Tonks sat cross-legged on her bed, hair still damp from the shower, curling at the ends in soft pink spirals. The castle had gone quiet. Evening light filtered weakly through the dormitory windows, stretching long shadows along the stone walls. One of the torches crackled lazily, the only sound apart from the distant, muffled hoot of an owl outside.
She stared down at her hands, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. Her Charms homework was lying somewhere beneath her schoolbag, half-covered in quills and crumpled notes. She should've been thinking about that. Or the Potions essay due on Tuesday. Or literally anything practical.
But her mind was elsewhere. Again.
Remus Lupin.
Sweet, soft-spoken, always-knackered Professor Lupin. He'd been kind to her on their date. Kinder than she probably deserved, really. He'd smiled that crooked little smile of his and said clever, quiet things that stuck with her hours after he'd gone.
She should've felt brilliant.
And she did. Mostly.
Sort of.
But there was still something twisted up tight in her chest. Something heavy.
Ismelda.
Just thinking the name made her stomach clench. Funny, that. Months had passed since they'd spoken—properly, anyway—and it still hadn't eased. Not even a little.
She pulled her knees up closer and rested her chin on them.
Their last argument had been ridiculous. Stupid, sharp words that left splinters behind. Tonks had said something cruel; she remembered that. Ismelda had said worse. And then nothing. Just silence, stretched thin and tight like old spellotape.
And Tonks hated silence. It never stayed still; it echoed.
She blew out a breath and opened the drawer beside her bed.
Nestled inside was a small square box, plain and a bit scuffed at the corners. She opened it carefully.
The bracelet lay curled like a secret. Handmade—awkward knots, mismatched beads, magic woven in just enough to keep it from fraying. Storm-grey threads twisted with deep violet, the colours Ismelda had always liked best. She hadn't told anyone about this one. Not Penny, not Chiara, not even Badeea. It had been for Ismelda. Only her.
Tonks ran her thumb over the knots.
It still counts, she thought stubbornly. Even after everything. It still has to count.
She shut the lid gently and set it on the duvet in front of her.
Alright then.
No more sitting here moping. No more letting pride make the decisions for her.
If she wanted peace, she had to try. Even if it meant getting told to sod off.
Even if it meant hearing no.
She grabbed the box and slid off the bed, her bare feet cold against the flagstone floor. Somewhere in the castle, bells chimed softly—signalling the hour.
Tonks didn't move.
She stood there for a long moment, box in hand, heart thudding a little too loud.
Then, with a steadying breath, she turned towards the door.
The Room of Requirement appeared just as Tonks remembered it—dim and warm, the sort of hush that made you feel like the walls were listening. Fairy lights hovered above scattered cushions, casting a soft golden glow, and the faintest trace of lavender clung to the air like memory.
It hadn't changed.
Or maybe—it had waited.
She stepped in carefully, boots scuffing against the worn rug. She won't be here, Tonks told herself, bracing. She probably avoids this place. Same as she avoids me.
The door melted away behind her.
Each step made her chest feel tighter, like her heart had crept up into her throat. The room still looked like theirs—half-done projects abandoned in corners, secret hideouts behind charmed tapestries, old laughter clinging to the walls. Lovely and awful all at once.
She didn't make it far before she turned on her heel, ready to bolt.
Then—
"Tonks?"
The voice stopped her cold.
She turned slowly, pulse thrumming loudly in her ears.
There—half in shadow—stood Ismelda.
She looked taller. Older, maybe. There was something quieter about her now. But her eyes hadn't changed—dark and sharp, narrowed just slightly, like she was working out whether or not this was real.
Tonks swallowed.
"I—I just…" Her voice came out thin and wobbly. Brilliant. She looked down, then forced herself to meet Ismelda's gaze. "I just wanted to see how you were doing."
Ismelda didn't answer straightaway. Her arms were folded across her chest, expression unreadable.
"I haven't seen you for ages," Tonks added, softer this time.
"I didn't think you wanted to."
Tonks flinched.
"I did. I always did," she said quickly. "I just thought—well, I thought you hated me."
"I don't hate you." The words were quiet, not sharp at all. "I was… hurt. I didn't know what to do with that."
"I know." Tonks' voice cracked around the edges. "I messed up. I hurt you, and I didn't mean to—I was wrapped up in my own… stuff, and I dragged you into it without thinking."
Ismelda looked down for a moment. Her lip trembled, and she blinked fast. She still didn't say anything, but she didn't leave either. That had to count for something.
Tonks pressed on. "I missed you," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "It was like—like losing a limb. I've felt it every day."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was fragile, but not angry. Like they were both holding the same delicate thing between them, and neither wanted to drop it.
"I kept waiting for you to come find me," Ismelda said eventually. "And when you didn't, I thought maybe that meant… it was over. That we weren't meant to stay friends."
Tonks took a step forward, careful not to move too quickly. Her fingers found the small box in her pocket.
"I don't believe that," she said firmly. "I think we are meant to be friends. Even if we've changed. Even if it takes work."
She pulled the box out and held it between them.
"I bought this for you," she said. "Ages ago. Just… never got the courage to give it to you."
Ismelda took it slow and cautious. Opened the lid.
Inside, the bracelet gleamed faintly—storm-grey and deep violet thread, knotted in a way only someone stubborn would bother with.
"Are you sure?" Ismelda asked, voice small.
"Course I am," Tonks replied. "Because I never stopped caring."
For a moment, she thought Ismelda might cry. But she didn't.
Instead, she stepped forward—and before Tonks could brace for it, she was pulled into a hug. Tight. Shaky. Real.
Tonks hugged her back just as fiercely. Her throat ached, but in the good way. The way things ached when they were mending.
"Thank you," Ismelda whispered. "I'll wear it every day."
They stayed like that, just for a bit. Wrapped up in the quiet and the warmth of a room that had once held the best of them. Maybe it still could.
Tonks let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Her voice came out rough with emotion, barely more than a murmur.
"I missed you so much."
And this time, Ismelda didn't hesitate.
"I missed you too."
"I never thought I'd see you in here again," Tonks said, managing a small smile. "But I'm glad you came back. Really glad."
Then she tilted her head, frowning just a little. "You look… I dunno. Conflicted."
Ismelda gave her a faint smile—thin and passing, the sort that didn't touch her eyes. "I'm all right," she said quietly.
But Tonks didn't miss the way her shoulders curled in ever so slightly, like she was bracing against some unseen weight. Her eyes, too, darted past Tonks's face rather than meeting it. That was new.
She padded across the room and dropped onto the sagging couch near the window. It gave a soft oof as she landed. She patted the space beside her.
"Are you sure?" she asked, more gently now. "You can still tell me things, you know. If you want."
Ismelda hesitated. Not defensive. Not angry. Just… silent.
Her gaze flicked to Tonks, then dropped to her lap, where her hands were clasped too tightly. Tonks didn't look away. She wanted her to see it on her face—I'm here. I still care. I always did.
At last, Ismelda spoke, her voice quiet and brittle. "I got a letter from my mum. Months ago."
Tonks felt her whole body go still.
"She's with someone new." Ismelda's tone was flat, but the bitterness crept in underneath. "I've met him. On and off. She makes it sound like things are fine, but they're not. He's useless. Drinks all day. Makes her work nights. She barely looks at me when I'm there."
She gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Real catch."
Tonks stayed quiet, letting her talk. Ismelda's words came slower now, like they'd been dammed up for too long and didn't know how to flow properly anymore.
"He calls me madam." She said the word like it was poison. "Like it's a joke. I'll come downstairs, and he'll tip his filthy hat like we're in some daft little play. Then go back to yelling at my mum or passing out on the sofa."
Tonks felt something cold curl in her gut.
"I tried talking to her about it," Ismelda went on, staring at the floor like she was reading something there only she could see. "She said he was going through a rough patch. That I wasn't being fair. Like I made it up. Like it's easier to believe I'm the problem."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and she clamped her jaw shut.
Tonks bit down hard on her tongue to keep from speaking too soon. But she shifted a little closer, not touching yet, just there.
"I stopped going home over the holidays," Ismelda said after a pause. "Told her I was staying to revise. She didn't ask why. Didn't even argue."
Tonks felt a sharp twist behind her ribs. She reached up and rubbed the back of her neck. "That's not right. She should've asked."
"She didn't want to know," Ismelda muttered. "I think that's worse."
Tonks nodded slowly. "Yeah. It is."
There was silence after that. Not uncomfortable, just heavy. Tonks glanced at her, properly this time. The way she was sitting—shoulders drawn in, like she was trying to disappear into her own jumper.
Ismelda stared at the far wall. The one they'd once plastered with clippings from The Quibbler and drawings of bizarre magical creatures that probably didn't exist. It all seemed years ago now.
Tonks blinked, the sting behind her eyes growing sharper the longer she looked at her. Ismelda had always been pale, but there was a hollowness now. A sharpness to her jaw that hadn't been there before.
"You look thin," she said quietly. "Have you been eating properly?"
Ismelda turned then, like the question startled her. Her eyes widened, flickering briefly with something Tonks couldn't place. Surprise. Maybe disbelief.
"Tonks?" she said, tentative. Testing.
"Yeah?" Tonks kept her voice soft.
Ismelda opened her mouth like she was going to say something important, something deep. But she didn't. She closed it again, jaw tightening. Her eyes dropped to the floor.
"It's nothing," she muttered. The smile she managed was small and tight, like it had been practised too many times.
Tonks's chest ached.
She hated that look—that quiet, rehearsed way of pushing someone out while pretending it was fine. Ismelda had learnt to defend herself with silence. And that hurt more than anything.
"Really?" Tonks asked, one last gentle nudge.
"I hate that I keep pretending I don't care," Ismelda murmured, finally looking at her. "I do. I hate it. I hate him. And sometimes I hate her, too, and I know that's awful, but—"
"It's not," Tonks cut in, gentle but firm. "It's not awful. It's human."
Ismelda gave a shaky breath, eyes wet but still defiant. "I used to think if I just waited long enough, she'd come round. Remember I existed. But it's like—I dunno—it's like she just moved on and forgot to take me with her."
There it was. The real ache, raw and heavy, finally out in the air between them.
Tonks reached across and took her hand.
"You didn't deserve that," she said quietly. "None of it. That's not on you, Ismelda."
"I know," Ismelda replied, though she didn't sound convinced.
Tonks gave her fingers a squeeze. "I mean it. You're not hard to love, you know. Not really. You're just used to people who couldn't see past their own mess."
That made Ismelda blink fast, and she looked away again, jaw tight. "Sometimes I think if I were someone else—nicer, lighter, easier—maybe things would've turned out different."
Tonks let out a breath. "You are light. You just don't shine for people who don't deserve it."
That caught Ismelda off guard. Her mouth twitched like she might cry or laugh or both. She blinked down at their joined hands, then gave Tonks a long, unreadable look.
"You always say the strangest things," she said, voice rough.
Tonks grinned faintly. "Comes with the hair. Side effect of being a metamorphmagus. Irregular brainwaves and emotional insight."
Ismelda snorted—an actual, proper sound of amusement. It was small, but it was real.
Tonks leaned back against the cushions. "I'm really glad you told me."
Ismelda stared at the fairy lights above them, the way they pulsed gently like a heartbeat. "Yeah. Me too."
They sat like that for a long while. Shadows danced lazily across the floor, and somewhere in the walls, the castle creaked like it, too, was holding its breath.
Tonks fiddled with the edge of her sleeve.
Ismelda hadn't asked. Not once. Not how she was. Not what she'd been up to. Not about Professor Lupin.
And Tonks wasn't sure what that meant.
Maybe it was too raw still. Maybe it hurt too much to ask.
Or maybe she just didn't want to know.
Tonks bit the inside of her cheek. The words hovered at the back of her throat—I like him. He's kind. He listens. She could've told her that. Could've told her everything.
But she didn't.
If she opened that door, it might all come tumbling out—the fight, the guilt, the months of silence, the little wounds that had never healed properly.
She couldn't risk it. Not tonight.
So she stayed quiet. Let the stillness settle.
Her hand stayed where it was.
It wasn't everything.
But it was something.
And for now, that would have to do.
Weeks passed after their date—if you could even call it that—and somehow, in between pretending not to care and pretending very badly not to watch him read for the hundredth time, Tonks had found herself spending nearly every spare moment near Professor Lupin.
Not that he ever asked her to.
But—conveniently—he'd never told her to leave either.
So she didn't.
She simply turned up wherever he was: the library, the staff table, or the corridor outside the History of Magic classroom. Like a particularly cheerful stray kneazle who'd decided this thin, tired-looking professor was hers now.
And, to her quiet delight, he never pushed her away. Not properly.
She liked being near him. Even when all he did was read ancient books that smelt like mildew and burnt porridge. She'd slide into the chair beside him without asking, plop her book on the table—usually unopened—and sit just close enough to hear him breathe.
That had become a weird comfort for her—the rhythm of Professor Lupin's breathing. Calm. Even. Steady, even when the world wasn't.
Sometimes she'd catch herself staring. Not full-on creepy staring, but soft glances out the corner of her eye. Watching the way his brow furrowed when something puzzled him, or how his finger would lightly trace a line of text, like he was coaxing a spell to reveal itself.
She'd memorised the way he turned pages. Carefully, reverently. As if the book might feel pain if he was too rough.
Honestly, it was unfair. Who was allowed to be that gentle and still make her heart do flips like a Niffler in a jewellery shop?
And when he got too serious—eyes narrowed, lips pressed in that little line that meant he was about to overthink everything—she'd nudge him. A comment here, a parchment flick there. Sometimes she'd even levitate a quill under his nose for a laugh.
He'd sigh at her. Every time.
But it was never a proper "get out of my sight, you menace" sigh.
It was more like, "I was enjoying my book, and now you've turned it into a circus, but somehow I don't really mind," sigh.
She'd never admit it aloud, but she'd memorised the shape of his sighs too. There was the quiet huff when she said something ridiculous. The longer, softer one when he was pretending not to be amused. And her favourite: the exasperated one that ended in the tiniest, fondest smile.
Sometimes, when he didn't shift away, she'd lean in just a little. Just a bit. As if the space between them itched until she closed it.
Like the air itself felt wrong when there was too much of it.
But that space was dangerous.
And one afternoon, when her shoulder brushed his ever so slightly—warmth and wool and quiet longing all rolled into one—he moved. Not a sharp jerk, but a deliberate, careful inch. Like he hadn't meant to but couldn't not.
A moment later, his voice came. Firm. Low. Too sharp for how quiet the library was. Too clipped for the gentle thing they'd been building.
"Tonks," he said, still not looking at her. "You mustn't sit so close."
Just that.
No explanation. No scolding. Just mustn't.
Like he was reminding himself, more than her.
Tonks froze.
The name—Tonks—sounded different when he said it. It made her stomach do something unreasonable. It sounded too grown-up. Too… aware.
She pulled away, cheeks burning with heat that didn't fade, not even after a few long moments. It was the kind of heat that came from feeling seen—and not in a good way.
She knew he was right.
She wasn't seventeen yet. Not quite. A couple of months off. Just shy of the legal threshold that turned her from student to adult in the Ministry's eyes.
But Hogwarts didn't run on Ministry calendars. In these halls, she was still a child. Still technically his student.
Still wrong.
She hated how right he was.
But it didn't stop her heart from fluttering every time he spoke her name. Or the way her fingers itched whenever his hand rested near hers on the desk. That silly, stupid ache didn't care about technicalities. It only cared that he was there and warm and good in ways she couldn't explain.
And still—despite everything—she came back.
Time and time again.
Because sitting beside him, half-reading a book and pretending not to fall apart inside—that was somehow better than not seeing him at all.
Of course, people noticed.
Students had started whispering behind their hands. Little looks passed in corridors. Tonks caught them all. Girls with knowing smirks. Boys elbowing one another, snickering like idiots.
But no one said anything aloud. Probably because she carried herself like she belonged. Like she was just another confident seventh-year with her own table in the library and her favourite professor on speed-dial.
She'd heard someone joke once that she was Professor Lupin's "teaching assistant". She'd snorted so hard her pumpkin juice came out of her nose.
Still, she noticed what they saw.
What he must've noticed too.
But he never said anything.
Maybe he was too polite.
Maybe he was too scared.
Maybe he felt it too.
Her reflection had even begun to shift on its own lately. No neon hair. No fangs. No wild eyes or lime-green eyebrows. Just softer versions of herself. Easier colours. Easier shapes. Something calmer. Something she thought he might not flinch away from.
And she hated that.
She wasn't the sort of girl who changed for someone else.
Except… maybe, for him, she did. A little.
Because Professor Lupin made silence feel safe. He made her want to sit still, for once. Made her feel like maybe she wasn't just a clumsy, loud-mouthed disaster of a witch, tripping over her own words and hair and feelings.
He made her wish she were older.
He made her wish she were more.
But most days, just sitting beside him while he read—pretending not to watch, pretending not to ache—most days, that was enough.
Even if she occasionally slipped a self-inking quill into his robes when he wasn't looking.
Even if she once transfigured his tea into hot chocolate just to see if he'd notice. He had. "Tonks." He'd said sternly. But with a marshmallow moustache.
Even if she once slipped a note into his book that just said, "Page 394 is boring. Talk to me instead."
He never said anything about that one.
But the next day, he brought her a book too.
Didn't say a word. Just placed it in front of her and opened his own.
It was Hogwarts: A History.
She hadn't turned a page in nearly twenty minutes.
Not that it mattered. It may as well have been titled A Thousand Ways to Nap While Sitting Upright. Besides, she wasn't here for the reading.
She was here for Professor Lupin, who was seated beside her, utterly absorbed in a book so ancient it looked like it might crumble if she sneezed near it.
His brow was furrowed. He had that little crease between his eyebrows she found entirely too fascinating. His quill was balanced behind his ear, and there was a small ink smudge on his cheek.
Merlin, she wanted to kiss that smudge off his face.
Instead, she scooted an inch closer on the long library bench until her shoulder brushed his arm.
He didn't flinch. But he didn't react, either.
She pouted. Time to get his attention.
"Are you happy?" she whispered, resting her chin in her hand.
He didn't look up. "With what?"
"You know what," she said, voice low and sing-song. "With me, obviously."
That got a reaction.
A sharp intake of breath, a twitch at the corner of his mouth, and then… still nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the page, though the tips of his ears were turning pink.
Tonks narrowed her eyes. "You're blushing."
"I am not."
"You definitely are. Blushing like a Hufflepuff caught with a love letter in Herbology."
"I don't know what that means," he said mildly, flipping a page.
"It means you're a terrible liar, Professor."
He closed the book with a definitive thud and stood up so fast she almost fell sideways.
"I grabbed the wrong book," he mumbled and headed straight for the shelves like a man fleeing a burning building.
Tonks blinked after him, then huffed.
Really? That's his move? 'Wrong book'? Honestly.
Well. If subtlety wasn't getting her anywhere…
She stood too.
And in a slightly louder voice than was strictly library-appropriate, she called after him:
"PROFESSOR, DO YOU LIKE ME OR NOT?"
Every single head in the library snapped around.
A second-year student dropped their ink bottle. Someone let out a startled laugh. Madam Pince dropped her teacup and swore under her breath.
Professor Lupin returned at a speed that was borderline inhuman, face fully crimson, hands outstretched in a panicked shhh motion.
"Ms Tonks—Merlin's sake—keep your voice down—"
"I tried whispering; you didn't answer," she said sweetly.
"I Silencio you."
And then he actually did. Silenced her with a flick of his wand, right there in the middle of the library.
Tonks gasped silently, scandalised.
"You did not just silence me!" she mouthed furiously, jabbing her finger at him like she was about to hex him with interpretive dance.
He looked vaguely apologetic. Vaguely.
"I'll remove it later," he said, returning to his book, cheeks still glowing.
She stared at him. Then dramatically mimed crying.
Professor Lupin rolled his eyes but was smiling now, albeit barely. His quill resumed its journey across the page. Tonks slumped beside him, arms folded.
Fine. She'd sulk. Quietly. Until he regretted everything.
But five minutes later, the warmth of the room, the rustle of parchment, and the rhythmic scratching of his quill had lulled her into a semi-doze.
Her head dipped. Just once.
And again.
By the third nod, she was fast asleep—cheek pressed to the table, mouth slightly open, breathing softly.
She didn't stir until a warm hand touched her shoulder.
She blinked up blearily. "Mmf?"
Professor Lupin stood over her, a strange look on his face. Half amused, half something else—softer. Warmer.
He didn't speak. Just reached for her hand, tugging her gently to her feet.
Still half-asleep, she followed him through the maze of bookshelves and quiet alcoves to a hidden corner she hadn't even known existed.
"Professor Lupin?" she whispered, groggy and confused. "Are we going to… plot something? Or are you just kidnapping me?"
He stopped walking and turned to face her.
She hadn't expected the look in his eyes.
Not stern. Not flustered.
Just… fond.
Before she could ask anything else, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered.
Then—softly, so softly—he leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn't flashy or dramatic. No music swelled. No stars exploded.
But it was warm. Gentle. Earnest.
Like a secret he'd been keeping for far too long.
She kissed him back before her brain even caught up.
And when they finally pulled apart, her eyes were wide as saucers.
He shook his head fondly, but the blush was still on his cheeks.
She wanted to say a hundred things. Wanted to grab his hand and tell him how long she'd wanted this. How she'd dreamt about this exact moment, minus maybe the Silencing Charm and the public embarrassment.
But before she could say a word—
He kissed her forehead once, quickly.
Then turned and disappeared between the shelves.
Gone.
Tonks stood there in a daze, lips tingling, heart fluttering.
Her first thought: Did that just happen?
Her second: Oh Merlin, I hope Madam Pince didn't see that.
And her third?
She grinned, full and silly. I'm going to get detention, and it'll be entirely worth it.