Sunlight filtered through the Hufflepuff windows, too gentle for the storm still turning in her chest.
Tonks lay flat on her bed, one leg hanging off the side, staring up at the ceiling as if it might explain what she had done or what she now felt.
Her heart still had not steadied. Not since last night. Not since him.
The firelight across his walls. The way his eyes crinkled when she pushed him too far. That reluctant, lovely smile, dragged from somewhere deep inside him, somewhere lonely.
And then: you are young and clever and far too perceptive for your own good.
She had felt the rest of it humming in the silence he left behind.
Tonks pressed a hand to her chest and let out a breathless, horrified laugh.
"Bloody hell," she muttered. "I am in love with my professor."
The dorm was quiet, with only the sound of the wind against the windowpanes. Still, she glanced around, half-hoping no one had heard her whisper.
She said it like a punchline, but it did not land like one. It was not funny. It was not even a crush. It was big, as though she had accidentally opened a door into something vast and terrifying, and worse, stepped through.
She needed to talk. Properly. Not just idle gossip or the usual late-night dramatising. There were only two people who had ever really understood her, even when they had not known exactly what they were seeing.
Still in her oversized Weird Sisters T-shirt, she padded barefoot down the dormitory stairs, hair sticking up slightly at the crown where she had dozed. The common room was warm, cluttered and familiar, smelling faintly of old wood, toast crumbs and ink. Books rustled. A few second-years huddled over exploding snap cards. Someone's cat was curled in a sunbeam.
Near the fireplace, Chiara and Penny were tucked into one armchair as they always were, legs tangled, whispering with the kind of intensity that usually ended in someone getting a telling-off or a hickey.
"So I said, 'If you are not going to unbutton it, I will.'" Chiara's voice was low and wicked.
Penny let out a shriek. "No, you did not!"
"Oh, I did. We barely made it out of the Astronomy Tower corridor. Worth it. I think he might have cried when I left."
Tonks stood behind them, watching the scene unfold, her heart tugging in a dozen directions at once. This used to be her magic. This kind of thing, the thrill of it, the confidence, the stories they swapped like badges. They had planned nights like campaigns, and she had always been the general: bold, unbothered and brilliant.
But something had shifted. Cracked open. It was not that she had grown dull; it was that what had thrilled her once now felt small compared with what she had found in him.
She drew in a breath, forcing her thoughts back to the room. She cleared her throat. "Oi."
Both girls turned at once, faces lighting up.
"There she is!" Penny said, grinning. "We were just deciding what to wear for Hogsmeade next weekend. I am thinking something sheer enough to scandalise a ghost."
"And you are coming, right?" Chiara added, nudging a cushion aside. "It is not the same without you leading the charge."
Tonks smiled, but it did not quite reach. The pull was there, habitual and warm, but her heart was somewhere else now. Some firelit room with curtains that smelt faintly of cedar.
She sat down on the ottoman across from them, hands knotting in her lap.
"Actually, I wanted to tell you something. Bit serious."
The air shifted. Penny's smile faded a touch; Chiara sat up straighter.
Tonks swallowed, then said it before she lost the nerve. "I do not think I want to keep doing this any more."
A pause.
"Doing what?" Penny asked gently.
"This." Tonks gestured vaguely. "The sneaking about. The snogging for the sake of it. The way we use people. I know I was the worst for it, leading half the charge, probably. Thought it made me feel powerful." She looked down at her hands. "But it did not. Not properly. Not in the way I wanted."
It was not all meaningless, she told herself. Just aimless. Back then, it had been about fun, not about feeling.
Chiara opened her mouth to say something, but Tonks spoke again before she could.
"Last night, I had dinner with Professor Lupin."
Penny blinked. "Wait, what?"
"Just dinner," Tonks said quickly, holding up her hands as if she could physically ward off their assumptions. "Nothing happened. Nothing inappropriate, I mean. But…" She hesitated, eyes flicking to the firelight dancing across the hearthrug. "It made me see things differently. The way he talked to me; it was not like I had to try. I did not need to flirt or push or pretend I was older or cleverer than I am. I just existed. And he saw me. All of me."
Chiara tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious, just thoughtful. "So what are you saying?"
Tonks exhaled, long and quiet. "I am saying I am in love with him." She winced as she said it. It sounded reckless even to her own ears, but the feeling was there, stubborn and certain.
"I think I have been, quietly, for a while now. And after last night, after feeling what it is like to be truly respected, to have someone listen, I cannot go back to what we were doing before. I do not want to keep giving little bits of myself away just to feel like I matter."
Silence settled over the room. Behind Chiara's shoulder, the fire gave a low pop, and a tiny ember soared briefly before fading.
Tonks shifted forward on the ottoman, her voice gentler now. "I know how this might sound. And I swear, I am not judging either of you. You are brilliant. Fierce. You can do whatever you want with your lives and your bodies. Honestly, I admired that about us. But for me, it has changed. I want to focus. I want to become someone he would be proud of. And if there is ever a real chance with him…" Her voice caught. She smiled faintly. "I want it to be because I chose something better. Something that actually feels like me."
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Penny reached out without hesitation and took Tonks' hand in both of hers. "You do not sound judgemental," she said quietly. "You sound like you are growing up."
Tonks let out a short laugh, a wobble of emotion catching her off guard. "Merlin, do not say that. Makes me feel like I should be knitting jumpers and collecting cats."
Chiara cracked a smile, relaxing into the armchair again. "Well, I am not going to lie, I will miss your stories. But if you are serious about him, really serious, I get it. And honestly," she shrugged, "he would be lucky. And you will probably terrify him half to death before he realises it."
The knot in Tonks' chest loosened. Not completely, but enough. It was strange how good it felt to say it out loud. Enough to make her feel like she had not lost them after all.
She leaned back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her. "So, no sheer robes for me next Hogsmeade weekend. Might actually stay back and study."
Penny gasped. "You? Turning down a trip and a shopping spree? Lupin is already working miracles."
"We will have to tell Badeea," said Chiara, swinging her legs over the side of the chair with casual flair. "Before she hears it from someone else and faints dead away."
Tonks gave a dry laugh, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. "Badeea will not be a problem."
"Oh, she will be relieved," Penny grinned. "She has always looked one cracked gobstone away from a nervous breakdown every time we brought up snogging strategies. Swear, she used to go redder than the Gryffindor banner."
Tonks snorted. "She really did. Like a tomato in a wig."
They giggled, tension softening just enough for a moment of lightness to slip in. But it did not last.
The moment Badeea left her thoughts, another name took her place. They had been close once. Closer than Tonks liked to admit.
Ismelda Murk.
The thought of her brought a cold, sick flutter to Tonks' stomach, like someone had tipped a bag of beetles into her gut.
"I am not worried about Badeea," she said quietly. "It is Ismelda."
Both girls fell silent at once. Penny winced.
"Oh," she said, subdued. "Yes. She is going to have thoughts."
"Understatement of the century," Tonks muttered. Her tone was light, but her heart had already started its old anxious flutter. That particular flicker of dread she only ever got when something real felt genuinely dangerous.
Chiara crossed her arms. "She is not exactly famous for being open-minded."
"She is not known for much besides hexing anyone who breathes too loudly," Penny said, though there was little humour behind it.
Tonks nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. Ismelda was not the sort of person who took well to being crossed. She was loyal, fiercely so, but brittle with it. The kind of girl who dug her heels in when the ground shifted and dragged you down with her if you dared move on without her.
"She is going to think I am abandoning her," Tonks said quietly. "Or judging her. Or worse, turning into some boring, lovesick schoolgirl who is throwing everything away for a bloke."
Chiara gave a pointed look. "Even if it looks that way from the outside," she said with a smirk, "you are just finally picking something worth caring about."
Tonks groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "I just do not want her to think I am trying to be better than her. We started all this together. She was the first person who ever made me feel brave."
"You are not," said Penny firmly, leaning forward. "You are just trying to be better for yourself. Big difference."
"She will see it as betrayal," Tonks murmured, fingers tangled in her hair. "I know she will. She will not understand why this matters to me. Why he matters."
There was a pause.
Then Chiara nudged her foot, gently but deliberately. "So tell her. Maybe she will shout, maybe she will sulk, maybe she will hex something."
"Or someone," Penny muttered under her breath.
"But that is her decision," Chiara finished. "You owe it to yourself to be honest. You cannot live your life on someone else's terms just because they were there at the beginning."
Tonks nodded slowly, her throat tight. They were right, of course. She knew they were. But that did not make the knot in her stomach any looser or the ache behind her ribs any softer. Facing Ismelda felt like throwing herself at a wall and hoping it blinked first.
Still, if she meant to be serious about this, about Remus, about growing up, about stepping into the person she wanted to become, then she had to face this too. Even the fallout.
She straightened, brushing her fringe back from her eyes, and gave her friends a crooked smile. "Alright. I will talk to her tonight."
Penny gave her a solemn nod, then raised her hand in a mock salute. "If we never see you again, we will tell the Aurors where to start."
Tonks gave a weak laugh. "That is oddly comforting. Thanks."
As the conversation drifted back into lighter things, talk of robes and Butterbeer and whether Charlie Weasley had actually waxed his eyebrows or just lost a bet, Tonks sat a little apart, quiet in her thoughts.
She was not afraid of Ismelda, not really. Not her wand, or her temper, or the way her voice could cut sharper than a broken quill.
What frightened her was what she might become if she did not face this. If she kept shrinking herself to fit the person Ismelda still expected her to be.
Because deep down, under all the jokes and bravado, she knew the truth.
She had changed.
And no matter what happened next, she was not going back.
The corridor outside the Room of Requirement was unusually still. Not even the faintest whisper of wind stirred through the stones. It was the sort of silence that made Tonks's thoughts sound louder.
She stood before the blank stretch of wall, spine straight, hands cold. She had sent word earlier that she needed to talk, properly, for once.
She had first found the Room by accident last year, when it had become their hiding place after curfew.
A door appeared.
Her fingers hovered near the handle, and for a moment she faltered. She could walk away. Pretend she had fallen asleep or forgotten. It would be easier. Quieter.
But not fair.
She pushed the door open.
The room had shifted into something familiar: low lighting, squashy chairs, and a small hearth glowing in the corner. The sort of place that made you feel safe, even when you knew you shouldn't.
Ismelda sat on the windowsill, legs tucked up, the amber light catching the edge of her jaw. She looked up at the sound of the door, something uncertain flickering in her eyes before she masked it with a smirk that did not quite reach her mouth.
"You are late," she said lightly. "I thought you might have bottled it."
"Nearly did," Tonks admitted, forcing a small smile. "Sorry."
Ismelda slid down from the sill and crossed the room in three quick steps. "So, what is this urgent thing you had to tell me? You are not expelled, are you? Please tell me it is something scandalous."
Tonks sat down slowly, clasping her hands to stop them shaking. Her throat felt dry.
"No, not expelled," she said. "Nothing like that."
Ismelda flopped into the seat beside her, knees turned in, eyes watchful. "You are acting strange. Just spit it out, Tonks."
Tonks inhaled, her chest tight.
"I have fallen for someone."
There was a pause. Stillness stretched between them like a held breath.
Ismelda's expression did not shift, but her fingers curled inward. "What do you mean, fallen?"
"I mean… I think I am in love."
The words hung in the air.
Ismelda blinked. Her jaw worked, like she was chewing down a reaction. "So… who is he?" she asked carefully. "One of the boys from the match last week?"
Tonks hesitated. "Not exactly a boy."
Ismelda stared at her. Then her voice dropped. "It is not him, is it? The professor?"
Tonks glanced down. "Yes," she said softly. "It is."
Something sharp flickered across Ismelda's face. A mix of disbelief and hurt, maybe even betrayal.
"You are serious," she said, her voice thin. "I knew you liked men who were a bit older, but… Tonks, he is your teacher."
"I know," Tonks whispered. "Believe me, I know it is messy."
Ismelda's eyes glistened before she turned away. "So that is it, then?" she said sharply. "You came here to tell me I am being replaced?"
Tonks stood too, her heart hammering. "Ismelda, we were not—"
"Don't," she cut in, her voice brittle. "Don't give me the 'we were not really a thing' speech. We were a thing. You brought me here. We talked for hours. You looked at me like I—like I was seen for once."
Tonks felt the words slice cleanly through her guilt. "You were," she said, eyes stinging. "You are. You matter to me, Ismelda. Just not… not in the way you want."
Ismelda laughed, but it was hollow. "Because of him?"
Tonks looked away.
"Merlin's beard," Ismelda muttered, pacing now. "You are throwing it all away. For what? Some melancholy professor buried under dusty books who flinches when you laugh too loud?"
Tonks flinched, her voice barely above a whisper. "I did not plan it. I did not want it to happen. But it did. And with him, I feel grounded, like I can stop performing. He makes me feel like I do not have to be anyone else. Like I could finally be more than what I have been."
Ismelda's voice trembled when she finally spoke. "And what am I, then? A phase? Some ridiculous detour?"
"No," Tonks said quickly, the words rough with emotion. "You are someone who helped me survive this place. Who understood me when no one else even tried. But I cannot pretend anymore. I will not lie to you. Or to myself."
Ismelda turned away, wiping her sleeve roughly across her cheek.
"And what now?" she muttered. "You turn into a perfect little Hufflepuff and write love poems in the margins of your Herbology notes?"
Tonks smiled sadly. "No poems. Just trying to be honest. About who I am. About what I want."
Ismelda did not answer. She stood stiffly by the fireplace, her back to Tonks, arms still folded like armour.
"I still want to be your friend," Tonks said quietly.
Her voice was quiet but cut through the air like glass. "You do not get to want things anymore."
Tonks did not argue.
Moisture glazed Ismelda's eyes, and she blinked hard, refusing to let it fall. "You are just like everyone else who got bored of me," she said thickly. "I thought, when you looked at me, I thought you actually saw me. Not the angry girl with too many sharp edges. Not the one everyone avoids in corridors."
Tonks' stomach twisted. She wanted to reach for her, to undo it somehow, but the words had already landed.
Her voice cracked as she said, "You made me feel like I was not broken. And now you want me to just go back to that? Like none of this ever mattered?"
Tonks's throat tightened. Her heart felt as though it had splintered. "I am not asking you to go back to anything," she said gently. "I want you to move forward too. To find someone who sees you properly and wants you the way you deserve to be wanted."
"But it is not you."
Tonks hesitated, then nodded. "It is not."
The silence that followed was heavy. More than that. It pressed against her ribs, thick and suffocating.
Ismelda wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, furious at herself. Her hands trembled at her sides. "I hate you," she whispered. "Right now, I do. But I also do not. And I wish I did."
"I know," Tonks said softly. Her voice trembled despite herself.
Ismelda stared at her for a long moment, something raw and unbearably human in her expression. Then she turned and walked to the door.
She did not slam it. She did not shout.
But the quiet click as it closed behind her might as well have echoed through the walls.
For a heartbeat, Tonks half-expected the door to fly open again, expected shouting, hexes, anything. But there was only silence.
She stood there for a moment, frozen, before her knees gave way and she sank into the worn old armchair. Her hands covered her face, not to hide but to hold herself still.
The grief was messy. Not neat, not clean. Not even just grief.
It was not just heartbreak over her but over the part of herself that had belonged to them. It was anger and guilt and mourning and some strange thread of love, all knotted together, too tightly to pick apart.
She sat long after the fire had begun to fade, the orange glow shrinking into faint embers. The weight of it all pressed into her limbs. Final, yes. But necessary.
It had been the right choice.
But, Merlin, it hurt.
The days started slipping by more quickly than Tonks could count them. One blink and it was November. Another, and she was chasing parchment scraps down a snowy corridor in December, her scarf trailing behind her in the draughty corridor like a kite tail. Autumn bled quietly into the first snow of term; the castle was dressed for Christmas before she had even noticed.
She no longer watched the calendar the way she once did, counting down to the next Hogsmeade trip or plotting some midnight detour for the thrill of it. She was not looking for an escape anymore.
No. These days, she was working.
Properly working this time. Not scribbling half-hearted answers five minutes before class with ink on her fingers and a biscuit in her mouth, but revising properly. She had colour-coded flashcards and a timetable stuck to the dormitory wall with enchanted stickers shaped like cauldrons. She had even bought a ridiculous highlighter set from Zonko's, of all places, because it made her laugh. Somewhere amid the chaos she had become the sort of person people asked for help before an exam.
And honestly, she was both rather proud and mildly horrified by it.
She could not pin down exactly when the change had happened. Perhaps it started in Professor Lupin's office, the first time she had caught herself hanging on to his every word, not from fancying him but from wanting to be better. Or perhaps it had begun after that night in the Room of Requirement, when she had made a choice that hurt like hell but felt like the first real step forward in ages.
Whatever it was, something had shifted.
She no longer wanted to live on the edges of things. No more sneaking about in shadows or using wild nights to fill the empty bits. No more pretending her choices did not stick to her skin the morning after.
Because now, she wanted something.
She wanted purpose. She wanted clarity. She wanted to earn every inch of the future she had only just begun to imagine in the quiet, private corners of her mind. A future where she was strong, grounded, and steady. Maybe even walking beside someone who reminded her of those things simply by being there.
Someone like Professor Lupin.
Even the thought of him made her stomach flutter in that annoying, traitorous way it always did when she was trying to concentrate. Leaves in a gust of wind—that was what it felt like. Restless, but never unpleasant.
She still had those lessons with him, tucked away in his office that always smelt faintly of old books and the faint spice of tea. Not every week, but often enough that she had to stop herself rehearsing what to say beforehand like a third-year with a crush. Which, embarrassingly, she supposed she was.
But it did not feel silly anymore.
Because he did not treat her like a daft girl playing grown-up. He listened to her ideas, challenged her when she cut corners, and noticed when she improved. Those quiet nods of approval, rare but real, meant more than any mark scrawled in red ink ever could.
So she worked harder.
She started getting up early, voluntarily, just to revise before breakfast. She skipped the louder gossip circles and late-night prank wars, preferring the steady scratch of her quill and the satisfying click of things falling into place. Her wand work sharpened. Her essays became tighter and cleaner. Even Professor Snape gave her a reluctant nod one day in Potions, which very nearly made her drop her cauldron.
And the strangest thing? She was not miserable.
She liked this version of herself—the one who gave a damn, who did not roll her eyes at effort, who wanted something real even if it took longer, even if it was harder.
She did not go on about it, of course; Merlin forbid she start monologuing about growth. But her friends noticed anyway. Chiara lingered longer in the library now. Penny swapped her enchanted mirror for a dusty Transfiguration textbook one lazy afternoon and did not even complain. Badeea finally stopped pretending she was not a genius and started showing it. It was as if they had all quietly decided to raise the bar—not to be perfect, only to be better.
It was not about school anymore. It was about them.
Tonks still had a laugh, of course. There were midnight snack raids and whispered conversations about love and bodies and how impossible it was to be seventeen and feel everything so much. But the tone had changed. Their friendship had deepened. She no longer led them into trouble for the sake of excitement. She was helping them find footholds instead.
And in the hush of her dormitory, with the curtains drawn and her hair its natural soft brown, the colour it always slipped back to when she was too tired to change it, she let herself dream.
About him.
About sitting beside him not as a pupil but as an equal. As someone he might respect not only for her spark or stubbornness but for her quiet effort, her choices.
She knew it was not the time yet. The world was watching. He had rules, ghosts, and walls around his heart higher than the Astronomy Tower itself. But she did not need it all now.
She just needed to become the sort of woman who could hold that kind of love—and keep it.
Because what she felt was not a crush anymore. It was not a passing fancy or a schoolgirl obsession.
It was something slower. Truer. A fire that warmed rather than burnt.
It was love.
And for the first time in her life, she did not feel lost in it.
She felt ready.
Ready for whatever came next, even if it was only patience.
The moment she stepped into his office, Tonks could tell he had noticed the change in her.
He did not gasp, drop his quill, or exclaim, "Merlin's beard, Ms Tonks, is that a colour-coded revision binder?" But his eyes, soft and tired as always, lingered on her face a fraction longer than usual. Just long enough to turn her stomach into something that resembled a tightly tangled Celtic knot.
She had not done anything extraordinary that day. Her hair had settled into a sensible auburn and was plaited neatly down her back. Her robes, for once, were properly pressed. No dramatic entrance. No tripping over chair legs or sliding sideways on the strap of her satchel. Just her, quiet and focused, still quietly pleased after finishing three essays before dinner.
Dumbledore still allowed her to visit for revision work, though she doubted Professor Lupin realised how much that meant to her.
And yet, he looked at her as though something had changed.
"Good evening, Ms Tonks," he said, his voice even and gentle. Not quite surprised. More curious.
"Hi, Professor," she replied, placing her notes on the table with uncharacteristic care. She sat straighter these days and fidgeted less. Merlin help her, but she might actually be growing up.
He watched her for a moment longer, and she forced herself not to fidget. Then he turned his attention to the parchment spread across his desk. "You're early."
"I figured I'd rather wait here than listen to Chiara unpack her romantic disaster involving two Ravenclaws and a suspiciously symbolic broken quill."
He gave a short, warm laugh, that quiet, low sound that always made something flutter beneath her ribs. "Sounds treacherous."
"Positively fatal," she said, smirking.
He sorted through a stack of scrolls as she watched discreetly, or so she hoped. There was something reassuring in the way he moved: careful, efficient, never wasting motion. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, as usual, forearms smudged with ink and marked by old scars. She used to find those details distracting. Now they made her feel steadier.
"Let's start with your essay," he said, holding out a hand. "The one on Muggle witch-hunts during the seventeenth century."
She handed it over, nerves prickling even though she knew it was good. She had rewritten it twice and double-checked every source. Her quill callus still ached from it. Badeea had even gone over it with a red quill and the patience of a saint.
He read in silence, brow furrowed not with confusion but with concentration. His lips pressed together. He was reading it properly, seriously, and that made her more nervous than if he had just skimmed.
He took a slow breath, eyes tracing the final line. Then he set it down.
"This is excellent work."
The words landed softly, as if he had cast a charm she did not quite understand.
"Oh," she said, trying not to grin like an overexcited Hufflepuff. "Thanks."
"I mean it," he added, leaning back slightly. His gaze was direct, and there was something new in it. "Your writing voice is stronger here. More deliberate. You are thinking critically, not just retelling history but analysing it."
A slow, warm flush crept up her neck. She nodded carefully. "I've been… trying."
"I can tell."
The pause that followed was not awkward. It was not empty either. It hummed softly.
"You've grown," he said at last, tone measured. "It suits you."
The words dropped like a stone into her chest, heavy, quiet, and impossible to ignore. She glanced down at her hands, fingers knotted in her lap, then looked back up.
"I'm still me," she said quietly. "Just me with better revision habits."
He chuckled, low and genuine. "Yes. But it's more than that, isn't it?"
She hesitated, then gave a half-shrug. "Maybe I wanted to prove I wasn't just the loud one. Or the clumsy one. Or the girl with pink hair and too many jokes. Maybe I wanted to see what I'd be like if I actually gave it a proper go."
He looked at her for a long moment, and this time it was unmistakable. His expression shifted, softened into something she could not quite name. Pride, perhaps. Understanding. Something else, quieter and more complicated.
"You've always had it in you, Ms Tonks," he said. "But I'm glad you chose to show it."
Her pulse fluttered unsteadily in her throat. It was not flattery. It felt like truth. And somehow, that was more dangerous.
She dropped her gaze again, fiddling with her inkpot. "Well. Just wait till you see my revision notes for the Goblin Rebellions. Colour codes, footnotes, and a complete ban on social activity."
He laughed properly this time, the sound wrapping round her. "I look forward to it. You'll put the rest of the class to shame."
"Good," she said, grinning. "They deserve it."
The rest of the hour passed in a blur of parchment and spell theory, annotated diagrams and the occasional bit of banter. But under all of it, Tonks felt something had shifted. Something quiet and steady and almost imperceptible, but real.
Because when he looked at her now, he no longer looked as if she were just another student. It was as if he saw her becoming herself.
And for the first time, she wondered what might happen when he realised it too.