Chapter Text
“You cannot be serious”
She considers him in disbelief.
He looks desperate. Older, sadder, and more tired than ever before. Even worse, that closed, guarded expression, the one which has been threatening to make a comeback over the past few weeks, has now set up permanent residence on his face, marring his warm, loving features.
She knows that expression. Nothing good comes of that expression.
“It’s better this way, Tonks”.
Tonks? Who the fuck is Tonks? He’s never been fond of calling her that, even when they were still pretending to be just colleagues. He’s been calling her “Dora” for ages. So why the fuck is she back to being Tonks?
She is thinking all this and is unable, for a long moment, to formulate any kind of rational answer. Thoughts and feelings are swirling through her so fast she can barely breathe. A sickening, rising panic is threatening to engulf her.
“But you can’t leave…you just can’t.” This is the best she can come up with. This, to her, is the sticking point.
He is moving about their room, haphazardly picking up objects and then dropping them almost as quickly. He’s packing. To leave. Leave her. Actually, not just her, anymore.
He does not seem in his right mind. He hasn’t for a while now, really, but it reached breaking point tonight when she had told him about the baby.
The baby. She was having a baby.
“We’re married. This is your baby. Our baby. There’s a war on. You can’t just leave!” Her voice is rising now. Fury is coursing through her, replacing the numbness of shock. All of a sudden, the scene before her is crystal clear. Too clear.
Her husband is abandoning her after finding out she is going to have a baby.
How can this be happening? This is a plot point in some dreary Victorian novel. Perhaps it has occurred to an unfortunate relation, or will happen to an unlucky friend or two. But not to her. Never her.
He turns to face her, holding a half-empty bag. The speed of his gesture causes the contents to spill over the bed. In a detached, almost out-of-body way, she takes in his possessions: a few bits of patched and faded clothing, some ink and parchment, an unframed photo of her.
“It’s the only way.” He drops the bag and runs trembling hands through his hair. In the light of the bedside lamp she notices the strands of grey outnumbering the dark brown. She wonders why she’s noticing these things, like it’s the last time she’ll see him.
“I can’t stay. I won’t stay. Ever since Voldemort and Bellatrix got wind of us you’ve been in danger. In more danger, because of me. And now…a baby. How can I possibly live with myself if the baby is like me? Cursed?”
She moves towards him, not knowing if she wants to comfort him or restrain him.
“Remus…” but he cuts her off. “It’s better this way.” he repeats, like a broken record. He turns away and sweeps the scattered objects back into the bag. He makes to move towards the door.
“But you can’t…” she stammers, disbelieving, uncomprehending again. “You can’t…we’re married. Didn’t our vows mean anything? It was till death do us part. Not till-something-comes-up-and-you-scarper.”
He shakes his head at her, sadly. “We shouldn’t have done it to ourselves, Dora. It’s my fault. I should never have allowed us to get so carried away. I see now that it could only have ended this way.”
He moves towards the door. The fury and the panic are back now, in full force. She loses it.
She cries. She begs. She shouts. She holds on to his robes in a desperate attempt to stop him walking out the front door. Dignity and standards of normal adult behaviour are long forgotten. She has to stop him from leaving. She can’t even bear to consider what will happen if she doesn’t.
It’s not working. In frustration, she throws a heavy paperweight at him, hitting him squarely in the head. She was always a mean shot. He flinches, but it doesn’t make her feel better.
“If you leave - you bastard, you coward – then consider us done. Don’t be coming back here, begging me to let you in. If you abandon me, if you abandon our baby, there can be no going back. Do you understand?!” She bellows at him as he leaves.
He nods. “I’m sorry.”
He turns, and disapparates.