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Post by Remus Lupin on May 11, 2012 12:14:27 GMT -5
OOC: *innocent* Establishing, guys, establishing. Getting into the zone. WE WILL RP THEM IN THE CURRENT TIMELINE WE SWEAR.
Timeline: Christmas Eve, December 1996
It was, without a doubt, a dreadful night. Not quite reaching the scale of a blizzard, but certainly not pleasant, softly falling snow, either. In fact, whatever it was falling from the swirling clouds (an ominous sign of heavier snowfall later on) more or less bordered on sleet. It was not the sort of night anyone wanted to be out in. Certainly not on Christmas Eve. Nay, Christmas Eve was a time for warmth. And family. And sitting in front of the fire, or under a tree riddled obesely with fairy lights, eyeing presents with anticipation of the morning to come over a game of Exploding Snap, a mug of eggnog. Or a book. Definitely a book.
And yet here he was. Out in the sleet. And the cold, so biting that his fingers felt just about ready to fall off through the gloves. Which said something, considering they were the thick, woolen pair Molly had knitted for him, as opposed to his usual thin, threadbare set. Crunching through the snow, on the bare outskirts of Knockturn Alley, of all the bloody places. He'd left the warmth and the company of the parlour at Grimmauld Place to trudge out here, snow crunching underfoot and cloak pulled over his head.
Remus chuckled softly, ridiculously cheerful considering the predicament he was in. Not that he had much of a choice in the matter anyw--alright, no. He did. He frankly didn't have to be out here at all, staking out on Order duty. It wasn't his turn. In fact, it was Dung's, but he'd offered to swap with the man not two hours ago. Probably a wise move, in hindsight; Dung had looked several mugs too far into the eggnog as it were, and frankly, he doubted the thief's guard partner for the shift would be in the sort of mood that would make her particularly inclined to show a drunken Mundungus Fletcher kindness. Truthfully, she was likely to hex the man to oblivion simply for turning up drunk, but Remus had learnt in recent times that the added incentive was enough to put the Order's resident Metamorphmagus in a right foul mood if she was caught out in it.
And that was when she had the opportunity to be warmed up in due order. Which she certainly didn't. Not in this case. Of course, it was Tonks; he'd known she'd not have so much as said peep upon finding out about this shift in particular. Not out loud, anyway; she was too good of an Auror, an Order member, to complain, despite what she herself might think. She'd grit her teeth and bear it. But she hated the cold; he knew that much.
And you're more than happy to go traipsing through the abominable cold weather on Christmas Eve when it comes to the resident Metamorphmagus, aren't you, you deluded prat.
Remus blew on his hands as the small, lackadaisical hut came into sight, inwardly sniping at the voice he'd long since dubbed as 'Padfoot's Attempts at Mindscrewery' - because the voice really did sound like Sirius at his most obnoxious - to shut it. That nobody should spend Christmas Eve in such an abominable manner. Not on their own. He cursed slightly when a foot slipped on a piece of ice, though he was mercifully spared a fall into the freezing snow drifts. As if on cue, a tall, imposing figure emerged from the hut itself, and Kingsley blinked in surprise at the sight of the werewolf rather than the thief there to relieve him. He recovered in due course, however, merely shaking the other man's hand with no small amount of gratitude - and a little sympathy, perhaps - and thanking him for the relief, amid soft chuckles pertaining to the mood in which he might find Nymphadora when he entered the small, cramped hut.
Remus remembered vaguely that Kingsley had a family of his own to return to, and he waved him off peremptorily once mission handover was aside. Then, wrapping his scarf tighter about his neck, he stepped into the hut, careful to fold his long frame under the door jamb lest he deal his forehead a nasty blow. Once in there, wolfish senses took a moment to adjust to the darkness, homing in on the small, faint glow of a half-cast Lumos in the corner nearest the low window.
Tonks was clearly in a right mood. Granted, she was curled back against the wall, knees to her chest and face hidden, but he'd come to know her well enough to just...well, know. Mind, he could hear a soft thumping sound that suggested she was beating her forehead against her knees, which helped ascertain her mood somewhat, and it was all he could do not to smile and make a playfully sarcastic comment in that general direction pertaining to her actions at the present.
But nor could he let it go entirely. With an irresistable mischievous impulse that had once, in days gone by, had him trailing his mates in their every prank and masterminding a few of his own, Remus took a moment amidst Tonks' distraction - and her no doubt utter displeasure at the thought of dealing with Dung - to silently cast a voice-altering charm - temporary, of course - on himself. That done, he moved quietly to her side, though with enough sound to alert her to his presence and to behave convincingly like her intended watch partner, folding his lean frame so that he sat down beside her, close enough to touch her knee with his (but not quite the whole leg, not for the moment).
He knew he'd pay for it. There was absolutely no way such a prank could be played in such a situation without some kind of retribution. Certainly not in this case, though he rather hoped she'd look before she reacted too violently - after all, he rather doubted she'd appreciate the image of Dung calling her his new nickname for her. Hardly at all.
"Hello there, kitten," he drawled softly, though the charm altered his voice patterns to sound distinctly like Dung's scratchy, whisky-slurred tones. "In a bit of a strop, are we?"
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Post by nymphadora tonks on May 13, 2012 2:49:19 GMT -5
Bloody. Hell.
Except that it wasn’t bloody and it wasn’t hell because blood was warm and hell was hot and this, this was not either of those things, this was just… damn cold. That’s what this was. Damn. Cold. Grey eyes stared out the window in front of her, room dark, watching flakes cake against the window under the dim street lights, flickering against the sill. Every breath, in&out, in&out, in&out, frosted in the air, ice in her lungs. Tugging at her hat, she pulled it snuggly over her ears, knuckles red&raw beneath her gloves. Part of her wished death eaters would storm the place and she could bask in the warmth of the curses flying by, then, of course, throw a few of her own, for good measure, always for good measure. A whole HOARD of death eaters. The thought made her snort into her sleeve. That’s what death eaters did—hoarded and grazed and grazed and grazed, like sheep only…. the black sheep. Ba, ba, black sheep have you any---
CONSTANT VIGILANCE.
Embedded into her every fiber, wasn’t it? Letters tracing along the lines of all the neurons in her brain, the words netting the creviced grey of her mind. And now, now more than ever, did they all need to practice constant vigilance. After all, one of their own had been nearly killed. Arthur. Weasley. Amusement drained from her face, replaced for a moment by something deeper, something harder, something stronger. Something. Else. Entirely. But he survived. He survived and he was fine and he was with his family. Except no one was fine. Not really. Everyone moving in the shadows, afraid to be caught in the light, exposed—easy prey. For the predators. And it was not just the wizarding world anymore either. Muggle London—a right mess, if Tonks said so herself (and she did, she did say so). Having a muggle father, Tonks acquired the habit of perusing through the muggle papers along with the Daily Prophet. So. Many. Fatalities. Or, in the world of muggles, ‘accidents, mysteries, foul play. No one could figure out just quite what happened either—no signs of hypoxia, of struggle, of bleeding. Muggle law enforcement, now what WAS the term, been so long, too long, ah yes, bobbies? Was that it? Ah, no matter. Tonks could not be bothered to stretch her vocabulary for something so trivial.
What mattered, was that any&all of these things meant that she had to be HERE. On Christmas Eve. On duty. In Knockturn Alley, of all places (knock, knock, whose there? Tonks!). Not that she minded. Not… really. When Mad Eye told asked her, she quickly accepted. After all, Mad Eye would be out too. All night, no doubt. And Mad Eye? A man after her own heart. If he had to brave the cold, winter winds, well then she would do it too, damn it. Gritting her teeth, she sunk further into herself, chin settling on her knees. What would Mad Eye say? Suck it up, buttercup. Sometimes, he could be too much, that Mad Eye. Lots of things could be too much though. Butter, for instance. With just the right amount, it made everything better, but with too much, it completely ruined everything. Tonks, at times, could just be too much. On missions, for instance. Too much--everywhere. Arms and legs just a little too out of place. Oh how Moody loved it when she compromised missions through her complete and utter lack of grace. But, when it came down to it, she could almost always come through—if necessary—and these days, the pressure was on, it was most definitely almost always necessary.
Probably why he decided to hole her up in this shack. No room to be all limbs. Not here. Though she still managed to step on Kingsley’s foot and elbow him in the stomach in the midst of beg, beg, b e g g i n g him not to leave. Don’t leave me, please don’t leave me, Iloveyou, you know that, right? You’re my favorite, absolute favorite, come o-o-o-o-n don’t leave me with DUNG. No pun intended. But of course… he did. And he chuckled on his way out. Batard. So she hurled a hex at the door. Now, now she got to spend the remainder of Christmas Eve with Mundungus Fletcher. Probably wasted and hiccupping and obnoxious. Head fell back against the wall with a t H u D and a resounding, ‘oww,’ before she decided to repeatedly hit her head against her knees in hopes to kill enough brain cells that she might be able to NOT kill anyone tonight. Because rational thought told her that someone would have to die. Better to be irrational about these things.
Finally, she left her forehead against her knees and closed her eyes. There were no death eaters here. Of course there were no death eaters here. All the bloody death eaters were in their pureblood mansions stuffing their pureblood faces with their pureblood eggnog. Hearing the door open, she didn’t bother to look up—Kingsley would not have let anyone in but Dung and if there had been a fight or a spell she would have heard the commotion. Seconds later, she felt a knee against her own and she reached out to shove it away, face scrunching in disgust as DUNG called HER kitten. How did he even KNOW? That was PERSONAL. That was between her and... well, that was PERSONAL. Sort of. “…It’s Tonks, you drunken git. And you have five seconds to remove any&all of your limbs from my vicinity or I will personally remove them, starting with the shortest, if you know what I mean, and I know you know what I mean,” she grumbled. Without waiting even one second, Tonks snatched up her wand and reached out to rap it against his knee, no harm done, just a few sparks of warning, before turning to glare at the stupid son of a --
Eyes widened. Cheeks flushed. “Remus!” No longer damn cold—bloody hell of a lot warmer in here. Strike a match.
Bloody. Hell. |
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Post by Remus Lupin on May 13, 2012 23:51:14 GMT -5
Baiting an Auror was perhaps not the wisest thing one could do, particularly an Auror who, as adored fond of her as he was, had displayed on more than one occasion something of a temper when thrown into a strop. The Black temper, if you could call it that, though a rather muted version of it. Still formidable when provoked, though. It was quite honestly asking for trouble.
And yet here he was, baiting the Auror. Dangerous indeed, and yet the Marauder who’d once been Moony chuckled inwardly in delight, even as werewolf reflexes had him half leaping to his knees to avoid the sparkly but undoubtedly sharp blow Tonks’ wand would deal to the limb in question. He grabbed a hold of her wrists with a choked sound that might have been stunned laughter, thereby preventing any other serious attempts to maim him permanently. For the moment, anyway.
Not that he needed to, or so it seemed; Tonks appeared rightly startled upon realising exactly who it was tormenting her, and Remus felt ridiculously pleased with the sight of her flushed cheeks, a flush that was most certainly not the sort of flush induced by the cold.
“I understand entirely what you mean. But I’d rather you didn’t curse my pinkies off, Nymphadora,” he deadpanned with a perfectly straight face. As if he hadn’t know what she’d been implying. As if he didn’t know what he was implying by letting that hang in the air. It might have passed scrutiny, too – it was certainly a brilliant deadpan expression for any given situation – had there not been an absolutely irrepressible mischievousness shining in hazel-blue eyes, rendering the usually faint amber lights a gleaming, playful gold amidst the blue that was a mockery of the glacial weather outside that it might otherwise have mimicked, had it not been belied by the pure warmth in his gaze. Polite and kind most days, but always warm, was Remus’ gaze. Even when he didn’t want to be.
Marauder indeed.
Once he was half-convinced certain she wasn’t about to hex his fingers or other useful limbs off, he let her go, taking a moment to squeeze her hands in a half-hearted apology before releasing them. Sitting back against the wall, he took a moment to free his voice of the spell - wand-free, of course, the git - then glanced out the window, brow crinkling slightly at how thoroughly miserable it looked from this angle. Outside, it had been bad, yet there was something about sitting inside, in frigid cold, that made it that much more deplorable. And Tonks was so very small – well, when he looked down at her from his height, anyway – which would not help matters in the slightest.
After a few moments he turned back, drawing one rangy leg to his chest and stretching the other out as much as he was able. Rubbing at it – the trick knee, always unhappy in cold weather – Remus graced his companion with an abashed smile – the very same sweet smile that had gotten him out of countless detentions in his school years – before rifling in the breast-pocket of his jacket, finally producing what looked to be, on first glance, crumpled foil, but on closer inspection, turned out to be a half-eaten block of chocolate.
“I come bearing gifts?” |
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Post by nymphadora tonks on May 16, 2012 6:37:22 GMT -5
Remus could play poker. Tonks had never personally seen him play poker, but she knew. No one could keep that straight of a face in the midst of punning puns and not be able to play poker. Somehow he always managed to do that—blimey, just think of the amount of detentions he likely weaseled himself out of (and not likely, but did, according to Sirius). Tonks may not know a lot about poker, but she certainly did know a lot about detentions. His hands caught her wrists and her immediate reaction was to pull away, but she stilled her muscles; after all, this was just Remus. No. Danger. Here. Right? “Well then,” she struggled to keep her own demeanor passive, though the ends of her lips tugged into a crooked grin, and she could not manage to wash away that bloody blush. “If that’s the case, you’d best not ever call me Nymphadora.” As he released her, she felt her lungs collapse in laughter, head falling back against the wall with a t H u D. “Really,” a wince flickered across her facial features, “it’s atrocious.”
Nymphadora Tonks. Nymph. A minor female deity of the Greeks, associated with various aspects of nature and various sexual activities. Nymphadora. Gift of the nymphs. What the bloody hell kind of name was that? Tonks supposed, really, that being a ‘gift’ from such dainty and beautiful mythological creatures, could be considered a compliment. That her mother considered her a gift at all, could be considered a compliment. But a gift from the NYMPHS? There was another explanation, that being that nymphs had the ability to change their forms: just like her. It made SENSE. Really. It did. But it was…it was as if… Tonks was ANYTHING but NYMPHesque. Graceful? Dainty? Beautiful? None. Of. The. Above. Bloody fond of the Greeks, those purebloods.
That smile. Bloody hell. Those eyes. Could melt even McGonagall, she’d wager (and probably had) just like b u t t e r—nonono, no melting, not here, too cold, after all, think of something else, think of… speaking of butter…cookies had butter. Ted Tonks’ chocolate chip cookies had loads of butter. Every Christmas eve, Ted Tonks made chocolate chip cookies. She and her mum helped here and there, but she never could get it right and her mum was far too accustomed to having a house elf to ever truly feel comfortable in the kitchen. How, oh how, did it go again? One teaspoon baking powder, one teaspoon baking soda, two teaspoons of sea salt, eight ounces of butter, one and a half cups of brown sugar, one fourth cup sugar, three eggs (minus the eggshell… better remember that) one tablespoon vanilla, three cups of chocolate chips (okay, okay, more like four) and two and a half bloody cups of flour.
“Somehow I’m not surprised you have chocolate with you... but I AM surprised there’s still half left and you haven’t gone and finished it off completely. You will, I imagine by the time the night’s over, just to keep your teeth from bloody chattering.” Reaching out, Tonks s N a P p E d a piece off the bar, after all, he DID say it was a gift, and held it up to him. “Cheers,” before taking a bite. “And thanks for sharing.” One eyebrow raised s he stretched out---clearly, he had not been here long enough. Soon he would be just as huddled as she was and contemplating the various degrees of frostbite. “Hey…” Pause. “What ARE you doing here? Not that I’m not ruddy glad to see you, I am of course, I just mean it was supposed to be Dung and you’re supposed to be with everyone and keeping Sirius in line because he doesn’t function very well without you in social settings, you know, how IS he doing, with… well, everything? And OH, how’s Arthur, haven’t gotten to see him since St. Mungo’s…” Letters piled up and one question quickly tumbled into another. “Okay, okay,” hands in the air in front of her, “first things first. How’d you end up here? And…” With a guilty grin, she reached out to break another piece of chocolate off, “I hope you brought more of this.” |
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Post by Remus Lupin on May 18, 2012 0:22:19 GMT -5
Remus could not, for the life of him, understand what exactly it was about her first name that she loathed as deeply as she did. Well, he could sort of see why, if he thought about it; it was a feminine name, and for all the time he'd known her, Remus had only ever seen Tonks attempt to cultivate the image of the tomboy. Well, as close to tomboyish as one could get, when your hair colour of the moment appeared to be bright, bubblegum pink. Still, she tried. Consciously, anyway, though he didn't dwell on the occasional, unconscious moments where she had done something, or moved a certain way, that had reminded him in no uncertain terms that she was still very much a woman - doing so was liable to make him quite uncomfortable, and in this proximity...well, then again, one could always hope that the absolute, frigid cold would act as a saviour to embarrassed pride, if it came to that.
Still, though she hated it, he found the name...well, beautiful, really. Gift of the Nymphs; it suited her to a tee, right down to her little hands and twinkling, mischievous eyes. Always a-twinkle, no matter their colour at the time; she was an imp. And that, much to his abashed, ashamed chagrin over the passing months, was exactly what enchanted him about her. More so and more so with every passing day. More so again with every opportunity to grow closer, in that way that only those fighting a common, dangerous cause could...but even he admitted it was steadily becoming more than that alone. For him it was, at least. Sigh.
It was tempting to tease her, to flirt with the name and continue to use it - would she dislike it so if it was spoken in a whisper, a sigh of breath in her ear? - purely to antagonise her, but for the briefest of moments, the Marauder who would whisper it so swayed to the rational side that was stuck out here, in the cold, on Christmas Eve, with a nymph eyeing him and questioning him with abrasive yet warm curiousity. He winced in sympathy when she knocked her head against the wall, though thin lips twitched under the stubble about his features despite himself. Absolutely hopeless, the poor girl. He might have been concerned, but she bounced back with her usual aplomb, attacking the chocolate he offered with a gusto he fully understood and appreciated. Her jibe at his well-known chocolate fetish was met with an attempt at wide, wounded eyes - who me? why would i ever? how could you think...? - before giving up the ghost and acknowledging the hit with a sweet (as melted chocolate), deceptively complacent smile.
He knocked her knee gently with his in acknowledgement of her gladness at his presence (though his heart raced pleasantly and the knobbier part of his knee was content to stay pressed, light as a feather, to hers), the smile on his features gaining a slightly more wistful tone as he considered her queries. And not technically in the same order, either. And certainly, certainly attempting to avoid answering at least one of them directly, if at all (you'd never guess which one). Doing so, even evasively, required he not look her in the eye. And look her in the eye he didn't, choosing to gaze out the window to the side at the growing wind outside. And the prospect of Death Eaters, of course. Always Death Eaters. Constant vigilance! as Alastor would say. Mind, Alastor would likely approve less as to the real reason behind such vigilance - an attempt to hide in the darkness, perhaps, the slightest trace of red that was most certainly not borne of the cold across scarred cheeks and romanesque nose.
"Sirius has Harry to entertain himself with; he'll be fine," Remus said softly, "Arthur is well as can be expected," thank Merlin, for that had been Remus' shift initially, and he had only just begun to forgive himself for it, noble git, "And...well, when I saw Dung, he was about six sheets to the wind, so I merely offered to swap with him. Spare him the wrath of a constantly vigilant Auror."
A lopsided grin and a hoarse half-chuckle accompanied that; Remus shrugged a shoulder, head inclining just enough so that he could see her from the corner of his eye (or as best as he could see, at any rate, for his hair had chosen one of it's inopportune moments to settle like the snow outside across his forehead and over abashed eyes.
"Besides, it's Christmas Eve." Because that explained *everything*, of course. "It was only fair to spare Sirius the throttling he was close to recieving for the absurdly gaudy decor and the increasingly drunken rendition of God Rest Ye Merry Hippogriffs."
Because it makes so much morse sense that I'd prefer to spend it with the absurdly colourful younger cousin. Out in the freezing cold. With chocolate. Which I may or may not have more of.
He could hear Sirius' drunken bark of laughter now. You sad, clever, pathetic git, Moony.
"And to answer your question, I may or may not have more chocolate. Maybe." A slight smirk - I'm so not telling you, either way. [/i] [/size][/blockquote] |
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Post by nymphadora tonks on May 31, 2012 23:39:35 GMT -5
Knobbly knocking knees—the contact sent a flut, flut, flutter through her stomach. Like butterflies. Absurd, of course, absolutely ridiculous, positively mad! No one ever had butterflies in their stomach—impossible, you see. Unless perhaps you swallowed one. Gulp, gulp, gulp. Metamorphmagus the metamorphosis. And the wheel breaks the b u t t e r f l y. A faint flush tinged her cheeks and she followed his gaze towards the window, tracing the lines of frost across the glass. Only slivers of moonlight piercing through the clouds, silver strands strung across strips of snow. The silence no longer stifling&unnerving, but comfortable&safe. So much to be said with so few words. Her own knee brushed back against his, head tilting to offer a lopsided grin. Christmas eve....Three french hens, two knees a knocking, and one pound of chocolate~.
Odd choice of words, wasn’t it? Entertain himself with. Sirius certainly did need a fair share of entertainment these days, going ruddy mad holed up in that house. Some sort of unspoken rule about taking shifts with the poor chap. Tonks rather enjoyed spending time with him though—bit off, but a few years in Azkaban paired with a certain amount of (B)black in the blood just might do that to a person. Hell, she’d never been quite on herself. “Arthur has quite the team behind him, those Weasley’s are something else.” Molly would patch him up in no time. If Tonks ever injured herself (well, more than usual) she would rather go to Molly than St. Mungo’s. The incident with Arthur hit close to come—the possibility of being harmed, maimed, &/or killed suddenly seemed much more real. The thought sent a chill trickling down the lining of her stomach. “How very noble of you,” she added dryly, pointing her wand at him oh-so-pointedly.
Tonks knew how to hit her mark. Mad Eye would accept nothing else. And if Dung HAD been the one to show up, Tonks just may have demonstrated her uncanny ability to do so. Constant vigilance was the standard, but constant perfection was also an expectation. The oh-so-riveting threats speeches he liked to make were often more than enough to make those in Auror training, and those well past training (everyone was a student to Mad Eye) pursue absolute perfection. It was not his words that did this little trick, no, his constant lectures on ‘constant vigilance,’ and ‘hit them or they’ll hit you and you’ll be no good to us,’ or, ‘if you die everyone behind you dies so you better damn well live.’ All particularly inspiring, of course—the first time one heard them. After that, it was a mad dash to get all your ducks in a perfectly straight row so that you may be spared hearing his not -in –any- way-comforting advice.
“Really? You don’t say! Christmas Eve, is it?” Nose wrinkled in amusement and she reached out without thinking to brush the hair from his eyes, hand retracting almost immediately after her skin skimmed across his. “Er, sorry. It’s just, dark in here—all ready hard enough to see you.” And I do like to look at see you. “Sirius can sing like a canary—long, loud, and lovely, of course, don’t forget lovely. Curious little creatures, canaries. Did you know muggle miners used canaries for a long time to warn them if they were in the presence of noxious gases? When the canary stopped singing or fell over dead, they knew it was time to get the bloody hell out of there. Barbaric, isn’t it? But brilliant too—what was I—oh! Yes,” off the tracks and down the beaten path. “Now that I know how fond you are of that song, I’ll have to ask Sirius to sing it with me tomorrow.”
Eyebrows raised, unimpressed, as she eyed him for a moment. “Oh? Is that so?” That smirk, thought he was so clever. “Is that a challenge then? You know I can’t back down from a challenge. I will find out if you have chocolate. You do realize I’m an Auror, don’t you? Trained in the art of questioning and searching.” Well. Not exactly. A bit, but Tonks never wanted to specialize in that area. Too impatient. “One way or another… you’ll tell me,” tone playful and laced with confidence. It was Christmas Eve, after all. And that, well, apparently that explained e v e r y t h i n g.
NOTES: O: sorry this took FOREVER. life=CRAZY. even more sorry it sucks. muse=dead. hope you can work with it! <3 |
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Post by Remus Lupin on Jun 1, 2012 23:44:56 GMT -5
Well, someone was snarky. And yet he was hardpressed to find any retort or line of thought that might dampen the mood, a mood that was, by logic, wholly innappropriate when one was stuck out in the freezing cold that was apparently working itself up into the blizzard of the century, searching for Death Eaters that were highly unlikely to show - if there were any at all - in such weather. And yes, on Christmas Eve. Yet, aforementioned wholly innappropriate good bastardlyteasing mood had little desire to be shaken.
Which he probably shouldn't be all that miffed at anymore, really - Moony had long since resigned himself that lest he was in the immediate days leading to full moon - and then, he winced at the thought of any moments where she might have caught the dead end of his own snarliness on such days - to an inability for moroseness when it came to bantering with the pixie-faced imp before him. Unless he dwelt too heavily on the reasons why such a fancy was a very bad idea to pursue. But even then...even then...
It was an unconscious reaction, really, to her fingers touching him. Light and barely there a moment before she drew back, cheeks aglow and babbling words well and truly building up their habitual steam, but it was enough for eyelashes to flutter half-closed, ever so briefly, dusting the young Auror's hand for the slimmest of moments in a way achingly familiar and certainly not unlike another occasion. An occasion where he had been disoriented and vulnerable and scared and shown far more than he would ever, ever show when all faculties were in working order. And she had comforted him. Somehow, in her own trippy, quirky manner of doing things, she had set him back in something close to working order, and even if he had not slept again until the very, very early hours of the morning - thoroughly awake, all contentment and lamenting focus and yearning all in one, and entirely for the brighthaired girl hugging him so fearlessly likehewasasoddingteddybear as she slept - it had been the...well, contentment. The most content he'd felt for a very long time.
That was frightening, in reality.
Yet Remus couldn't find himself capable of dwelling on that, if only for these few, precious moments. Instead, he merely raised his eyebrows in a sort of amused, inquisitive look (almost affectionate, and he might have had a minor heart attack if he could see his own face) - amusement at her little idiosyncracies, as always, and inquisitiveness because no, he actually hadn't known that. But then he snorted eloquently when she compared Sirius to one of the songbirds in question. An expression of mild disgust filtered in amidst the amusement, reminiscent of days gone by when a tall, lanky lad with blonde hair falling in his eyes watched aforementioned mate shovel down entire rashers of bacon at breakfast. Remus shook his head slightly, his tone wry and deadpan and yet somehow very obviously calculated to get a rise out of his...well, prey.
"If you enjoy the sound of the things being choked to death, then sure, he's lovely," he drawled. Hazel eyes followed the lazy yet pointed movements of the wand with a sort of air that wasn't quite wary, but still fairly watchful. Well, it gave the appearance as such - whether or not Remus was actually concerned was left to the imagination, for even as he watched her movements, his eyes narrowed just so before a long finger came up to partially still the wand's swaying.
"If you even think about it; I will personally ensure your tongue is langlocked to the roof of your mouth, Nymphadora," he growled, tone the epitome of dryness even as it somehow managed to conjure up who knew what images of what a person could do with their tongue. Which was...rather a lot, surprisingly, for such a small body organ. If he'd allowed himself space to think about that, Remus might have blushed a little. But he didn't, and he was rather enjoying a little too much the wicked banter that was-but-wasn't-quite-flirting (oh, it was. it so was.) with Tonks, and it was sodding Christmas Eve, after all.
Thus, he merely smirked at her threat - smug bloody git - before another finger rose to catch the wand neatly between the two, lowering it just enough so he could lean ever so slightly inwards. Eye to eye. Challenging gleam for challenging gleam, and unbidden, the thought of lying in wait, of all things, came to mind - Did you know a wolf can wait for it's prey for *hours*, Nymphadora? - and for the briefest moment, Tonks might, just maybe, be privvy to a glint of bright amber amidst the playful challenging. Trick of the light, perhaps? Perhaps indeed...or perhaps not. It was dark, after all.
"And I was a Marauder and a Professor, Auror Tonks." The soft, mocking-yet-not drawl was back. "I've made an art out of making people squirm." NOTES: GAAAH IT'S OKAY I LOVED IT AND I MISS YOU AND I HOPE THIS IS GOOD ENOUGH AND WILL MAKE YOU SMILE OR GIGGLY OR WHATEVER AMIDST THE MAELSTROM OF REAL LIFE. <3[/size] |
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Post by nymphadora tonks on Jun 11, 2012 1:57:34 GMT -5
Meeting in the night, the shadows, under the m o o n l i g h t. A different man in the darkness or a different man with her. Eyes traced over him, remembering the other night, when he had been scared and confused and neededher. Remus Lupin, the epitome of quiet and unwavering strength, needed…her. She hadn’t known what she could do for him, only that she could stay there, with him, by his side. Falling asleep in his arms… if he put his arm around her now… Such thoughts! How very… unvigilant. Gaze found his and she held it—it seemed, it seemed that he looked at her differently now, a softness, an understanding, a SOMETHING there that wasn’t there before. Or perhaps she was just being a silly little girl, making something out of nothing, and everyone knows nothing is never something, especially when it could be anything, oh yes, everyone knows, don’t you know, never make nothing out of something, or—wait… how did it—Blink. Did she, did she look at him like that? Averting her eyes, she bit down on her lip, pulling her knees closer to her chest.
Such a marvelous night for a moondance. Only there could be no moon and no dancing. Not here, not tonight, not with him. What WOULD Mad Eye say? CONSTANT VIGILANCE! Tonks knew what Mad Eye thought of romance within the ranks, especially during war. She knew how he disapproved of Alice and Frank Longbottom, of Lily and James Potter, of any whose love might one day cloud their eyes and impair their judgment. In war, one must see with eyes unclouded. One must be willing to make the necessary sacrifices. And how, HOW could one do that with a love left behind, a family waiting in the wings, so many strings attached? Put the good one everyone above your own. F o c u s. Tonks always wondered… had Mad Eye ever been in love, and if so, what the bloody hell happened? It must have been… something right awful.
“Oh he’s not so bad, don’t get your wand in a knot over it,” she rolled her eyes, waving her own wand at him carelessly. “Maybe you need to take a page from Dung and slam back a little eggnog, or you know, firewhisky. That ought to do it.” Remus. Drunk. How she would love to see that—only ever heard stories (courtesy of Sirius). "H-e-e-y, that reminds me, WHY are you here instead of him anyway?" Tonks quirked an eyebrow as he placed a finger against her wand, and she held it there, not moving, never moving. “Don’t. Call. Me. Nymphadora.” She repeated calmly, emphasizing each word. “And I’d like to see you try,” she huffed haughtily, of course, there were other ways to shut a girl up… and the only one he could come up with was a jinx? Tonks found her flut, flut, fluttering heart just a tad disappointed. And yet, was this… were they… flirting? Pulling pigtails and tattling and push|pull, push|pull, push|pull – S H O V E.
Remus moved to lower her wand and leaned forward, her breath catching as he did so. Rule one: Stand. Your. Ground. Never give an inch, and never back down. The minute you started to lose ground, you started to lose the battle, and everything, down to every last letter of every last word of every last conversation, was always a battle. Every meeting with another human being a confrontation of souls. Tonks refused to lose ground, and so she leaned forward as well, closing the gap. Indifference, of course, of course, the key to winning any battle, only problem was Tonks never could manage to be indifferent. His words caught her off guard—made her feel JUST a bit out of sorts (but not like squirming, no, no)—and in terms of the battle (as the battle always defined the terms) he seemed to be on point.
A glimmer in his eyes, the hint of mischief, or something else entirely the wolf lurking beyond the depths. Something yellow, perhaps, a faint howl, and those eyes, those yellow, yellow eyes, come closer my dear, my what big teeth you have, the better to b i t e you with, and where was that red hood, and she didn’t have an axe and what were little girls doing in such dark, scary forests all by themselves anyway? Beautiful shade of yellow though, so like a low harvest moon. “Well. I’m a Hufflepuff. And an Auror. AND the daughter of Andromeda. Have you MET that woman? So you should know that makes me damn stubborn. I’ve made an art out of besting both marauders AND professors, I’ll have you know. Or don’t you remember just WHO beat you and Sirius, self proclaimed world champions at exploding snap, last month? Now who WAS that brilliant girl? Bloody hell, can’t remember her name, but she, she is something else. Now where were we? Oh. Right. Do your worst, professor. You’ll just be disappointed.” Wink.
Always and ever a surprise, that Remus Lupin. |
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Post by Remus Lupin on Jun 14, 2012 8:17:43 GMT -5
She was a paradigm, was Nymphadora. All gutsiness and innocence and sarcasm and playfulness. All in one, and not for the first time, it tickled a place in his chest he’d thought he’d long ago cursed and buried out of sheer necessity. For others, to spare them the danger of dealing with him and that ‘other guy’ that took up residence in his body once a month, assuming they didn’t go and save him the trouble by running the hell in the other direction first. And for himself, to spare him…well… Well. It was utterly enchanting, regardless. She was utterly, ridiculously enchanting, and though he knew it to be quite absurd – and no doubt a little creepy for the enchantress in question, he fancied, should she ever be granted a ticket of access to his innermost thoughts – it never grew any less so.
There was a splatter of snow hitting window. The snowstorm was picking up pace outside. But still, they sat there, in perfect silence in the perfect darkness. And then Tonks looked away – just long enough for him to smirk slightly in victory. But then she was doing that thing she did with her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth, and Remus found himself questioning his so-called victory with no small amount of chagrin. But he couldn’t help it; he was only mortal, after all, and male at that; it was impossible not to be thoroughly distracted by such an action, to let one’s eyes – whether they were amber or blue-grey – follow her movements, lingering, with a brutally quashed pang of longing, on lips caught between teeth and knees pulled to chest in a way that was almost, almost girlish. Truthfully, it was rather adorable, this almost shyness, and he might have felt bad for teasing Tonks so (or grabbed the poor girl and kissed her senseless, with a middle finger waved cheerfully in the direction of Constant Vigilance!) had she not chosen that moment to look back up at him and speak.
“Cheeky,” muttered Remus. Firewhisky indeed. He hated the stuff. And—
”H-e-e-y, that reminds me, WHY are you here instead of him anyway.” [/i] Bollocks. She hadn’t forgotten. Of course she bloody hadn’t; she was an Auror for a reason. And a relation of one Sirius Black, who had a knack for remembering everything you didn’t want remembered over the course of your life. And she was a female, too. That just…spoke for itself. His small saving grace came though in the form of her amusing, utterly predictable response to her first name, and Remus latched onto the distraction quicker than a man flailing in rough seas. The quip that followed, daring him to do exactly what he’d threatened – shut her up – was met with brief but exceedingly provocative images that only the male mind could dream up on the fly, and Remus took a moment to swallow – as subtly as possible, he hoped – before leaning back once more, calloused hands dropping away from her wand to find the back of his neck. An adorable, habitual gesture of his, that was, rubbing the back of his neck, and for a moment, it seemed the boy man was backing off from their little game, in typical, reliable Remus fashion. But only for a moment. Because then she kept talking, talking herself up, challenging – push/pull, push/pull – and goading. The Marauderish glint of moments prior, in all it’s amber-eyed glory, made a comeback quicker than sunlight piercing through tree leaves; the hand that had been rubbing his neck shifting and taking residence, joined by it’s partner, behind his head in a way that was thoroughly designed to look as apathetic and as disbelieving as possible, smug and bordering on playful arrogance. And leaving his torso thoroughly unprotected, but she didn’t know just how beneficial that was, and she wouldn’t dare…would she? “All talk, talk and no action,” was the casual, bored drawl, seemingly lazy, yet utterly calculated to perfection in the art of riling up a fellow human being, “Typical Hufflepuff indeed.”[/blockquote][/size] Notes: …get him, Tonks. GET HIM AND TACKELTICKLE MAKE HIS SMUG FURRY ARSE PAY. xD And I am so, so sorry this sucks, Flu! >< |
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Post by nymphadora tonks on Jun 17, 2012 2:43:45 GMT -5
Snow flaked across the glass, gathering along the window pane, and Tonks wondered briefly if they wouldn’t be snowed in all together before dawn. Snowed in with Remus Lupin, what a curious thought. Eyes drifted back towards him, watching as he pulled away now, hands curling along the back of his neck in a sheepish manner. Just a sheep in wolf’s clothing, or perhaps a wolf in sheep’s clothing, with that hint of something in his eye. Tonks studied him; he retreated. Stepped over the line only to pull back in, reserved once more. Always a line, drawing lines and crossing them, stepping over&under, keeping people out, keeping yourself in. Tonks hated lines. Especially THIS line, here, between them, with her all over here and him all over there and maybe if they could just build a snowman and call him parson Brown… The tune trickled from her head to her lips, words forming under her breath, “in the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he’s a circus clown. We’ll have lots of fun with mister snowman… till all the other kids knock him down…â€
Mouth dropped as he just flat out INSULTED her AND her house. “What!†She huffed, chest rising haughtily as she stared at him in disbelief. “FIRST of all when I say I’m going to do something I ALWAYS follow through, I’ll have you know. Second, NO house is more stubborn than Hufflepuff, like trying to take down a brick wall, AND THIRD, YOU are the one who said YOU were going to make ME squirm and then YOU were the one that BACKED DOWN, not ME, so what does that say about YOU, Mr. Gryffindor? Where is all that courage? Lost your roar? So the little lion man is just a kitty after all then,†she retorted—after all, you can insult her, but you can NEVER insult the house of Hufflepuff. Loyal down to the bone, those Hufflepuffs. Huff and puff and b l o w the other houses down.
Now, now she had to take him down. Well, well. If she had to REALLY bruise his ego, then she would do it. That Tonks, always taking one for the team. People thought Aurors were just skilled with spells. Most people did not know that Mad Eye put them through a very intense boot camp or sorts, modeled after muggle military training. One of his focuses was self defense WITHOUT magic—especially for the ladies (which always made Tonks rant to the nearest person in the SOFTEST whisper she could manage about the backwards view of the wizarding world and women, which always resulted in Mad Eye volunteering Tonks to go first and consequently concluded in Tonks being taken down and knocked flat on her back within all of two point five seconds). With her lack of coordination, such training had been difficult for her, but she could often tire out an enemy through sheer determination. So. Tonks sized him up. He could probably, most definitely, absolutely take her. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t put up one hell of a fight. Pin him a good one. And then hex him after for good measure.
With that, she lunged. Tonks tackled Remus. Throwing her body at him (punning puns intended) she attempted to catch him off guard and knock him to the ground, placing a hand against his forehead. Of course, she learned all her tricks from Mad Eye, so, naturally, they all involved breaking bones. A good kick to the patella and s H a t T e R! A nice bend of the arm and slam of the fist on the elbow and S h A t T e R! Heel of hand to end of nose and s H a A a A a A t T e R! Well now. That DID propose a problem. Tonks did not wish to break him. She just wanted to take him down. Strategy, strategy, strategy. She was particularly fond of the arm take down. Someone reached out, all you had to do was slam your forearm against the crook of their elbow (joints! Remember joints! Like constant vigilance to Mad Eye) and w H a M! Attacker down, arm in hand, bend it back and s M a S h the elbow with the fist. Try using a wand with that arm. Of course this wasn’t a true take down, just a little game~.
Actions, after all speak louder than words. “Got’cha.â€
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