sat up too fast, swaying slightly, her eyes wide and bright and steady now.
"Let me join you," she said. "I want to."
Penny arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. "What?"
"I want to be part of this. I want to be with you."
Tonks blinked. "You don't have to," she said carefully, the words almost trembling. "No one's asking you to prove anything."
"It's not for everyone," Penny added, with the same tone she used for statements like Wool socks are itchy or Don't trust centaurs with budgeting.
"No. I'll be fine," Badeea said. And this time, her voice didn't shake. "I like being with you."
Tonks stared at her. Something in her chest twisted—not painful, exactly. Just… unexpected. Like a door creaking open in a room she thought she'd locked years ago.
She gave a small, crooked smile. A little sad. A little hopeful.
"Oh, Badeea," she said. "Thanks."
Badeea scooted forward, hugging her knees, as if afraid that if she moved too far she might shatter whatever fragile thing she'd just built.
"So," she asked, hesitant but ready. "What do I do first?"
Penny groaned. "Merlin, help me; we're going to have to explain the entire vetting process again, aren't we?"
Tonks laughed—quiet, warm, almost real. "First," she said, "you get breakfast. Then we start corrupting you."
Badeea smiled. It didn't look scared this time.