Chapter 27: A Test of Endurance

POV: Alaric Fawley

Alaric Fawley sat in his office, the ornate mahogany desk before him littered with student essays on the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. The words blurred together as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. His quill scratched half-heartedly against parchment before he set it down with a resigned sigh.

He wasn't reading. He couldn't. Not when Nymphadora Tonks was coming tonight.

The mere thought sent a wave of anticipation and trepidation coursing through him. She was fresh out of training under Mad-Eye Moody himself, the infamous Auror whose reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by his raw power. Alaric's palms felt clammy as he wiped them on his robes. Tonks had always been stronger than him in sheer will, but now, after months of being sharpened into a weapon by Moody, she'd undoubtedly grown even more formidable.

Not that he minded. He loved her for her strength, her determination, her brilliance. But…

He couldn't deny the way she made him feel. Vulnerable.

His anxiety simmering beneath the surface, Alaric made his way to Dumbledore's office. The headmistress was, as always, seated serenely behind her desk, her piercing blue eyes twinkling with an unsettling awareness.

"Professor Fawley," she greeted, her voice calm and knowing. "How can I help you?"

"Headmistress," Alaric began, clasping his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. "I… may need to excuse myself from classes for the next few days. A… family matter has arisen."

Dumbledore's gaze sharpened, the twinkle never entirely leaving her eyes. "Family, you say?"

"Yes, well, my fiancée…" he trailed off, feeling his face flush.

"Ah," she murmured, steepling her fingers. "Nymphadora Tonks."

Alaric froze. Of course, she knew. The headmistress always knew.

"You're certain this… family matter will not distract you for long?" Dumbledore asked, her tone light but pointed.

"I… yes. I'll be fine."

"Good." She smiled faintly, but her eyes glinted with something unreadable. "Love is a powerful thing, Professor. Do try to enjoy it."

As he left her office, Alaric's discomfort grew. Did she know everything? He felt as though she had peered directly into his soul, laid bare his insecurities and hopes. Shaking his head, he pushed the thought aside. He had more immediate concerns.

Back in his quarters, Alaric stood before the mirror, tugging at the collar of his best robes. Deep green with silver trim—he had chosen them because he knew they complimented his dark hair and fair complexion.

"Does this look too much like I'm trying?" he muttered to his reflection. "She'll see right through it."

He stripped off the robes and selected a simpler set, only to repeat the cycle twice more. Finally, he settled on the green ones, muttering, "Damn it all."

The hours before her arrival crawled by. He spent them pacing his quarters, arranging and rearranging the small bouquet of enchanted lilies he'd conjured. His mind flitted to their last conversation before she left for Moody's training—her teasing grin, her promise to return stronger than ever.

And now, she was back.

The knock at his door came as the last rays of sunlight vanished beyond the horizon. Alaric's heart leapt to his throat. He smoothed his robes one final time and opened the door.

There she stood, her hair a vibrant purple, her eyes alight with mischief and something deeper. She wore Auror's robes, slightly rumpled from travel, and her grin widened at the sight of him.

"Miss me?" she asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.

"Always," he said, his voice softer than he intended.

She turned to face him fully, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with unspoken words. Then, she threw her arms around him, and he felt the tension in his body melt away.

"You look good," she murmured, pulling back just enough to study his face. "Nervous, but good."

"Nervous? Me? Never," he lied, earning a laugh from her.

"Oh, I missed you," she said, brushing a hand against his cheek. "Even if you're terrible at hiding your nerves."

The evening unfolded in a blur of laughter and conversation. They dined together in his quarters, sharing stories of their time apart. She recounted her grueling training under Moody, her tone alternating between frustration and admiration.

"He's a nightmare, Al," she said, rolling her eyes. "But he's the best. There were moments I thought he'd break me, but he didn't."

"Of course not," Alaric said, his voice steady. "You're unbreakable."

Her eyes softened, and for a moment, she looked at him as if he were her entire world. It was moments like these that reminded him why he loved her so deeply, even when her strength made him feel small.

As the evening waned, her tone grew more serious. "Alaric, there's something I've been meaning to ask."

He stiffened slightly. "What is it?"

"Your job here… you've never told me how you managed to get it. There was a professor before you, wasn't there?"

His stomach dropped.

"I… well…" he began, fumbling for words.

Her gaze pinned him in place.

"Alaric," she said, her voice firm but not unkind. "Tell me the truth."

He swallowed hard. "I may have… taken matters into my own hands. The previous professor was… not well-suited for the position."

Her eyebrows shot up. "Not well-suited?"

"Dead," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, she said nothing. Then, to his astonishment, she burst into laughter.

"You killed a ghost to get a job?" she asked, clutching her sides. "Alaric Fawley, you're unbelievable."

Relief washed over him, though he couldn't help but feel a pang of indignation. "It was a matter of principle. He has been ruining the educations of countless generations of wizards !"

"Of course it was," she said, leaning in to kiss him. "And for what it's worth, I'm proud of you. Even if you're ridiculous."

Later, as they lay together, her head resting on his chest, Alaric felt a sense of peace he hadn't known in months. He loved her fiercely, even if she drove him mad. And as much as he hated to admit it, he didn't mind that she held the upper hand in their relationship.

Because, at the end of the day, she was his strength, just as he was hers. And that was enough.

The path back to Hogwarts was unusually bumpy, or perhaps Alaric Fawley's body was simply far more sensitive than usual. Every jolt of the carriage wheels sent fresh waves of soreness rippling through his muscles. He sighed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Merlin's beard, Tonks. You couldn't have been just a little gentler?"

Three days of sheer, unrelenting intensity. He had no complaints about the passion they shared—her energy was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place—but the woman was a beast. Worse, she had apparently decided to "enhance" their time together by learning new spells specifically designed to prolong their "activities."

"Why, oh why, did I encourage her to improve her magical repertoire?"

The memories were still vivid: her triumphant grin when he admitted defeat (not that she'd let him rest anyway), the glint of mischief in her eyes as she whispered, "One more time, darling." He shuddered—not unpleasantly, but the soreness in his legs, arms, and even his shoulders made it difficult to think about anything else.

By the time he reached the castle, Alaric was utterly drained. He didn't even bother attempting to conceal his limp as he trudged through the front gates, a mixture of fondness and exasperation etched across his face.

Alaric had barely stepped into the castle before he found himself in Dumbledore's office.

"Welcome back, Alaric," the Headmaster greeted him with a knowing smile, his blue eyes twinkling far too brightly. "How was your... family emergency?"

Alaric groaned inwardly. "Family emergency," my foot.

"It went well," he managed, attempting to sound composed.

Dumbledore's smile widened ever so slightly, and Alaric felt his ears reddening. "You seem a bit fatigued. Might I recommend a particular potion? It's an old recipe, but highly effective for... recovery."

The way he emphasized the word "recovery" made Alaric want to sink through the floor. He muttered a quick thank-you and fled the office, intent on locating the potions in question before anyone else could notice his state.

The potions storage room was blissfully empty, and Alaric set about searching for the ingredients. His movements were careful—both because he didn't want to overexert himself and because he was trying to avoid detection. Unfortunately, luck was not on his side.

"Professor Fawley."

The soft, disdainful voice made him freeze. He turned slowly to find Serena Prince standing in the doorway, her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised in a perfect arch.

"Looking for something?" she asked, her tone dripping with curiosity and just a hint of amusement.

Alaric cleared his throat, awkwardly holding up a small parchment with the recipe Dumbledore had given him. "The Headmaster suggested I... procure a potion for recovery."

Serena stepped closer, her sharp eyes scanning the parchment. Recognition flickered across her face, and her lips twitched.

"I see," she said, her voice as smooth as silk. "Unfortunately, we don't have this particular potion in stock. However, I could brew it for you. It won't take long."

Alaric hesitated, torn between gratitude and mortification. "That would be... very kind of you."

Her smirk deepened. "Of course, Professor. Though I must admit, I'm curious—what exactly required this level of... recovery?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but Serena cut him off with a knowing glance. "Never mind. I think I can guess."

As if things couldn't get worse, they did.

Serena insisted on acquiring fresh ingredients for the potion, dragging Alaric along to the greenhouses. He had no choice but to comply, though every step felt like a fresh test of endurance.

Their luck ran out when they ran into Professor Sprout, who took one look at Alaric's pale face, disheveled appearance, and obvious discomfort and immediately burst into a knowing smile.

"Ah, Professor Fawley! Back from your... trip, are we?" she said cheerfully.

"Indeed," he muttered, resisting the urge to groan.

Sprout chuckled, her eyes twinkling with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "You know, there's no shame in being overwhelmed by someone as formidable as your fiancée. Nymphadora has quite the reputation, after all."

If there was a spell to make the ground swallow him whole, Alaric would have cast it in an instant. Instead, he forced a tight-lipped smile and endured her teasing, silently cursing Tonks for not having the foresight to leave him a recovery potion.

By the time they returned to the castle, every professor seemed to know about his "ordeal." Whispers followed him through the corridors, accompanied by the occasional stifled laugh. Even the Bloody Baron gave him a pointed look as he floated past.

That evening, Alaric sat in his quarters, nursing a steaming goblet of the potion Serena had brewed for him. The soreness was beginning to fade, though the humiliation lingered.

He couldn't be angry with Tonks—not really. She was everything he loved: fierce, passionate, and utterly unapologetic. But as he sank into his chair, he couldn't help but mutter, "Next time, I'm bringing my own potions."

The thought of facing another round of teasing from his colleagues was enough to make him shudder. But beneath the embarrassment, there was a quiet sense of contentment. No matter how chaotic or exhausting their relationship could be, he wouldn't trade it for anything.

Still, he made a mental note to subtly suggest a bit more... restraint during their next reunion.