Snapshots: Moving On

[toujours_nigel]

Andromeda Tonks—it took her years to stop calling herself Andromeda Black inside the confines of her head—is a woman content with her lot. She has a charming husband who adores her and a brilliant, beautiful when she so-chooses, daughter who does the same. She is climbing back up the social ladder and not finding it overly difficult. In these times of superficial equality, it seems to matter more that her husband is the head of the Department of Foreign Trade at the Ministry of Magic than that her in-laws are Muggles. Besides, the Black money, and the Black charm, both of which she owns in more-than-adequate amounts, are as effective as ever at making obstacles disappear. Her husband, on their tenth anniversary, bought her the spacious manor she now calls home. It’s a house any woman would be proud to own, set amid sprawling grounds, luxurious and well furnished. That her husband leaves various knick-knacks all over the place, and her daughter trips over every single one of them, are, she feels, irrelevant. Indeed, it adds to the fun and reminds her that though this manor resembles the one where she spent her childhood in almost every aspect, this is her home and she is free to do whatever she wishes in it.

           

“Take another scone.” And, every month, on the thirteenth day after the full-moon, she wishes to have tea with Remus Lupin.

           

“I really can’t. I’m stuffed.”

           

“Nonsense. You look like a starving urchin.” He doesn’t really, not any more, but he had, when she found him in an old book-shop in Diagon Alley, nearly ten years ago, packing up his belongings, having just lost job and place to live in one blow. She had hauled him to her apartment and fed him. He refused to remain as a guest, but she had checked up on him the next month and the month after that and, somehow, that had blossomed into this ritual. “I bet you didn’t eat properly, this last year.” He smiles guiltily. “I knew it. Why won’t you take care of yourself?”

           

“The spirit is willing, believe me. I just don’t always remember at the right time, and…”

           

“Remus, your employer…”

           

“Mr. Tsarvosky.”

           

“Yes. He did pay enough for your meals, didn’t he?”

           

He swallows. “Yes, Meda. Of course he did. I just… I don’t always remember.” Stupid, stubborn man.

 

“Of course. Well, now that you’re back, I’m going to make sure you eat right, okay?” He nods. “Honestly, you’re worse than Nymphadora.”

           

“I see she’s home,” he says, looking up and smiling.

           

“How did you know?” She’s almost sure she’s cleaned up all signs of Dora’s invasion.

           

“While I’ve been told he was an eccentric man, I doubt your Uncle Alphard had that photograph taken in quite that position,” he says wryly, pointing at a photograph that’s hanging upside down. “Besides, today is the 1^st of July. Where would she be if not at home?”

           

“Anywhere but at home, I wish,” she smiles. “Are all children this hyperactive after graduating?”

           

“More or less. I suspect it’s the sheer sense of freedom that comes from knowing that, no matter what they do, they won’t get detention ever again.”

           

“No, but the idea of marrying her off is sounding more and more tempting.”

           

He laughs along with her. “Really? Any offers?”

           

“Sadly, no. What she did to scare them all off I really don’t know. Nor want to, I’m sure.”

           

“So, what’s she going to do now? Any plans?”

           

“Dora wants to become an Auror. She’s qualified, but…”

           

“It’s an honourable profession, Meda. It pays relatively well, though I know she’s never going to have to worry about that. And it’s really not that dangerous anymore.”

           

“That’s what Ted said,” she admits.

           

“He’s right. Meda, the war was ten years ago. You won’t be sending your daughter into a battle-field.”

           

“I know. Besides, it’s not like I can stop her if she really wants to and she does.”

           

“And I’m sure absolutely no idea where she gets that.”

           

“None at all,” she says, staring into Remus’ twinkling eyes. “I’ll let her, but only if a suitable mentor is found for her.” Her daughter deserves the best and she’ll have nothing else.

           

“Even two years ago, I’d have said you should pick Moody, but now… It’s not that he’s still not the best mind they have, but he isn’t exactly… stable, anymore.” He’s quiet for a while, staring at the dregs in his cup. “I’ve been out of touch with him for a while, but I’d say Kingsley Shacklebolt is your best bet. He was in school with us, a few years younger. He graduated from the Academy about six years ago. Should be about ready to start mentoring. I’ll write and see what he thinks.”

           

“Thank you, Remus, that’d be…”

           

A loud crash on the stairs, followed by loud and fluent cursing, interrupts them.

           

“I take it Dora’s awake?” he asks, peering at her, mouth twitching.

           

“Brace yourself.”

           

He does, but it turns out to be needless. Dora—there’s no other word for it—glides into the room. “Hello, Remus. Mum said you might be coming.”

           

He blinks, clearly not entirely at ease with this new apparition. “Hello, Nymphadora. It’s good to see you.”

           

“It’s Tonks.” Why Dora so hates the name is beyond her. It’s a nice name.

           

“For now,” he says.

           

“Good to see you, Remus.” Dora has grown up, a lot. The year before last, she’d flown at Remus and hugged him hard enough that he couldn’t breathe. By the time school let out last year, Remus had already left and this year, all Dora offers is a civil handshake. “Did you just arrive?”

           

“I was almost on the point of departing, as a matter of fact.”

           

“That’s really… inconvenient. I’ve promised some friends I’ll go out with them. But I can always cancel. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

           

“No. Don’t do that. I’m here now and planning to stay for a while. We can catch up later, you and I.”

           

“Alright then. Mum, I’ll be back for dinner. I think.”

           

“Well, you know the rules.”

           

“Floo if it’s later than 11. Yes, Mum. Bye.”

           

“Remus. Are you alright?” He has slumped in his chair, looking suddenly tired.

           

“Yes. Of course. When we left school, she was barely four years old. And now she’s all grown-up. Makes me feel old.”

           

“You’re not old.”

           

“Thirty-one and nothing to show for it,” he says, smiles. “Don’t mind me, Meda. I’m fine.” He straightens up. “She looks so much like him.”

           

So does she, but at nearly forty, she doesn’t at first glance resemble him anymore. “She didn’t do it on purpose, Remus. And I don’t know why she’s picked it up.”

           

“I suppose it works as well on boys as it used to on girls,” Remus grins. “And I’ve no doubt I’ll feel even older in seven years’ time. Harry starts school this September.”

           

She does the math. And it’s true. James’ son at Hogwarts. “Will he? There’s been some speculation that he was being brought up in France or America…”

           

“No. With Lily’s sister and brother-in-law, right here in England. Surrey, actually.”

           

“Was that wise? I mean, I don’t know much about them, but from what little I remember they don’t seem the best guardians for a little boy.”

           

“They’re probably not. But it was Dumbledore’s decision. Ours not to question why, and all that.”

           

“Yes. Well, let’s hope it doesn’t quite come to that. Still, once he’s in Hogwarts, he’ll be fine.”

           

“I know of at least one mother who’ll be instructing her child to do everything to make sure that happens.”

 

“Really? Who?”

           

“Molly Weasely. She was never very close to James, but once Lily got pregnant, Molly took her under her wing. Her youngest son’s starting this year as well.”

           

“So’s Narcissa and Lucius’ son. And little Neville Longbottom. And Edgar Bones’ neice.”

           

“Well. Nymphadora started out quite a while ago, and I’m never sure which generation Molly Weasely’s eldest boys are in, but the younger lot’s getting well and truly started, isn’t it?”

           

“D’you think,” she asks, now openly grinning, “that they’ll be able to beat our records?”

           

“Not a chance,” he says, grinning back. “But they just may give us a run for our money.”