Tonks stood outside Professor Lupin's office, one hand on the doorframe, the other pressed flat over her chest like she was trying to stop her own heart from doing jazz hands. Brilliant. She wasn't even inside yet, and she already felt like she was about to pass out or explode—or worse, confess something wildly inappropriate and then melt into the floorboards.
Why had she arrived ten minutes early? She never arrived early for anything. She barely made it to lessons on time, and that was usually after tripping over a cat, her own robes, or some unfortunate Hufflepuff first-year.
But here she was, pacing in small circles like a puppy waiting to be let out.
She tugged at a strand of her hair—it was still brown. Dull, mousy brown. Absolutely not a statement. More like a sigh. She hadn't morphed it back to pink. Not after she'd seen him in the Hospital Wing, smiling at that woman—Lily—like she'd just told him he'd won the lottery and was getting a free chocolate frog on the side.
Tonks rolled her eyes at the memory.
Fire-bright hair. Elegant voice. Lily had looked like she belonged in one of those Ministry posters that read "Confident, Capable, and Completely Out of Your League".
And Tonks? She'd stood there like a stunned squirrel, then promptly turned and legged it without saying a word. Smooth.
She groaned quietly and rubbed her temples. "Get a grip, Tonks. He's your professor. You're here to learn. Not pine. And definitely not spiral."
Except it was hard not to spiral when she couldn't stop thinking about the way he spoke—calm, warm, like he knew the answers to questions she hadn't even worked out how to ask. Or how he moved, always careful, always slightly sad around the edges, like a man who'd seen too much and still managed to say "Good morning" like it mattered.
And then there was the smell of his office. Old books. Worn leather. A hint of tea leaves and whatever he used to write with that always left ink on his cuffs.
"Oh, Merlin's beard," she muttered, shaking herself. "This is a crush, isn't it?"
A very stupid, hopeless, inappropriate crush.
She reached out and gave the door a knock. Except it was so soft she wasn't even sure it counted. Honestly, a disgruntled moth might've made more noise.
There was a pause. A long one. Just long enough to make her consider turning and bolting back down the corridor.
Then his voice came, warm and steady: "Come in."
Right. Too late to fake a cold and leg it now.
Tonks pushed open the door and stepped inside, trying to look casual and not like she'd just had an emotional breakdown outside his office.
"Hello, Professor," she said, her voice much brighter than she intended. Somewhere between "friendly student" and "over-caffeinated banshee".
Professor Lupin glanced up from a pile of parchment, quill still poised in his ink-stained fingers. His expression lifted the moment he saw her, that small, dry smile of his curling at the corners of his mouth.
"Oh, it's you," he said, with a tilt of the head that was far too calm for the emotional circus going on inside her.
"It's me," she replied, trying for breezy.
There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Good. Sit wherever you like. You've got the room to yourself."
"Oh, dangerous thing to say," Tonks muttered as she made her way to a desk. "Give me too much freedom, and I might rearrange the furniture or start a revolution."
Professor Lupin chuckled lightly. "Let's save the revolution until after I've had my tea."
She sat down, grateful for the moment to hide behind her satchel as she pulled out a battered notebook, her wand, and a quill that immediately leaked ink all over her fingers. Naturally.
She looked up at him, heart still doing that annoying flutter it had taken a liking to. He was already setting aside his parchment, rolling up his sleeves as he prepared to start. And Merlin, there went her brain again, cataloguing everything he did like she was writing some sort of novel in her head.
Right. Focus. This was school. Education. Academic betterment.
Not… this.
Still, she couldn't help but grin. Somehow, despite all the awkwardness, despite Lily and her perfect face, despite her own hair being the colour of a wet broomstick—she was here. He was here. And she was going to make the absolute most of it.
Even if it killed her.
Or worse—made her blush again.
The room looked like it belonged to a professor who lived more in the past than the present—and honestly, Tonks didn't mind one bit. There was something comforting about it. Tall, overstuffed bookshelves loomed along the back wall like ancient sentinels. Every surface bore the clutter of magical oddities: a cracked goblet with suspicious stains, a faded house banner that had definitely seen too many Quidditch matches, and a stuffed raven that looked like it had given up on life somewhere around 1954.
Tonks gave the bird a once-over. "Cheer up, mate. It can't be worse than seventh-year Potions," she muttered under her breath.
The windows reflected the evening sky—soft purples and blues bleeding into one another, stars beginning to blink into view like sleepy witnesses. It gave the whole classroom a kind of quiet intimacy, as though the world outside had taken a deep breath and paused for this one moment.
Professor Lupin moved to the front and leaned against his old oak desk, arms folded in that effortless, bookish sort of way that said I teach because I love it and not because I got cursed out of a Ministry job.
His cardigan—worn, of course—now had a new patch on the sleeve. Bright green. Completely unmatched. Tonks found it stupidly endearing. Most people would've tossed the whole jumper by now. He just fixed it. Quietly. Like that was normal.
He cleared his throat, and her heart did a full somersault with flair. Show-off.
"The study of mediaeval magic," he began, voice soft but so assured it filled the room, "isn't simply a list of spells and old ingredients. It's about people. Their choices. The weird and wonderful things they got up to when no one was looking."
Tonks grinned. Merlin, she already loved this.
He began pacing lightly, hands moving with just enough animation to keep her eyes on him. Not that they needed any help. "Take Wendelin the Weird," he said. "Exceptionally gifted with charm work. Possibly a bit mad. But let's be honest—most truly brilliant witches are."
Tonks raised an eyebrow, leaning forward with a sly smile. "Is that a compliment to the weird ones, sir?"
Professor Lupin glanced her way, lips quirking into a barely contained grin. "Take it however you like, Ms. Tonks."
She let out a giggle and propped her chin on her hand, enjoying the way he eased into his subject, how he came alive with every sentence.
"Wendelin," he went on, "had the rather bizarre habit of getting herself caught by Muggle witch-hunters. Regularly. She'd allow them to tie her to the stake and light the fire—knowing full well she'd cast a Flame-Freezing Charm beforehand. To them, she looked like she was writhing in agony. In reality?" He paused, face lighting up. "She was quite comfortable. Enjoying a good novel, pretending to scream."
Tonks snorted. "That's brilliant. Bit bonkers, but brilliant."
Without missing a beat, Lupin threw both hands up and staggered back like he'd just caught fire. "Oh no! My robes! The horror! Fetch me a peppermint tea!"
His voice went up a ridiculous octave, and his face contorted in mock agony, and Tonks nearly fell off her chair laughing.
"You're a menace," she managed between breaths. "Wendelin would've adored you."
Professor Lupin gave a full, genuine laugh—proper and carefree—and for a second, he didn't look tired or worn or burdened. Just… human. A little brighter. A little younger.
That smile. It undid her.
Then, as if reeling himself back in, he nodded toward the chalkboard. "I do hope Wendelin's escapades weren't completely unbearable," he said, dry humour tugging at his words. "History does have a rather dull reputation."
He said it like a joke, but she caught the tiny thread of doubt behind it. Like he genuinely worried he'd bored her.
She sat up straighter. Her heart thumped once—loud, unhelpful. "You're clearly passionate about it, aren't you?" she asked softly.
He blinked, almost startled by the question.
"Oh," he said. "I suppose I am." His hand went instinctively to the back of his neck, fingers brushing through his hair. "Sorry—I tend to get carried away."
There was a faint flush in his cheeks. That subtle, awkward charm that made her insides twist in the best possible way.
Tonks grinned, folding her arms across her chest and tipping her chair back ever so slightly—not enough to fall, but just enough to look breezy. "No, really! You make it… different. It's not just dates and dead blokes with funny beards. It feels alive, somehow."
She hadn't meant it to come out quite so earnestly. Usually she buffered sincerity with a joke or a smirk, something to take the edge off. But this—this didn't feel like something to hide behind. It felt true. He needed to hear it. And honestly? She needed to say it.
Professor Lupin's smile deepened. It wasn't wide or flashy—he wasn't that sort—but it warmed his whole face. A quiet sort of gratitude, the kind that said he'd take her words home with him and tuck them away somewhere safe.
"Thank you," he said, and there was something soft and private in his tone that made her stomach flutter. "That means more than you might think."
For a moment, something passed between them—not awkward, not forced. Just that slow, golden warmth that comes from being seen properly. From being understood without having to explain.
Tonks looked away, but only just. Her gaze had a habit of finding him again. The rolled-up sleeves, the faint creases near his eyes, the way his voice dipped whenever he spoke about the past like it was a person he used to know. The cardigan with the new patch on the elbow. Even that was stupidly endearing. He wore it like he couldn't quite be bothered to look polished, and she loved that about him.
He doesn't even realise, she thought. How quietly captivating he is. That's the worst part. The best part. Merlin, help me.
Professor Lupin moved on to another historical figure—Beatrix the Batty, who once bewitched her cauldron to sing sea shanties while it brewed—and suddenly the lesson transformed. No longer a lecture. Now it was a story. The kind you didn't want to end.
Tonks listened with the kind of focus she usually reserved for duels or Quidditch matches. She asked questions without worrying if they were clever. He answered with a quiet patience that made her feel clever anyway.
There was no judgement in him. No ego. Just this genuine love for the subject and for sharing it with someone who wanted to learn. And she did. She wanted to learn from him, with him—even if history had never been her strong suit.
And slowly, somewhere between the laughter and the sea shanties, the atmosphere shifted. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just… gently.
Like music that had settled into a tempo both players could follow without thinking.
Tonks felt it. The pull. The ache. That quiet awareness she kept trying to swat away like a buzzing fly.
She wasn't just enjoying the lesson. She was enjoying him.
The way he ran his fingers along the spines of books without noticing. The way he occasionally looked over to check she was still with him—not because he doubted her, but because he cared. The way he said her name—just Tonks. No Nymphadora. No formality. Just her name, like it belonged.
Her heart thudded once. Loud. Defiant.
She didn't know what this was, not really. But it was real. And it was hers, quietly blooming like a secret tucked in her pocket.
Time slipped by. The candles burnt lower. Shadows stretched longer across the stone walls. She hadn't realised how long they'd been talking. Learning. Laughing.
She'd spent most of it leaning forward, chin in hand, hanging on every word like he was the only voice left in the world.
Professor Lupin glanced up at the clock and raised an eyebrow. "Well," he said with a sigh, reaching for a scrap of parchment, "we'd best leave the rest for next time. Same time next week?"
He scribbled a quick note. Probably planning the next chapter of this little magical mystery tour.
Tonks bit her lip to keep from smiling too hard. "Sounds good to me, Professor."
She reached down to pack up her parchment, suddenly all thumbs. She fumbled her satchel strap twice before managing to sling it over her shoulder. The silence after the lesson had ended felt louder than it should have. Not uncomfortable—just… different. Like a record had stopped mid-song.
As she stood, Professor Lupin looked over at her again.
"I'm glad you came," he said, and there was no performative charm in it—just something solid and sure. "You're a bright one, Tonks. And curious. That's a rare combination."
Her breath caught. He'd said her name again, like it was something warm and familiar. Like it was obvious.
Her cheeks flushed, hot and immediate.
"Thanks," she said, quietly but without hesitation. "That… that means a lot."
And it did. More than she could admit. More than she dared even think too deeply about.
He'd seen something in her. And for once, she hadn't felt clumsy or too much or not enough. She'd just felt… herself. And that, somehow, was more magical than anything she'd learnt that day.
As Professor Lupin began gathering his parchments, Tonks lingered, rooted to the spot like her boots had grown into the flagstones. Her fingers fidgeted with the frayed edge of her sleeve, tugging, twisting, anything to distract from the weight pressing at her ribs. It was now or never—the sort of moment where your pride clears its throat and steps aside.
"Professor?" she blurted out before she could talk herself out of it.
He paused, halfway through tucking a quill behind his ear, and turned back with that polite, puzzled lift of an eyebrow. "Yes, Ms. Tonks?"
Deep breath. One, two, three. Be brave. Or at least vaguely coherent.
"I… I wanted to apologise. For the way I acted in the Hospital Wing." Her voice wobbled, but she forced her chin up a notch. "I was rude. Completely out of line. And I don't even know why—I just… I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." Her gaze fell to the floor. Merlin, when did the stones become so interesting?
"And I'd also like to apologise to your girlfriend," she added quickly, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them. "For my… everything."
There was a flicker of something on Lupin's face—first confusion, then dawning amusement. "Ah," he said with a soft chuckle. "That's alright. But Lily's not my girlfriend. She's my best friend's wife."
Tonks blinked. Once. Twice. "She's married?"
He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching into a rueful grin. "To James. Has been for years. I assure you, it's not what you think."
And just like that, a boulder rolled off her chest and tumbled somewhere into the void. "Really?" she asked, unable to stop the ridiculously wide smile blooming on her face.
"Really," he confirmed with a warm glance, giving his wand a casual flick to lock the office door. "You should head back to your dormitory. It's late."
But as they made their way into the corridor, Tonks… well, she didn't. She couldn't. Her legs had ideas of their own, and they involved keeping pace with him, side by side, like it was the most natural thing in the world. The castle corridors stretched before them, quiet and lamp-lit, and she had absolutely zero intention of heading straight back to Hufflepuff like some well-behaved prefect.
Professor Lupin noticed.
He stopped mid-step and turned, eyeing her with bemused suspicion. "Why are you following me?" he asked, voice laced with that soft, teasing sarcasm that made her brain short-circuit.
Tonks shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and hitting somewhere near very bad liar. "Because you're here."
That actually stopped him. Surprise flickered across his face, quick and disarming. It made him look years younger, like someone who'd forgotten how to expect compliments and now didn't know what to do with one.
He chuckled as he resumed walking, shaking his head slightly. "You do know this is how stalkers start."
Tonks grinned, something wicked curling at the edge of her lips. "Have you ever seen a stalker as cute as me before?"
He faltered.
His eyes widened ever so slightly, and for the briefest second, he looked stunned—like she'd hit him with a Confundus Charm, and he was still trying to work out which way was up.
And Tonks, ever the chaos enthusiast, revelled in it.
The air between them shifted—charged and bright, like static before a storm. It wasn't a declaration, not really. Just a spark tossed between them to see if it might catch.
Before either of them could say something tragically sensible, she pounced on the moment. "Professor… would you care to join me for a bite? I haven't eaten since lunch."
That snapped him back to earth. He blinked. "What?" Then again, louder and more horrified: "What? You haven't eaten since—Ms. Tonks, that was—" He glanced at the corridor windows as if the night itself could confirm how criminally long it had been.
His voice dropped into that gruff, protective register that made her knees wobble just a bit. "That's absolutely unacceptable. You'll come have dinner in my quarters. The kitchens are closed by now."
Her eyes widened. "Your quarters?"
He blinked. "For food."
She snorted, a grin threatening to split her face in two. "Right. Yes. Food. I do vaguely remember that being part of the offer."
He rolled his eyes with the affection of a man who already knew he was going to regret giving her this much room to tease—but didn't really mind.
"Let's go before I start regretting this."
"You say that like I don't already have ten jokes lined up."
"Oh, I'm quite sure you do."
Tonks walked beside him down the corridor, her heart pounding with something dangerously close to glee. She knew she should feel guilty—this wasn't exactly protocol, trailing after a professor after hours, especially one with a reputation for quiet mystery and inconvenient moral boundaries. But she didn't feel guilty. She felt alive.
With a flick of his wand, Professor Lupin unlocked his door, and it creaked open with a soft, obedient groan.
She stepped inside and immediately felt like she'd crossed into another world.
The room was bathed in honeyed firelight, casting gentle shadows that danced along the worn floorboards. Velvet curtains framed tall windows like draped theatre costumes, and bookcases sagged with age and too many re-reads. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow warming her skin. There was a scent in the air—cedarwood and something more personal, something faintly herbal and clean. Like fresh parchment and mint tea.
It felt like him. Quiet. Thoughtful. A little frayed at the edges, but deeply comforting.
"Feel free to sit wherever you like," Professor Lupin said, his voice polite, even. "I'll call a house-elf to bring you something to eat."
Tonks nodded, but her heart dropped slightly. Just food, then. Just the practical bit. She hadn't quite realised how much she'd been hoping he'd join her—share a meal, laugh, maybe let the walls down a little further.
But she wasn't going to let this moment slip away without a fight.
"Won't you join me, Professor?"
The words left her before she'd even finished forming them in her head, and when they hung in the air, she felt naked. Vulnerable.
He hesitated, and for one terrifying second, she thought he might decline out of sheer habit. Then he gave her a soft, apologetic smile. "I've already eaten," he said, "but I'll sit with you."
Her heart gave a little, unprofessional flutter.
She plopped onto a ridiculously plush chair and tried not to look too pleased with herself. Progress, she thought. Tiny, cardigan-clad progress.
When the food arrived—hot, hearty, and smelling divine—Tonks tucked in with unabashed enthusiasm. She didn't bother trying to look refined. If Professor Lupin was going to keep pretending to be a disinterested academic, she would at least enjoy her dinner.
He picked up a book, flipping it open and pretending to read. But his eyes weren't moving across the page. He was holding it like a prop.
She watched him in between bites—his hand curled lightly around the spine, his jaw set in a way that told her his mind was far, far away.
"What's wrong, Professor?" she asked gently. "You don't seem to be enjoying your book."
He looked up, startled, like she'd broken a trance. "Oh," he said, waving it off. "It's nothing."
But she didn't believe that for a second. Nothing didn't settle into someone's shoulders like that.
Still, she didn't press. Not yet.
They sat in a companionable sort of quiet while she finished eating. She could feel the tension softening around him, bit by bit, like snow melting under slow sunlight. And maybe it was the warmth of the fire, or the flicker of light on his face, or the sheer absurdity of the situation—but she suddenly had to know more.
Why is a man like this so alone? Why does he hide in shadows when he could make people laugh with a single joke about mediaeval witches and fire safety? Why hasn't someone claimed him already?
So she asked, a little too casually, "Are you married?"
Professor Lupin blinked, clearly caught off guard by the question. "No."
She tilted her head. "Dating anyone?"
Again, a quick, clipped: "No."
She leaned back, chewing on that answer—and a bit of roasted potato. "Seems like a waste."
His brow furrowed slightly. "A waste?"
"Someone like you," she said, voice softer now. "Smart. Kind. Mysterious in a way that's not irritating—which is rare. Someone ought to have snatched you up by now."
That earned her a look. One of those rare Lupin looks that felt like it reached through you. It wasn't annoyed. Just… tired. Cautious. "I'm not really interested in… that kind of thing," he said. "Relationships. They're complicated. And usually more trouble than they're worth."
Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Are you gay, Professor?"
The look of shock on his face was priceless. "No!"
She bit back a grin. "Just checking. You never know. You've got that tragic-poetry-reader vibe."
He gave her a look, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm not upset," he said when she offered a light apology. "I just… I don't do this sort of thing."
"Socializing?"
He nodded faintly. "Not well, anyway."
She considered him for a moment, head tilted, her smile fading into something softer. "That must be hard."
His voice was barely audible. "Sometimes."
She leaned forward a little, as if to close the gap between them—emotionally, if not physically. "But don't you ever get lonely?"
He hesitated.
And then, calmly, like he was reciting a fact from memory: "Loneliness is not something I've experienced."
She blinked, thrown by the quiet conviction in his voice. She didn't believe it. Not really. It sounded like something he'd practised saying to himself until it started to feel true.
And it made her ache for him.
So she did what Tonks always did when faced with something too big for logic—she acted.
"What if I kept you company?"
Professor Lupin turned to her, startled. "What?"
Her heart pounded. No turning back now. "I'll be your girlfriend."
Silence.
You could hear the fire crackle. The tick of the clock on the mantel. The sound of his breath catching like he'd swallowed a hex.
"You can't," he said quickly, like he had to get the words out before his heart got any ideas.
"Why not?" she challenged, trying for levity. "Do you think I'm ugly?"
"No! You're young and charming and pretty—"
"Then what's the problem?"
He didn't answer.
And there it was—that wall again. The one he built from fear and shame and scars he didn't think anyone could love him through.
Tonks leaned forward, her voice low, gentle. "You don't have to be alone, you know.
Professor Lupin sighed, and it wasn't the kind of sigh that meant he was tired of her. Not really. It was heavier, threaded with something reluctant and resigned. Like he was fighting himself just as much as he was fighting her. His voice, though still calm, had taken on an edge of strained patience.
"Well," he said carefully, "you're still underage, which is a big deal."
Tonks felt her spine straighten. Her blood ran hot. She wasn't offended—no, she was furious at the implication that her feelings, her choices, and her understanding of what she wanted could be reduced to a number on parchment.
"I'm an adult in every way," she fired back, voice tight with conviction. "Don't mistake school robes for innocence."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Professor Lupin blinked, visibly taken aback. She hadn't meant to hit so hard, but the truth sat too close to her skin to soften it. For a moment, he just looked at her—really looked—like she'd grown three inches and changed her name.
"What?" he finally managed, though his voice had dropped into unfamiliar territory—somewhere between stunned and something more dangerous. Curious. Arrested.
Tonks tilted her head and smirked, grateful for the crack in his composure. "Having some dirty thoughts, Professor?"
His eyes widened. "No! I haven't!" He said it with such comical, knee-jerk defensiveness that she nearly choked on her laughter.
Oh, Merlin, she thought, he's adorable when he panics.
"Thanks for dinner!" she chirped, plucking up the last bite of bread like it had personally won her heart. She chewed it with exaggerated delight, grinning at him all the while.
"You're welcome," he said automatically, though she could tell he'd only just recovered from her earlier jab.
It was easier, this mood. Banter. Jokes. It protected both of them from the rawer things still lingering beneath the surface.
She caught him looking at her, not inappropriately, not even knowingly—just seeing her—and she felt it settle in her chest like heat from the fire.
"Could I eat here again next time?" she asked, the question out before she had time to dress it up in irony or flirtation. It was naked. Honest. Hopeful.
Professor Lupin shifted in his chair, suddenly uncomfortable. He didn't meet her eyes. "Now hold on…"
"No?" she asked, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice. She hated how vulnerable she sounded, how much she suddenly needed this closeness. Not just because of him, but because of how she felt when she was with him. Less restless. Less scattered. More… real.
He sighed again, raking a hand through his hair in that way he did when he was cornered. "Like I said—"
"If I get a perfect score on my history exam…" Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her heart thudded loud enough she was sure the portraits could hear it. "Take me on a date."
His head snapped up so fast, it was a miracle he didn't give himself whiplash. "A date with me as a reward? Why?"
Tonks gave him a look. That look. The one that said, "Really? You're going to make me spell it out?"
"Professor," she said sternly, "what kind of educator are you if you won't even pretend to encourage academic excellence?"
The corners of his mouth twitched. He looked exhausted. Defeated. Amused.
"All right," he said, voice flat but not unkind. "All right."
Victory. Pure and sweet and shockingly giddy.
Her grin exploded like a firework, lighting up every inch of her face. "Yes!" she declared, springing to her feet with enough enthusiasm to rattle the nearby bookshelves. "Just tell me when."
He blinked, clearly overwhelmed by the tonal whiplash. "When what?"
She rolled her eyes, folding her arms, like he was being wilfully dense. "When my age is no longer an issue. Until then, I'll overlook any other women."
The smile that tugged at his lips this time was different. Softer. Sadder. And that sadness, quiet and unspoken, tugged at something inside her.
Because she knew it wasn't really about her age. Or school rules. Or propriety.
It was about him. About the parts of himself he thought were unloveable and unworthy. The things he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve. His solitude wasn't about boundaries—it was about protection. Mostly from himself.
But he smiled anyway, like she'd given him something he hadn't expected. A future. A choice.
"Goodnight, Professor," she said, not pushing it further. She waved, light on her feet, head buzzing with possibilities.
She left the room glowing.
And behind her, Professor Lupin sat in his chair a little longer, staring into the fire, wondering what he'd just agreed to—and why, despite every rule and reason, a part of him hoped she got that perfect score.