Keys slot into the door and turn— only to lock the door. She tries to wedge the door open, but realizes this and rolls her eyes so far back she swears she can see her brain. She unlocks the door again and shuffles in quietly, pressing the door closed again softly. The house is unusually still, and she’s an adaptive little thing— she notices. She becomes silent too. She strides down the hall and feels a certain warmth— or, if not a warmth then a safety in seeing the sun bounce off her daughter’s slumped shoulders.
Then she pauses.
For a moment, she feels agitation. Oh, she knew Ted was gone. No sense crying about it, or mentioning it every other day. he’d be back soon and really did she have to keep bringing — she pauses again, and sets her bag down on the floor just inside the room, and cautiously walks over, hesitant to talk to or touch the girl with unborn sobs in her lungs.
❝ Who’s gone? Nymphadora —- who’s gone? ❞
At the sound of her name she starts. She’s always hated that name. Much too stuffy for her taste. And he had called her that, when they first met. She remembers the playful arguments, her insistence that he call her Tonks like everyone else. Only her mother calls her Nymphadora. Eventually they had compromised with Dora, since her father seemed to have made good use of it for a number of years. And perhaps Dora isn’t quite that bad. But today he had come into the room and started the conversation with a grave glance and her full name. ‘Nymphadora’, he had said, 'I’ve made a decision,’ or something equally damning. At the sound of her name she had known.
There’s the tickle of sunlight on her back, and rather than find pleasure in the warmth, she wants nothing more than to find a dark corner to hide in. Perhaps if she ignores it, the problem will go away. The familiar sensation of physical change tingles across her scalp, and she assumes that the blonde locks she’s been partial to the last week or so are fading into a mousy brown. Trying to maintain a hold on her emotions ( because she’s sure her mother doesn’t want to deal with a hysterical daughter ), she explains as best she can, looking up at the older woman with a gaze that seems to demand some sort of explanation.
❝ Remus.Remus, he——- he thinks he’s protecting us, by leaving. It’s the same old story, he’s too dangerous, this was never a good idea——–
He just left, Mum. I don’t know what I did, but he’s gone. ❞
Her voice sounds hollow, almost dead. Maybe this is a dream. More like a nightmare. But still, perhaps there’s still a chance she might wake up and all of the people who’ve left will be waiting for her.
