Even a week later, Tonks found her thoughts wandering when she ought to have been paying attention. During Transfiguration, she nearly transfigured her inkwell into a teacup, only noticing when the liquid sloshed dangerously toward the edge of the desk. In Charms, she cast a Feather-Light Spell on her own shoe without realising, which sent her stumbling halfway across the classroom before she could regain her balance, much to Professor Flitwick's mild chagrin. And in the Hufflepuff common room, she had stared at the same sentence in her Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook for nearly fifteen minutes, reading the words over and over without absorbing a single one.
It wasn't fatigue. She wasn't ill. And although the looming spectre of NEWTs made her stomach twist with anticipatory dread, that wasn't the reason either.
No—there was only one explanation.
Remus Lupin.
Remus.
Her chest warmed at the thought, and she caught herself smiling absurdly at the memory of him, as though anyone passing in the corridor would see her and think she'd completely lost her wits. She still wasn't used to thinking of him that way—not just as the quietly clever, impossibly patient History of Magic teacher with tired eyes that seemed to weigh every word he spoke—but as Remus. As someone who lingered in her thoughts far longer than any other person should be allowed.
She remembered, vividly, the afternoon he had spoken to her after class. Their conversation had begun about the history assignment, but somehow, it had drifted into stories of his youth, of quiet moments at Hogwarts that had never made it into any history textbook. He had lingered in the corridor longer than necessary, leaning slightly against the stone wall, and, for reasons Tonks still couldn't quite fathom, he had said, "I… very much enjoyed our last conversation in the library, Tonks."
His voice had been soft, low, and tinged with that careful hesitation he always carried, the one that made every word seem weighted with sincerity. And then—impossibly—he had asked her to go for a walk with him later that evening. Not a passing stroll through the castle corridors or a hurried conversation in the library. A proper walk. With just the two of them.
Tonks had grinned until her cheeks ached. She had walked away feeling as if the world itself had tilted just a little in her favour, though she knew she was grinning so hard she probably looked like a fool.
Now, a week on, the thought of him crept into her mind in the oddest of places. In the middle of a potion formula. During the repetitive scribbles of Charms notes. Even as she tried, hopelessly, to concentrate on NEWT revision. She caught herself imagining his voice, low and precise, discussing some insignificant fact about warlocks or history dates, and a shiver of warmth chased her along her spine.
She shook her head, chiding herself silently. She was supposed to be a seventh-year. Supposed to be busy, clever, capable. Not flustered and hopelessly distracted by a man who, frankly, had his own complicated life to contend with. And yet, the feeling refused to fade.
It wasn't just admiration. It wasn't just the faint thrill of attention from someone like him. It was something more. Something that made her fingers itch to write notes she would never send and her heart lurch whenever his shadow passed across a doorway. Something that had her catching herself humming softly to herself, smiling at nothing, and wondering whether he was thinking of her at the same moment.
Tonks pressed her palms against her desk, forcing herself to focus on the ink, the quill, and the lines of her essay. But even as she wrote, a corner of her mind clung stubbornly to the memory of that evening walk he had proposed. The one she had agreed to with a grin so wide it had hurt.
A walk that promised more than just air and conversation. A walk that promised possibilities she hadn't allowed herself to hope for.
And just thinking about it—about Remus—her chest warmed again, and for a fleeting second, Tonks allowed herself to imagine the way his hand might brush against hers, or how his quiet laugh might sound in the moonlight, or the gentle weight of his presence beside her, steady and grounding and entirely, maddeningly, him.
It was Saturday evening, and the castle grounds had settled into a quiet hush, broken only by the occasional thump of snowballs hitting the far edges of the lake and the distant, high-pitched call of a barn owl circling overhead. The early spring frost still clung stubbornly to the grass, and every breath came out in clouds that hung briefly in the air before dissipating.
Tonks stood by the greenhouse, hands twisting absently in the ends of her scarf, toes scraping the frost-hardened earth. Her heart was doing that ridiculous, insistent thump-thump that she'd tried to ignore all day, and she was aware of it in a way that made her chest feel too full and too empty all at once.
He was late.
Not dramatically late, just enough to give her mind free rein to fill in the blanks with every imaginable disaster. Perhaps he'd remembered she was still a student and reconsidered entirely. Perhaps Professor McGonagall had cornered him for some urgent staff business. Perhaps he'd simply… changed his mind.
A shiver ran down her spine, and she tried to shove the thoughts away. Calm, Tonks, she told herself. Just be calm.
"Tonks."
The single, low word cut through the chill, warm and unmistakable. Her head snapped up before she could even think.
There he was. Coat slightly too thin for the early spring air, hair still damp from the mist, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had that careful, considered posture he always carried, the one that suggested he was aware of every step he took, every word he spoke.
"You're freezing," she said instinctively, and immediately cursed herself for sounding maternal.
He chuckled, a rich, quiet sound that made her ears burn. "You're observant."
"I'm just saying you could at least pretend to own a proper coat," she replied, folding her arms, though she found herself watching the way his coat hung off him and the faint stoop of his shoulders against the cold.
"I'll add it to the list of things I'll one day afford," he said, voice light but edged with that wistfulness she recognised all too well.
Tonks paused. She knew that tone, the one he used when he was trying not to worry her, or perhaps trying not to worry himself. "I can't wait," she said, and couldn't help the grin that crept over her face.
They started walking slowly, letting the paths around the greenhouses guide them. Conversation fell into easy patterns at first—small, insignificant things that allowed her to hear the quiet cadence of his voice without having to think too much. Peeves flinging a bottle of ink across the Divination Tower. Professor Sprout fretting over Dirigible Plums that may or may not have been crossbred by accident. Tonks recounted her latest, utterly humiliating misadventure on the stairs, which had left her sprawled in front of a quartet of very smug Slytherins.
"And what did you do?" he asked, lips twitching at the memory.
"Hexed their shoelaces together," she said, chin lifted proudly. "Very maturely."
He laughed. Not a soft chuckle, but something deeper and warmer, and she felt a thrill she wasn't sure she wanted to acknowledge.
Then, quietly, his voice dropped, "I've missed this."
"Talking?" she asked, curious, trying not to let her heartbeat give her away.
"With someone who… doesn't look at me as if I'm an assignment," he said, almost reluctantly, eyes cast down, expression unreadable.
Her chest warmed in a way that made her swallow hard. "Well," she said softly, "I never was very good at homework."
He smiled, slower this time, and a shadow of sadness passed over it, making her stomach twist.
They came to a stop beneath the beech tree by the lake, the one that leaned west as though weary of standing upright. The wind tugged at their scarves and hair, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and the lake.
"I know this isn't… simple," he said at last, voice careful. "I know it's complicated. And I know I'm older, and you've got your whole life ahead of you. And I—"
"Oh, shut up," she interrupted before her tongue could betray her.
His eyes lifted to hers, startled, and she felt a blush creep over her cheeks. "Sorry. I just mean—don't talk yourself out of something you haven't even had yet. That's all."
A long silence followed. The world felt paused, held between breaths. Then, very gently, he reached out, brushing his fingers against hers. Just a touch, almost hesitant.
She didn't pull away.
They stayed like that, still and quiet, watching the soft purple of the dusk sky deepen as the first castle lights flickered on. Somewhere an owl called again, a distant door slammed, and the castle seemed impossibly still.
"You're still my professor," she said finally, her voice soft but firm, threaded with honesty.
"I know," he replied, his tone quiet but not defensive.
"And I'm still figuring all this out," she added.
"So am I."
She glanced down at their hands, interlaced in the tentative warmth of that first touch. "Well," she said with a teasing grin, "at least we're in good company."
"I know we've had… conversations," he began again, eyes on the lake rather than her, "wanderings. Shared thoughts. And I know it's not the sort of thing that fits easily into rules or expectations—especially with your NEWTs coming and me being, well… me."
She arched a brow. "A History of Magic teacher with excellent cheekbones?"
He blinked at her, surprised, then let out a dry, reluctant laugh. "I was going to say 'a tired man with questionable taste in coats', but I suppose I'll take the compliment."
Tonks smiled, but she didn't interrupt. Her pulse had started hammering in her chest, a steady drum she could feel in her throat and fingertips. He was circling around something, and she had the distinct, thrilling suspicion she knew exactly what it was.
"I've thought about this," he said, voice lower now, almost swallowed by the walls of the corridor. "More than I probably should have. And if I'd had any sense at all, I would have left it alone."
She tilted her head, soft and patient. "But?"
"But," he repeated, drawing out the word as though testing it on his tongue, "I keep remembering the way you looked when we talked about goblin rebellions. The way you frowned so hard you almost looked like you were scolding a particularly stubborn textbook, and yet somehow… you were laughing. I remember the questions you asked, the ones I didn't see coming. How you didn't look through me, or around me, or at some version of me I thought I'd left behind long ago. You just… looked."
Her throat went dry, and she had to swallow twice before she could speak. "I didn't mean to," she whispered, voice small, almost lost. "It just… happened."
"I know," he said, and she could hear the weight behind his words. "That's why I'm standing here, risking every scrap of professionalism I might still possess, to ask you something that's probably… a mistake."
She tilted her head, curiosity dancing across her expression. "You do realise I'm quite used to mistakes. I've made three this morning alone, and none of them were even half as serious."
He drew in a slow, steady breath, the kind that seemed to pull the room around him into silence, and said simply, "Would you… go on a date with me, Tonks? A real one. When we both have time. Away from castle walls, away from rules, away from… watching eyes."
The corridor felt suddenly smaller, tighter, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. Even the distant sounds of footsteps and students seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them suspended in that moment.
Tonks stared, mouth open for the briefest instant, then grinned. The kind of grin that made her cheeks ache and her heart thud so hard she was almost dizzy. "I thought you'd never ask."
Relief unfurled across his features, visible in the slackening of his shoulders and the softening of his eyes. "I had about twelve different versions of that sentence rehearsed," he confessed, with a rueful shrug, "all of them worse than the last."
"Oh, I'm sure," she said, voice teasing, brushing the tension away. "You don't do anything by halves, do you?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, a faint pink brushing his ears, but a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth. "There's still the matter of… what people would think," he muttered.
Tonks stepped a little closer, the scarf between them brushing, and shrugged. "Let them think what they want. I've got my own mind, thanks very much."
He looked at her then—past the seventh-year student with a mischievous streak, past the chatter and pranks, past even the castle itself. He looked at her as Remus. Tired, earnest, and somehow still surprised that someone would choose him.
Her fingers brushed against his hand, tentative at first, then more boldly. "You said 'a real one'. I'd like that. Just so long as I get to pick the sweets."
He blinked, a smile tugging at his lips, slow and unsure, and she could almost hear him thinking: This isn't complicated enough already?
"I suppose I can allow that," he said softly, letting his hand rest against hers.
Of course there were rules. Hogwarts had no shortage of them, particularly when it came to the invisible lines drawn between students and staff. Teachers weren't meant to linger after lessons, or look too fondly at pupils, or share stories that weren't strictly academic. And they certainly weren't supposed to take long walks with seventeen-year-olds beneath frostbitten trees when no one else was around to notice.
But Tonks was nearly of age. Almost. And Remus—Remus was trying, desperately, to be discreet.
It wasn't anything improper. Nothing sordid or scandalous. Just quiet conversations and laughter tucked between bookshelves and lesson plans. Just two people who'd found something rare and warm in the middle of a world that felt as though it might collapse at any moment.
And for Tonks—who'd never seen herself as the sentimental sort—it was like stumbling across a sunlit window seat in a castle full of draughts. She didn't need it, not exactly. But now that she'd found it, she couldn't help curling up inside it every chance she got.
She wanted to do something for him. Nothing grand or dramatic—that wasn't her. Just something small and thoughtful. Something to make him smile the way he had that night under the beech tree when she'd told him to shut up.
The idea had come to her all at once, sometime between brushing her teeth and dodging a Filch patrol near the staircases. A set of new robes—plain, comfortable, nothing too formal. He always wore the same tired ones to lessons, all worn elbows and frayed cuffs. She knew it wasn't vanity. He simply didn't spend on himself. Never had. Probably never would.
So she wrote to Madam Malkin's that very night, sitting cross-legged on her bed with an ink stain drying on her palm and her quill leaking across the page. She specified the size—well, her best guess at it, anyway—chose a dark forest green for the fabric, and asked for simple silver thread at the cuffs and collar. Not flashy. Just… better.
Something he'd look good in, yes. But more importantly, something he'd feel like himself in.
When the parcel arrived two days later, she wrapped it in brown paper herself. The corners were slightly uneven, the folds a bit crumpled, and the string tied three times too tightly. But she liked it that way. It looked honest. It looked real. A little untidy around the edges—like her.
She carried it around for a full day before she worked up the nerve to give it to him. Waited until the last lesson of the week, until the bell had rung and the other students were filing out, chatting about goblins and Grindylows and whatever else he'd been teaching that day.
And then she lingered.
"Tonks?" he said, surprised to see her still there as he erased the chalkboard with a swish of his wand. "Everything all right?"
She stepped forward and held out the wrapped parcel. Her stomach gave a lurch. "Er—this is for you."
He blinked. "What is it?"
"A gift," she said quickly, pushing it into his hands before she could talk herself out of it. "For our date. Or… pre-date. I don't know. Consider it a head start."
He looked down at the parcel in his hands, fingers hovering above the string. "Tonks…"
"I know," she interrupted, cheeks going pink. "It's probably silly. It's not much, really. Just thought you might need it. Robes. You know. For wearing."
He let out a quiet laugh—soft but warm—and it sent a flutter to the base of her throat.
"You didn't have to."
"I know I didn't," she said, a bit breathless now. "Doesn't mean I didn't want to."
He looked at her and for a moment the classroom, with its crooked desks and forgotten scrolls, faded around them. There was something very still in his expression.
"Thank you," he said at last, voice low. "I'll wear them."
That was it. He didn't say more. But the way he looked at her—eyes lingering just long enough, something unspoken resting behind them—it said everything else.
Back in the Hufflepuff common room that evening, Tonks collapsed face-first onto her pillow with a noise that could only be described as a joyful groan. Her dorm mates glanced up from their gobstones and essays but didn't press her. They'd known her long enough to recognise when something had rattled her in the best way.
She buried her face deeper into the pillow, arms flung out like she'd just landed on a trampoline, and grinned so hard her cheeks hurt.
The town was a small, sleepy thing, pressed in along the edge of a mist-laced railway line just past the last breath of countryside. Not quite on the map, not quite off it either—exactly the sort of place that didn't draw too much attention. Just far enough from Hogwarts to feel like a secret. Close enough to reach with a timed Portkey, the sort Remus had managed to secure under the vague, unsuspicious heading of "private research".
Tonks landed with a faint thump, knees buckling slightly as her boots slid across the uneven cobbles of a narrow back alley behind a closed-up bakery. The air was sharp with the scent of yeast and woodsmoke. Somewhere nearby, a bell was chiming the hour.
"Graceful," she muttered, steadying herself with one hand against the cool brick wall.
Remus gave a soft huff of laughter, stepping down beside her. "It wouldn't be you otherwise."
She looked up, brushing at her robes, and found his hand already extended, waiting. She hesitated only a moment before curling her fingers round his. Warm. Steady. Rough with scar tissue in places, but grounding all the same. Her heart thudded, traitorous and loud, and she tried not to look too obviously pleased about the whole business.
"This is completely mad," she whispered as they stepped out onto the main street. Her voice was half a laugh, half a breath. "You know that, don't you?"
"I do," he said, the corners of his mouth tilting in that quiet way of his. "But sometimes mad is preferable to… safe."
It was a Tuesday evening in March, and the town had begun to glow with the soft sort of lamplight that made the windows look warmer than the outside world. The last of the light was slipping away, casting long shadows along the cobbles. The air was cool enough to nip at the tips of her ears, but not quite cold.
They didn't have a plan. That was part of the charm. They just walked. Side by side, occasionally bumping shoulders, not touching again but never drifting far apart. The streets were quiet, dotted with old-fashioned shopfronts and crooked lampposts that flickered uncertainly. A bookshop with its lights still on. A newsagent's with a dozing cat in the window. A tiny park with two rusted swings that creaked lazily in the breeze.
Every so often, Tonks glanced sideways at him. In the way the lamplight picked out the hollows of his face. At the way he always kept one hand shoved deep in his coat pocket—as if he needed the reassurance, or perhaps as if he were ready to vanish the moment someone from the school appeared.
"You always this twitchy?" she asked eventually.
He didn't look at her, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "Only when I'm in direct violation of half a dozen staff policies."
"You are the staff policies."
"I prefer to think of myself," he said mildly, "as the exception that proves them."
She let out a laugh, nudging his arm with her shoulder, and was relieved when he didn't step away. The silence between them wasn't awkward. If anything, it felt… careful. As though they were still learning what this was allowed to be. What they were allowed to be, here in this little gap between rules and reality.
They eventually ducked into a café tucked between a flower shop and a tailor's, its door half-obscured by a dangling string of cracked glass beads. A tiny brass bell jingled overhead as they stepped inside.
The café was narrow and crowded in a way that made it feel lived-in rather than cluttered. Bookshelves lined nearly every inch of wall—some tall and teetering, others built into the wooden frames. The air smelt of cinnamon, warm milk, and something slightly burnt in a way that was oddly comforting. A crackly old radio played quietly from behind the counter, jazz chords curling between clinks of teacups.
Tonks let out a delighted gasp and immediately veered left, making a beeline for a table wedged between a lopsided "Poetry" shelf and a spinning rack labelled "Occult & Unverified". She flung her coat over the nearest chair and spun once on the spot, arms wide.
"This place is brilliant," she declared. "Smells like biscuits and second-hand paperbacks. Ideal combination."
Remus followed more slowly, taking in the mismatched tableware and faded wallpaper with a look of faint amusement. "You do know there's nothing magical about this place?"
"Exactly," Tonks grinned, plopping down into a chair. "You think I sneak off to the Muggle world for predictability? Please."
The waiter arrived with all the energy of a disgruntled tortoise. Tonks, undeterred, ordered the largest hot chocolate they had and a toasted crumpet "with extra butter, if you're feeling generous." Remus, after a moment's deliberation, asked for a pot of Earl Grey and a slice of fruitcake.
Tonks raised an eyebrow as the waiter shuffled off. "Fruitcake? Seriously?"
"I happen to like fruitcake."
"You would," she said, mock-horrified. "Bet you cut it into tidy little pieces and eat it with a fork."
He looked her dead in the eye. "Only on Sundays."
She snorted. "Reckless. You're really throwing caution to the wind, aren't you?"
"I'm living dangerously," he replied, deadpan. "Next I might even… add sugar."
When their drinks arrived, Tonks wrapped both hands round her mug, which was nearly the size of her face, and took a long sip. Her eyes closed briefly in bliss.
"This," she said, utterly serious, "is what love tastes like."
Remus raised an eyebrow. "Chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate. There's a difference. This has whipped cream. Possibly magic."
"I thought you preferred coffee."
"I prefer chaos," she said cheerfully. "But this'll do."
He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his mouth. He watched her as she reached for her crumpet, carelessly tearing off a piece and stuffing it into her mouth. Her hair was chestnut tonight—rich, messy, and somehow elegant despite itself—and there was a smear of chocolate at the edge of her lip.
He didn't tell her.
She noticed anyway and wiped it off with her sleeve, laughing. "Bet this is not how you imagined your Tuesday evenings going."
Remus paused. "No. But I'm glad it is."
She looked at him, and for once, he didn't glance away.
Her heart did that odd sort of leap again, half nerves, half something she didn't yet have the words for.
"Me too," she said, quieter this time.
There was a pause between them—quiet, unrushed, and strangely companionable. Around them, the café carried on in its soft shuffle of mugs and murmurs and pages being turned, but here at their table it all felt muffled, as though they were sitting slightly outside the world.
Tonks had picked up a book of poetry from a lopsided shelf nearby and now sat leafing through it with one hand while her hot chocolate cooled slowly beside her. Her lips moved as she read—not quite speaking, not quite mouthing the words either, just whispering to herself in the rhythm of someone used to letting stories live aloud.
Her hair shimmered softly in the dim café light. She always looked slightly dishevelled in the most deliberate way. Remus found himself watching the way the hair curled near her jaw and made himself look away before she noticed.
But she didn't look up from the book.
"You know," Tonks said quietly, turning a page, "I was nervous coming here."
Remus's eyes flicked back to her. "Were you?"
She gave a small nod. "Thought you might back out. Thought I'd get to the alley and there'd be no Portkey. Just me, standing there like a right idiot."
He hesitated, then offered her the truth, as gently as he could.
"I considered it," he said. "Twice on the way. Once while ordering tea."
Her head snapped up, brows raised.
"But I didn't," he added, more softly now. "Because I wanted to see you."
The change in her was almost imperceptible, but he caught it anyway. A flicker of surprise. A slow, blooming smile she tried to hide by looking down too quickly. Her cheeks coloured faintly.
"Right," she said, as if she were filing the words away somewhere safe. "Good. Because I… well. I'm glad you came."
Remus gave a small nod, taking another careful sip of his tea. He was aware, painfully so, of how much of himself he kept behind walls these days. How easy it would be to retreat again. But he stayed. And she stayed. And the quiet stretched out between them again.
Tonks set the book down, resting her chin in one hand, and studied him over the rim of her mug.
"All right, Professor Lupin," she said, a crooked grin tugging at her mouth. "Tell me something you've never told anyone."
He gave her a long look. "Dangerous request."
"I know." She grinned wider. "Life's dangerous."
There was a pause while Remus considered her. Not just her words, but her—this strange, sharp, golden-hearted girl who walked through the world as though it might topple at any moment and she'd still be ready to laugh when it did.
Then he nodded.
"When I was a boy," he said, his voice quiet now, "before Hogwarts… I wanted to be a conductor."
Tonks blinked. "Like… trains?"
"No," he said, lips twitching, "an orchestra. Music. I was obsessed with it. Used to borrow all these records from my mum's cousin and conduct them in the sitting room with a soup ladle."
"That's…" she paused, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Weirdly adorable."
He shrugged, a little sheepishly. "Music made sense when everything else didn't. Still does, sometimes."
She didn't tease him for it. Just nodded slowly, and the smile she gave him was soft in a way she probably didn't realise.
Silence again—but this time it felt heavier. Tonks stared at the tablecloth, dragging her fingertip along the swirling pattern, following the loops until they lost themselves in the frayed edge.
Then she looked up.
"I worry sometimes," she said, and her voice was lower now, stripped of its usual bravado, "that you think I don't understand what this is."
He didn't pretend not to understand. Didn't dodge the question. He set his teacup down and met her gaze directly.
"I know you understand," he said. "That's… that's what makes it harder."
Tonks gave a small nod, lips pressed together. Her hands tightened slightly around her mug.
"I'm not a kid, Remus."
"No," he said softly. "But you're still in school."
"I leave in three months."
"And I've spent the last ten years," he said, voice hoarse with something he rarely gave shape to, "trying to believe I don't deserve good things."
Her breath caught.
It always surprised her, that tone in him—the kind that crept in uninvited, worn and wounded and utterly without self-pity. He carried it not like armour, but like something stitched into his skin.
She wanted to say a dozen things. To reach across the table and take his hand. To shake him. To tell him—you deserve better than good things. You deserve things you don't even know exist yet.
But she didn't say any of that. She just swallowed, breathed, and said, "Then let's take the three months. That's a good thing, isn't it?"
He looked at her, startled. And then—slowly, gradually—he smiled. Not the polite sort he gave to students in corridors. Not the tight-lipped one he wore in staff meetings. This was something smaller. Something real.
"Yes," he said, barely above a whisper. "It is."
He reached for his cup again, then paused halfway.
"I'm not very good at this," he admitted. "The dating. The… letting people in."
Tonks tilted her head, all humour gone now. "You don't have to be good at it. You just have to want to be."
Their eyes locked again across the table.
"I do," he said. "I want to try."
She smiled, warm and brilliant, and raised her mug as if to toast something invisible between them. "Then you're already doing better than most."
And just like that, the moment passed—but it left something behind.
They sat there for a long time afterwards. Reading bits of dreadful Muggle poetry aloud and rating them on a scale from "tragic" to "embarrassing". Tonks dropped half her crumpet on the floor and promptly retrieved it with a muttered, "Five-second rule," before popping it back in her mouth.
Remus spent the next five minutes trying—and failing—not to laugh as she launched into a perfect impression of the café's surly barista, complete with eyebrow raises and long sighs of existential despair.
By the time they returned to the castle, the sun had long since vanished behind the hills. The corridors were hushed in the way they only were after hours, the portraits snoozing, the torches low. Their footsteps echoed softly as they crossed the Entrance Hall together, walking just close enough that their arms brushed now and then.
Neither said much. But it wasn't a silence that needed filling.
Tonks wasn't sure what exactly lingered in the quiet. Maybe it was hope. Maybe nerves. Maybe just the knowledge that something had shifted tonight—subtly, quietly, but unmistakably.
As they passed Nearly Headless Nick, who gave them a brief, dignified nod, and the Fat Friar, who looked mildly intrigued, she found herself smiling.
Remus glanced her way once, and she caught him watching her—his expression soft, almost startled, like he couldn't quite believe she was still there.
And then, without quite saying it—without even deciding it, really—they found themselves climbing the spiral staircase to the Astronomy Tower.
The castle around them was hushed, still. Only their footsteps echoed faintly off the ancient stone, muffled by age and the time of night. Neither spoke as they ascended, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable.
The iron-banded door creaked open at the top, and the wind greeted them at once, sharp against their cheeks. March air—clean, bracing, with a trace of woodsmoke and wet earth in it. The sort of scent that told you spring was beginning to gather itself in the shadows.
But the sky—
The sky was staggering.
A black expanse stretched above them, pierced by thousands of stars, each burning steady and distinct. They didn't flicker—not truly. They shimmered, strong and bright and impossibly far away. For a moment, neither of them moved. It felt like stepping into a secret.
Tonks stepped forward first, her boots sounding against the tower's weathered stone. She didn't speak right away, just folded her arms tightly against the cold and tipped her face upward, her eyes searching the stars with quiet reverence.
"They don't look real," she murmured at last. "Sometimes I think someone's just gone and flung glitter across the sky and called it a night."
Remus let out a soft chuckle behind her. "If they have, they've done a very consistent job of it."
She turned her head to glance at him, grinning, but it softened into something fonder. "Do you come up here much?"
"Used to," he said, stepping out beside her. "When I was a student. I liked the quiet. There weren't many places at Hogwarts where you could be still and not feel watched."
"And now?"
He gave a dry half-smile. "Now I mostly mark essays and try not to misplace my wand under piles of parchment."
Tonks gave a soft laugh. "Tragic. You've gone from stargazing to ink stains and second-hand quills."
"It's a noble descent."
She leaned back against the low stone wall, her hands tucked into her sleeves, her face turned to him.
"I wish we could stay up here for hours."
He looked over at her, brows raised. "Technically," he said, "you're supposed to be in your common room by now."
"Technically," she repeated, mimicking his tone with mock severity, "you're supposed to give me detention."
"Mm," he mused, the corner of his mouth twitching. "That would be… logistically complicated."
They fell into silence again. The wind stirred their robes and tugged at stray strands of hair. Tonks studied him from the corner of her eye—the way he stood slightly turned away from her, as though he hadn't quite decided whether to stay or flee. The starlight softened the lines in his face, made him look impossibly young for a moment, and yet still tired in a way that went far deeper than his years.
There was something about Remus that was always measured. As though he was constantly checking the distance between himself and the rest of the world. She didn't mind that. But Merlin, she wished he'd stop waiting for everything to fall apart.
"I liked today," she said finally, her voice quieter now. More careful.
He turned to her, eyes warm. "I did too."
She hesitated. "You don't have to be someone else with me. You know that, right? You don't have to be the professor, or the responsible adult, or… whatever else you think you're meant to be."
His expression faltered, a slight frown tugging between his brows.
"And who do you think I am?" he asked, not unkindly. "If I'm not any of those things?"
Tonks didn't even blink.
"I think," she said, slow and steady, "you're someone who reads more than he sleeps. Someone who's spent far too long thinking it's noble to carry every burden quietly. I think you look for the best in people—even when they've given you no reason to. And I think you care more than anyone else I've ever met."
He stared at her for a long moment. A long, long moment. His face didn't shift, not really, but something in his eyes—something quiet and raw—turned towards her.
"That's a very generous description," he said at last, his voice rough.
"I'm a very generous person," she said, trying for levity. She smiled, but it faded slightly as she met his eyes again. "You don't have to believe it right now. I'll believe it for both of us. If that helps."
The wind moved again. A breath between them. Then—
Remus reached for her hand.
It wasn't bold, not sudden or sweeping. It was hesitant. Gentle. A touch made with care, as though asking for permission as he went.
She didn't hesitate.
Her fingers curled around his, sure and steady, and she gave the smallest squeeze, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And somehow, it was.
They didn't speak as they made their way down the tower steps, slow and quiet, surrounded by the hush of sleeping portraits and stone archways. The torches burnt low in their brackets, their light dancing faintly across the flagstones. Shadows clung to the walls, but neither of them hurried.
Tonks walked a half-step ahead, her hands now tucked inside her sleeves again, but her cheeks still warm from the press of his hand in hers. And not because of the chill.
She could feel him beside her. Not just his presence, but the way he held himself—carefully, always carefully. But now there was something else too. A current beneath the stillness. A shared awareness, new and fragile and lovely.
She glanced sideways, eyes bright. "So," she said, voice low, teasing, "do you make a habit of sneaking off to starry towers with your students?"
Remus gave her a look that was half-horrified, half-amused. "Good Lord, no."
She grinned. "Mm. Good answer."
"I imagine that was a test."
"Spot on. Full marks, Professor."
He shook his head, but his mouth was twitching again. "I'm aware," he said quietly, "of how… complicated this is."
Tonks made a small sound—somewhere between a scoff and a groan—and rolled her eyes in dramatic fashion. "It's only complicated if we make it complicated."
He looked at her. Not sidelong, not cautious. His expression was serious, despite the small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He wasn't mocking her. He was weighing her words as if they mattered more than they ought to.
"Tonks…" he began, his voice low, strained. "You're young. And I—"
"—am not that ancient," she cut in, flapping a hand at him in mock exasperation. "Honestly, Remus. You keep looking at me like I'm one of your essays you've covered in red ink. I'm not a mistake. I'm not a theory to dissect. I'm just… me. And I like you."
She'd stopped walking.
So had he.
The corridor stretched ahead of them, empty and dim, the sconces throwing long, quiet shadows across the flagstones. The scent of beeswax polish and old stone filled the air—the end-of-day hush that Hogwarts wore so well.
Tonks turned to face him, her cheeks a little flushed, her hair—she knew without needing to check—a touch brighter than it had been a moment ago.
She could feel her heart hammering in her chest, but her voice, when it came, was steady.
"You don't have to say anything back," she said, her hands twisting slightly in her sleeves. "I don't expect—whatever. I just wanted to say it out loud. Because I think you're brave, and kind, and frustrating, and daft in all the best ways. And because… when I'm with you, things feel real. Clear, somehow. Even when they're not."
Remus didn't speak right away.
His face was unreadable—calm, but not distant. Thoughtful. Perhaps even a little stunned. And though he didn't move, didn't blink, didn't shift his weight or clear his throat or do any of the usual delaying tactics people used when they wanted to dodge something, Tonks could feel the weight of the moment settle over him.
He was listening.
And then, softly—almost reverently—he said:
"You're not easy to forget, Tonks."
She blinked. Her breath caught in her chest.
"That's what frightens me," he added, barely above a whisper. "I've spent a long time making sure I don't get too close. It's easier not to risk… all this. But then you came along and turned everything on its head."
Tonks took a half-step forward, her boots whispering against the floor.
"Then be frightened," she said, gently. "I am too."
His lips curved—not in amusement, not in the polished way he smiled at colleagues or passing students—but in something quieter. Something without armour.
A pause stretched between them, heavy with thought, and then they began to walk again. Neither rushed. Neither speaking. But the silence now felt companionable. Not the absence of words, but a truce between thoughts. As if both were trying to make room for what had just been said.
Every now and then, their arms brushed. Neither pulled away.
Tonks could feel the warmth of his presence beside her—familiar now, and yet entirely different. As though some invisible barrier had shifted. Not broken, not shattered. Just… lowered.
When they reached the corridor near the kitchens, the familiar portrait of a bowl of fruit snoozed peacefully, the pear emitting the occasional snore.
Tonks came to a halt. She turned to him, one brow raised. "This is me."
Remus nodded, hands tucked into his pockets, the lamplight catching faintly on the threads of grey at his temples. "Yes," he said. "I suppose it is."
There was something resigned in his voice. Not unhappy, just… wistful.
She tilted her head, watching him with something softer in her gaze. "You going to give me House points for excellent conduct?"
He hummed, thoughtful. "I'm still weighing whether sneaking a student out after curfew qualifies as praiseworthy."
"You could dock points from Gryffindor. Even the score."
He smiled, that faint upward tilt of the mouth that meant more than most people ever realised. "Tempting."
She stepped a little closer. "Thank you. For today."
His reply came softer. "Thank you, Tonks."
For a moment, she thought he might reach for her again—her hand, her sleeve, anything. Something to hold the moment in place just a little longer. But he didn't. He gave the smallest of nods instead—almost a bow, without flourish—and turned to leave.
He'd only taken a step or two when her voice caught him.
"Remus?"
He stopped.
Tonks took a breath. Her palms felt suddenly too warm in her sleeves.
"You don't have to be alone, you know."
He turned slowly and met her eyes across the quiet corridor.
"I know," he said.
And something in the way he said it made her chest ache. Not a promise. But not a dismissal either. An opening, perhaps. A quiet one. A door half-ajar.
He inclined his head again. "Goodnight, Tonks."
Her smile came gently, unforced. "'Night."
She watched him until he'd disappeared around the corner. Not because she doubted he was leaving—but because she wasn't ready for the moment to end.
When she finally turned, muttered the password, and slipped inside the Hufflepuff common room, the glow on her cheeks hadn't faded. And though she didn't bother checking the mirror above the fireplace, she knew she was grinning.
She didn't even trip on the threshold.