Chapter 6

Sunlight poured through the tall windows of the Hufflepuff girls' tower, soft and golden, catching on crumpled parchments and half-kicked-off blankets. Tonks lay flat on her bed, arms flung out, one leg dangling lazily over the edge. She stared up at the ceiling like it might spell something out for her—something she wasn't quite ready to say aloud.

Her heart still hadn't quite settled. Not since last night. Not since him.

The firelight flickering across his walls. The way his eyes crinkled when she pushed him too far. That reluctant, lovely smile, dragged from somewhere deep inside him—somewhere lonely.

And then: You're young and charming and pretty.

She'd felt the rest of it humming in the silence he left behind.

Tonks pressed a hand to her chest and let out a breathless, horrified laugh.

"Bloody hell," she muttered. "I'm in love with my professor."

She said it like a punchline, but it didn't land like one. It wasn't funny. It wasn't even a crush. It was big. Like she'd accidentally opened a door into something vast and terrifying—and, worse, stepped through.

She needed to talk. Properly. Not just idle gossip or the usual late-night dramatising—but talk. And there were only two people who'd ever really got all of her, even when they hadn't known exactly what they were seeing.

Still in her oversized Weird Sisters T-shirt, she padded barefoot down the dormitory stairs, hair sticking up slightly at the crown where she'd dozed. The common room was warm, cluttered, and familiar—smelling faintly of old wood, toast crumbs, and ink. Books rustled. A few second-years huddled over exploding snap cards. Someone's cat was curled in a sunbeam.

Near the fireplace, Chiara and Penny were tucked into one armchair like they always were, legs tangled, whispering with the kind of intensity that usually ended in someone getting a telling-off or a hickey.

"—So I said, 'If you're not going to unbutton it, I will.'" Chiara's voice was low, wicked.

Penny let out a shriek. "No you didn't!"

"Oh, I did. We barely made it out of the corridor by the Astronomy Tower. Worth it. I think he might've cried when I left."

Tonks stood behind them, watching the scene unfold, heart tugging in a dozen directions at once. This used to be hermagic. This kind of thing—the thrill of it, the confidence, the stories they swapped like badges. They'd planned nights like campaigns, and she'd always been the general: bold, unbothered, and brilliant.

But something had shifted. Cracked open.

Remus bloody Lupin.

She didn't know how to start. Didn't know how to explain that her compass had changed direction overnight—and she wasn't sure how to follow it.

She cleared her throat. "Oi."

Both girls turned at once, faces lighting up.

"There she is!" Penny said, grinning. "We were just deciding what to wear for Hogsmeade next weekend. I'm thinking something sheer enough to scandalise a ghost."

"And you are coming, right?" Chiara added, nudging a cushion aside. "It's not the same without you leading the charge."

Tonks smiled, but it didn't quite reach. The pull was there—habitual and warm. But her heart was somewhere else now. Some firelit room with curtains that smelt faintly of cedar.

She sat down on the ottoman across from them, hands knotting in her lap.

"Actually… I wanted to tell you something. Bit serious."

The air shifted. Penny's smile faded a touch; Chiara sat up straighter.

Tonks swallowed, then said it before she lost the nerve. "I don't think I want to keep doing this anymore."

A pause.

"Doing what?" Penny asked gently.

"This." Tonks gestured vaguely. "The sneaking about. The snogging for the sake of it. The way we… use people. Boys. Whatever. I know I was the worst for it. Led half the charge, probably. Thought it made me feel powerful." She looked down at her hands. "But it didn't. Not properly. Not in the way I wanted."

Chiara opened her mouth to say something, but Tonks pushed on before she could get a word in.

"Last night… I had dinner with Professor Lupin."

Penny blinked. "Wait—what?"

"Just dinner," Tonks said quickly, holding up her hands like she could physically ward off their assumptions. "Nothing happened. Nothing inappropriate, I mean. But…" She hesitated, eyes flicking to the firelight dancing across the hearthrug. "It made me see things differently. The way he talked to me, the way he looked at me—it wasn't like I had to try. I didn't need to flirt or push or pretend I was older or cleverer than I am. I just… existed. And he saw me. All of me."

Chiara tilted her head, eyes narrowed slightly—not suspicious, just thoughtful. "So what are you saying?"

Tonks exhaled, long and quiet. "I'm saying I'm in love with him. I think I have been, quietly, for a while now. And after last night, after feeling what it's like to be truly respected—to have someone listen—I can't go back to what we were doing before. I don't want to keep giving little bits of myself away just to feel like I matter."

Silence settled over the room. Behind Chiara's shoulder, the fire gave a low pop, and a tiny ember soared briefly before fading.

Tonks shifted forward on the ottoman, voice gentler now. "I know how this might sound. And I swear, I'm not judging either of you. You're brilliant. Fierce. You can do whatever you want with your lives and your bodies—hell, I admired that about us. But for me, it's changed. I want to focus. I want to become someone he could be proud of. And if there's ever a real chance with him…" Her voice caught. She smiled faintly. "I want it to be because I chose something better. Something that actually feels like me."

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Penny reached out, without hesitation, and took Tonks' hand in both of hers. "You don't sound judgemental," she said quietly. "You sound like you're growing up."

Tonks let out a short laugh, a wobble of emotion catching her off guard. "Merlin, don't say that. Makes me feel like I should be knitting jumpers and collecting cats."

Chiara cracked a smile, relaxing into the armchair again. "Well… I'm not gonna lie; I'll miss your stories. But if you're serious about him—really serious—I get it. And honestly," she shrugged. "He'd be lucky."

The knot in Tonks' chest loosened. Not completely. But enough. Enough to make her feel like she hadn't lost them after all.

She leaned back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her. "So. No sheer robes for me next Hogsmeade weekend. Might actually stay back and study."

Penny gasped. "You? Turning down a trip and a shopping spree? Lupin's already working miracles."

"We'll have to tell Badeea," said Chiara, swinging her legs over the side of the chair with casual flair. "Before she has to hear it from someone else and faints dead away."

Tonks gave a dry laugh, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. "Badeea won't be a problem."

"Oh, she'll be relieved," Penny grinned. "She's always looked one cracked gobstone away from a nervous breakdown every time we brought up snogging strategies. Swear, she used to go redder than the Gryffindor banner."

Tonks snorted. "She really did. Like a tomato in a wig."

They giggled, tension softening just enough for a moment of lightness to slip in. But it didn't last.

Because the minute Badeea left Tonks' thoughts, another name took her place. And this one didn't come with fond memories or forgiving smiles.

Ismelda Murk.

The thought of her brought a cold, sick flutter to Tonks' stomach, like someone had tipped a bag of beetles into her gut.

"I'm not worried about Badeea," she said quietly. "It's… Ismelda."

Both girls fell silent at once. Penny winced.

"Oh," she said, subdued. "Yeah. She's… gonna have thoughts."

"Understatement of the bloody century," Tonks muttered. Her tone was light, but her heart had already started its old anxious flutter. That particular flicker of dread she only ever got when something real felt genuinely dangerous.

Chiara crossed her arms. "She's not exactly famous for being open-minded."

"She's not famous for much except her ability to hex someone for sneezing too loudly," Penny added, though there wasn't much humour behind it.

Tonks nodded, lips pressed into a thin line.

Ismelda wasn't the sort of person who took well to being crossed. She was loyal—fiercely so—but brittle with it. The kind of girl who dug her heels in when the ground shifted and dragged you down with her if you dared move on without her.

"She's going to think I'm abandoning her," Tonks said quietly. "Or judging her. Or worse—turning into some boring, lovesick schoolgirl who's chucking everything away for a bloke."

Chiara gave a pointed look. "Even if that is sort of what you're doing," she said with a smirk, "it's still your choice."

Tonks groaned and dropped her face into her hands. "I just don't want her to think I'm trying to be better than her."

"You're not," said Penny firmly, leaning forward. "You're just trying to be better for yourself. Big difference."

"She'll see it as betrayal," Tonks murmured, fingers tangled in her hair. "I know she will. She won't understand why this matters to me. Why he matters."

There was a pause.

Then Chiara nudged her foot, gently but deliberately. "So tell her. Maybe she'll shout, maybe she'll sulk, maybe she'll hex something—"

"Or someone," Penny muttered under her breath.

"—But that's her decision," Chiara finished. "You owe it to yourself to be honest. You can't live your life on someone else's terms just because they were there at the beginning."

Tonks nodded slowly, her throat tight. They were right, of course. She knew they were. But that didn't make the knot in her stomach any looser or the ache behind her ribs any softer. Facing Ismelda felt like throwing herself at a wall and hoping it blinked first.

Still… if she meant to be serious about this—about Remus, about growing up, about stepping into the person she wanted to become—then she had to face this too.

Even the fallout.

She straightened, brushing her fringe back from her eyes, and gave her friends a crooked smile. "Alright. I'll talk to her tonight."

Penny gave her a solemn nod, then raised her hand in a mock salute. "If we never see you again, we'll tell the Aurors where to start."

Tonks gave a weak laugh. "That's… oddly comforting. Thanks."

As the conversation drifted back into lighter things—talk of robes and Butterbeer and whether Charlie Weasley had actually waxed his eyebrows or just lost a bet—Tonks sat a little apart, quiet in her thoughts.

She wasn't afraid of Ismelda, not really. Not her wand, or her temper, or the way her voice could cut sharper than a broken quill.

What frightened her was what she might become if she didn't face this. If she kept shrinking herself to fit the person Ismelda still expected her to be.

Because deep down, under all the jokes and bravado, she knew the truth.

She'd changed.

And no matter what happened next, she wasn't going back.

The corridor outside the Room of Requirement was unusually still. Not even the usual whisper of wind snuck through the stones. It was the sort of silence that made Tonks's thoughts feel louder.

She stood before the blank stretch of wall, spine straight, hands cold.

A door appeared.

Her fingers hovered near the handle, and for a moment, she faltered. She could walk away. Say she'd fallen asleep. Say she'd forgotten. It would be easier. Quieter.

But not fair.

She pushed the door open.

The room had shifted into something familiar—low lighting, squashy chairs, and a small hearth glowing in the corner. The sort of place that made you feel safe, even when you shouldn't.

Ismelda sat on the windowsill, legs tucked up, the amber light catching the edge of her jaw. She looked up at the sound of the door, something uncertain flashing in her eyes before she masked it with a smirk.

"You're late," she said, lightly. "I thought you might've bottled it."

"Nearly did," Tonks admitted, forcing a small smile. "Sorry."

Ismelda slid down from the sill and crossed the room in three quick steps. "So? What's this urgent thing you had to tell me? You're not expelled, are you? Please tell me it's something scandalous."

Tonks sat down slowly, clasping her hands to stop them shaking. Her throat felt dry.

"No, not expelled," she said. "Nothing like that."

Ismelda flopped into the seat beside her, knees turned in, eyes watchful. "You're acting weird. Just spit it out, Tonks."

Tonks inhaled, chest tight.

"I've fallen for someone."

There was a pause. Stillness stretched between them like a held breath.

Ismelda's expression didn't shift, but her fingers curled inward. "What do you mean, 'fallen'?"

"I mean… I think I'm in love."

The words hung in the air.

Ismelda blinked. Her jaw worked, like she was chewing down a reaction. "So… who is he?" she asked carefully. "One of the boys from the match last week?"

Tonks hesitated. "Not exactly a boy."

Ismelda stared at her.

And then her voice dropped. "It's not him, is it? The professor?"

Tonks glanced down. "Yeah," she said softly. "It is."

Something sharp flickered across Ismelda's face. A flicker of hurt. Disbelief. Maybe even betrayal.

"You're serious," she said, voice thin. "I knew you had a thing for older men, but—Tonks, he's your teacher."

"I know," Tonks whispered. "Believe me, I know it's messy."

Ismelda shot to her feet like she'd been slapped, backing away from the fire. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself.

"So that's it, then?" She snapped. "You came here to break up with me?"

Tonks stood too, heart hammering. "Ismelda, we weren't—"

"Don't," she cut in, voice brittle. "Don't do the whole 'we weren't really a thing' speech. We were a thing. You brought me here. We talked for hours. You looked at me like I—like I was seen for once."

"You were," Tonks said, eyes stinging. "You are. You matter to me, Ismelda. Just not… not in the way you want."

Ismelda laughed, but it was hollow. "Because of him?"

Tonks looked away.

"Merlin's beard," Ismelda muttered, pacing now. "You're throwing everything away. For what? Some brooding History of Magic professor who reads too many dusty books and flinches when you laugh too loud?"

Tonks flinched.

"I didn't plan it," she said. "I didn't want it to happen. But it did. And with him—I feel like myself. Like I don't have to perform or hide behind all the noise. I feel like… I could be more."

"And what am I, then?" Ismelda's voice broke. "A phase? Some dramatic detour?"

"No," Tonks said fiercely. "You're someone who helped me survive this place. Who understood me when nobody else did. But I can't pretend anymore. I won't lie to you. Or to myself."

Ismelda turned away, wiping her sleeve roughly across her cheek.

"And what now?" she muttered. "You go full Hufflepuff and write love poems in the margins of your Herbology notes?"

Tonks smiled sadly. "No poems. Just… trying to be honest. About who I am. About what I want."

Ismelda didn't answer. She stood stiffly by the fireplace, her back to Tonks, arms still folded like armour.

"I still want to be your friend," Tonks said quietly.

"You don't get to want things anymore," Ismelda replied.

Tonks didn't argue.

Tears welled in Ismelda's eyes, and she blinked them back with a sharp shake of her head. "You're just like the rest of them," she said thickly. "I thought—when you looked at me—I thought you actually saw me. Not the angry girl with too many sharp edges. Not the one everyone avoids in corridors."

Her voice cracked.

"You made me feel like I wasn't broken. And now you want me to just go back to that? Like none of this ever mattered?"

Tonks's throat tightened. Her heart felt like it had splintered. "I'm not asking you to go back to anything," she said gently. "I want you to move forward too. To find someone who sees you properly. Who wants you. The way you deserve to be wanted."

"But it's not you."

Tonks hesitated—then nodded. "It's not."

The silence that followed was heavy—more than that. It pressed against her ribs, thick and suffocating.

Ismelda wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, furious at herself. "I hate you," she whispered. "Right now, I do. But I also don't. And I wish I did."

"I know," Tonks said softly. Her voice trembled despite herself.

Ismelda stared at her for a long moment—something raw and sharp and unbearably human in her expression.

Then she turned and walked to the door.

She didn't slam it. Didn't shout.

But the quiet click as it closed behind her might as well have echoed through the walls.

Tonks stood there a moment, frozen, before her knees gave way and she sank into the worn old armchair. Her hands covered her face. Not to hide. Just to hold herself still.

The grief was messy. Not neat, not clean. Not even just grief.

It was anger and guilt and mourning and some strange thread of love, all knotted together, too tightly to pick apart.

She sat long after the fire had begun to fade, the orange glow shrinking into faint embers. The weight of it all pressed into her limbs—final, yes. But necessary.

It had been the right choice.

But, Merlin, it hurt.

The days started slipping by quicker than Tonks could count them. One blink, and it was November. Another, and she was chasing parchment scraps down a snowy corridor in December, her scarf trailing behind her like a kite tail. But she wasn't watching the calendar the way she used to—not counting down to the next Hogsmeade trip or plotting some midnight detour just for the thrill.

She wasn't looking for an escape anymore.

No. These days, she was working.

Like, actually working.

Not scribbling half-hearted answers five minutes before class with ink on her fingers and a biscuit in her mouth—but properly revising. She had colour-coded flashcards. A timetable stuck to the dormitory wall with little enchanted stickers shaped like cauldrons. She even bought a highlighter set at Zonko's of all places. Somewhere between all the chaos, she'd become the sort of person people asked for help from before an exam.

And honestly? She was both rather proud and mildly horrified by it.

She couldn't pin down exactly when the change had happened. Maybe it started in Professor Lupin's office, the first time she'd caught herself hanging onto his every word—not because she fancied him, but because she wanted to be better. Or maybe it was after that night in the Room of Requirement when she'd made a choice that hurt like hell but felt like the first real step forward in ages.

Whatever it was, something had shifted.

She didn't want to live on the edges anymore. No more sneaking about in shadows or using wild nights to fill up the empty bits. No more pretending her choices didn't stick to her skin the morning after.

Because now, she wanted something.

She wanted purpose. She wanted clarity. She wanted to earn every inch of the future she'd only just begun to imagine—in the quiet, private corners of her mind. A future where she was strong. Grounded. Steady. Maybe even walking beside someone who made her feel all those things just by looking at her.

Someone like Professor Lupin.

Even the thought of him made her stomach flutter in that annoying, traitorous way it always did when she was trying to concentrate. Leaves in a gust of wind—that's what it felt like. Restless, but never unpleasant.

She still had those lessons with him, tucked away in his office that always smelt faintly of old books and something warm. Not every week, but enough that she had to stop herself rehearsing what to say beforehand like a third-year with a crush. Which she supposed, embarrassingly, she was.

But it didn't feel silly. Not anymore.

Because he didn't treat her like a daft girl playing grown-up. He listened to her ideas. Challenged her when she cut corners. Noticed when she improved. Those quiet nods of approval—rare, but real—meant more than any mark scrawled in red ink ever could.

So she worked harder.

She started getting up early—voluntarily—just to revise before breakfast. She skipped the louder gossip circles and late-night prank wars, preferring the steady scratch of her quill and the satisfying click of things falling into place. Her wandwork sharpened. Her essays got tighter, cleaner. Even Professor Snape gave her a reluctant nod one day in Potions, which very nearly made her drop her cauldron.

And the strangest thing? She wasn't miserable.

She liked this version of herself. The one who gave a damn. The one who didn't roll her eyes at effort. The one who wanted something real, even if it took longer, even if it was harder.

She didn't go on about it, either—Merlin forbid she start monologuing about growth. But her friends noticed anyway. Chiara lingered longer in the library now. Penny swapped her enchanted mirror for a dusty Transfiguration textbook one lazy afternoon and didn't even complain. Badeea finally stopped pretending she wasn't a genius and started showing it. It was like they'd all quietly decided to raise the bar. Not to be perfect. Just to be better.

It wasn't about school anymore. It was about them.

Tonks still had a laugh, of course. There were midnight snack raids and whispered conversations about love and bodies and how impossible it was to be seventeen and feel everything so much. But the tone had shifted. Their friendship had deepened. She wasn't leading them off cliffs anymore.

She was helping them find footholds.

And in the hush of her dormitory, with the curtains drawn and her hair its natural, soft brown—the colour it always slipped back to when she was too tired to change it—she let herself dream.

About him.

About sitting beside him not as a pupil, but as an equal. As someone he might respect not just for her spark or her stubbornness, but for her quiet effort. Her choices.

She knew it wasn't the time yet. The world was watching. He had rules and ghosts and walls around his heart higher than the Astronomy Tower. But she didn't need it all now.

She just needed to become the sort of woman who could hold that kind of love—and keep it.

Because what she felt wasn't a crush anymore. It wasn't a passing fancy or a schoolgirl obsession.

It was something slower. Truer. A fire that warmed rather than burnt.

It was love.

And for the first time in her life, she didn't feel lost in it.

She felt ready.

The moment she stepped into his office, Tonks could tell he'd noticed.

He didn't gasp or drop his quill or exclaim, "Merlin's beard, Tonks, is that a colour-coded revision binder?" But his eyes—soft and tired as always—lingered on her face a fraction longer than usual. Just long enough to turn her stomach into something that resembled a tightly tangled Celtic knot.

She hadn't done anything extraordinary that day. Her hair had settled into a sensible auburn and was plaited neatly down her back. Her robes, for once, were properly ironed. No dramatic entrance, no tripping over chair legs or sliding sideways on the strap of her satchel. Just her. Quiet. Focused. Still riding the buzz from finishing three essays before dinner.

And yet… he looked at her like something had changed.

"Good evening, Ms Tonks," he said, his voice even and gentle. Not quite surprised. More… curious.

"Hi, Professor," she replied, placing her notes on the table with uncharacteristic care. She sat straighter these days. Fidgeted less. Merlin help her, but she might actually be growing up.

He watched her for a moment longer, then turned his attention to the parchment spread across his desk. "You're early."

"I figured I'd rather wait here than listen to Chiara unpack her romantic disaster involving two Ravenclaws and a suspiciously symbolic broken quill."

He gave a short, warm laugh—that quiet, low sound that always made something flutter beneath her ribs. "Sounds treacherous."

"Positively fatal," she said, smirking.

He sorted through a stack of scrolls as she watched—discreetly, or so she hoped. There was something reassuring in the way he moved: careful, efficient, never wasting motion. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, as usual, forearms smudged with ink and marked by old scars. She used to find those details distracting.

Now, they made her feel steadier.

"Let's start with your essay," he said, holding out a hand. "The one on Muggle witch hunts."

She handed it over, nerves prickling even though she knew it was good. She'd rewritten it twice, double-checked every source. Badeea had even gone over it with a red quill and the patience of a saint.

He read in silence, brow furrowed—not with confusion, but concentration. His lips pressed together. He was reading it properly, seriously, and that made her more nervous than if he'd just skimmed.

Then he set it down.

"This is excellent work."

The words hit her like a quiet spell, unexpected but not unwelcome.

"Oh," she said, trying not to grin like an overexcited Hufflepuff. "Thanks."

"I mean it," he added, leaning back slightly. His gaze was direct, and there was something new in it. "Your voice is stronger here. More deliberate. You're thinking critically—not just retelling history, but analysing it."

A slow, warm flush crept up her neck. She nodded, carefully. "I've been… trying."

"I can tell."

The pause that followed wasn't awkward. It wasn't empty, either. It hummed softly.

"I'm glad," he said at last. "You've changed. In a good way."

The words dropped like a stone into her chest—heavy, quiet, impossible to ignore. She glanced down at her hands, fingers knotted in her lap, then looked back up.

"I'm still me," she said, quietly. "Just… me with better revision habits."

He chuckled again—low and genuine. "Yes. But it's more than that, isn't it?"

She hesitated. Then gave a half-shrug. "Maybe I wanted to prove I wasn't just the loud one. Or the clumsy one. Or the girl with pink hair and too many jokes. Maybe I wanted to see what I'd be like if I actually gave it a proper go."

He looked at her for a long moment. And this time, it was unmistakable. His expression shifted—softened—into something she couldn't quite name. Pride, perhaps. Understanding. Something else, quieter and more complicated.

"You've always had it in you, Ms Tonks," he said. "But I'm glad you chose to show it."

Her heart thudded against her ribs. It wasn't flattery—it felt like truth. And somehow, that was more dangerous.

She dropped her gaze again, fiddling with her ink pot. "Well. Just wait till you see my revision notes for the Goblin Rebellions. Colour codes. Footnotes. A strict ban on social activity."

He laughed properly this time, the sound wrapping round her. "I look forward to it. You'll put the rest of the class to shame."

"Good," she said, grinning. "They deserve it."

The rest of the hour passed in a blur of parchment and spell theory, annotated diagrams and the occasional bit of banter. But under all of it, Tonks felt something had shifted. Something quiet and steady and almost imperceptible—but real.

Because when he looked at her now, it wasn't as if she were just another student.

It was like he saw someone growing into herself.

And somehow, that meant everything.