Sunlight filtered through the tall windows of the Hufflepuff girls' tower, casting soft gold over blankets and scattered parchments. Tonks lay sprawled on her bed—one leg dangling off the side, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it might offer answers she was too afraid to say out loud.
Her heart was still buzzing from last night. From him.
The flicker of firelight in his quarters. The way his eyes had crinkled when she teased him. The slow, reluctant smile that felt like it had been drawn from the deepest, loneliest part of him.
And how her chest had tightened when he said, "You're young and charming and pretty—" as though he didn't dare say more, even though she could feel the rest of it in the silence he left behind.
She pressed her palm to her chest, half-laughing, half-horrified. "Bloody hell," she murmured to herself. "I'm in love with my professor."
It didn't feel silly. It didn't feel like a crush. It felt huge. Like she'd opened a door to something vast and terrifying, and instead of running, she'd stepped inside.
She needed to talk. Not just to anyone—but her girls. The ones who had always been there, even when they hadn't known the whole truth.
Tonks slid off the bed, still in her oversized Weird Sisters shirt, and padded barefoot down the dormitory stairs to the common room.
The common room was warm, buzzing with quiet energy—books rustling, a chessboard clinking in the corner, a few second-years giggling over chocolate frogs. Tonks spotted Chiara and Penny tucked into their usual spot near the fireplace.
They were deep in conversation, legs curled up on the same armchair, speaking in rapid whispers that spilt into gleeful laughter.
"—So I told him, 'If you're not going to unbutton it, I will.'" Chiara said, her voice low and mischievous.
Penny shrieked. "You didn't!"
"Oh, I did. And then we didn't make it past the corridor outside the Astronomy Tower. Worth the risk. Honestly, I think he cried a little when I left."
Tonks hovered near the back of the sofa, heart twisting with something she couldn't quite name. This used to be her favourite part—the scandalous stories, the shared secrets, the feeling of control and danger and belonging all in one breath. They used to plan these nights like missions, and she'd been the ringleader: bold, unashamed, always in charge of her own body and her own narrative.
But something inside her had shifted. Had cracked open.
And his name was Remus Lupin.
She didn't know what to say or how to begin, only that she had to. She couldn't keep pretending this was still who she was.
She cleared her throat. "Hey."
Chiara and Penny turned toward her in unison, grinning.
"There she is!" Penny chirped. "We were just talking about what we're going to wear for Hogsmeade next weekend. I swear, I'm buying something so sheer the wind'll blush."
"And maybe another lucky night?" Chiara added with a smirk. "You are coming, right, Tonks? It's not the same without you leading the charge."
Tonks hesitated. There it was—that familiar pull. The comfort of routine. The unspoken bond between girls who knew how to make boys trip over their own tongues.
But her heart was somewhere else now.
She sat on the ottoman in front of them, hands folded tightly in her lap. "I actually wanted to talk to you both. About something… kind of serious."
Their expressions shifted—concern flashing in Penny's eyes, curiosity knitting Chiara's brows.
Tonks took a deep breath. "I don't think I want to keep doing this anymore."
A pause. "Doing what, exactly?" Penny asked, her voice softer now.
"This whole thing," Tonks said. "The sneaking around. The hookups. Using boys for attention, for… whatever we thought we needed." She looked down at her hands. "I know I started it. I thought it gave me power. I thought it made me feel… in control. But it didn't. Not really. Not the way I hoped."
Chiara opened her mouth to speak, but Tonks pushed gently on.
"Last night… I had dinner with Professor Lupin."
Penny blinked. "Wait—what?"
"Just dinner," Tonks said quickly. "Nothing inappropriate happened. But… it made me see things differently. The way he talked to me, the way he saw me—it was like I didn't have to perform. I didn't have to charm or seduce or pretend I was older than I am."
Chiara tilted her head, expression unreadable. "So what are you saying?"
Tonks exhaled. "I'm in love with him. I think I have been, quietly, for a while. And now that I've felt what real connection is like—what actual respect and intimacy feel like—I can't go back. I don't want to give pieces of myself away just to feel like I matter."
Silence settled over the three of them. The fire crackled behind Chiara's shoulder, throwing sparks.
"I know you might think I'm judging you," Tonks said gently, "but I'm not. I swear I'm not. You're both brilliant and strong, and you can do what you want with your bodies. But for me… I'm done. I want to focus on school. I want to become someone he can be proud of. And if I ever have a real chance with him, I want it to be because I chose a different path. One that's mine, truly mine."
For a beat, Penny just stared.
Then she reached forward and took Tonks' hand. "You don't sound judgemental. You sound… like you're growing up."
Tonks laughed, tears unexpectedly pricking her eyes. "Merlin, don't say that. It makes me feel ancient."
Chiara finally smiled too. "I'm not gonna lie; I'll miss your stories. But if you're serious about him… I get it. And honestly, he'd be lucky."
Tonks felt a weight lift off her shoulders. They understood. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to make her feel like she hadn't lost them after all.
She leaned back and grinned. "So… no sheer robes for me next weekend. Maybe I'll stay back and study."
Penny gasped. "You? Voluntarily staying in on a Hogsmeade trip? Lupin's already working miracles."
"Well, we'll need to tell Badeea about your change of heart," said Chiara, swinging her legs over the arm of the chair like it was just another casual bit of gossip.
Tonks nodded, absently twisting a strand of her hair around her finger. "Yeah… Badeea won't be a problem."
"Oh, she'll be relieved," Penny chimed in, already imagining the reaction. "She's never really been into the whole… scene. I swear, every time we brought it up, she looked like she'd rather be hexed in public."
Tonks cracked a smile at that. "That's true. She always blushed so hard she looked like a tomato in a wig."
They giggled softly, the tension lightening for a moment—but it didn't last.
Because as soon as Badeea was dismissed from Tonks' mind, someone else crept in. Someone far less gentle. Far less understanding.
Ismelda Murk.
The thought of telling her made Tonks' stomach knot instantly, like someone had dropped a bag of live spiders into her gut.
"I'm not worried about Badeea," she admitted, her voice lowering slightly. "It's… Ismelda."
Chiara and Penny both winced.
"Oh," Penny said quietly. "Yeah. She's… gonna have opinions."
"Understatement of the bloody century," Tonks muttered. Her voice was steady, but inside she felt the old, familiar flicker of anxiety she always got when something felt dangerous.
Ismelda wasn't someone who took well to being crossed. She was loyal, yes—fiercely so—but she didn't handle change. And she definitely didn't handle people walking away from something she thought they started together.
"She's going to think I'm abandoning her," Tonks said. "Or judging her. Or worse—turning into some boring, lovesick schoolgirl who's throwing everything away for some guy."
"Even if that is kind of what you're doing," Chiara said, smirking, "it's still your choice."
Tonks sighed, pressing her forehead into her hands. "I just don't want her to think I'm trying to be better than her."
"You're not," Penny said firmly. "You're just trying to be better for yourself. There's a difference."
"She'll see it as betrayal," Tonks whispered. "I know she will. She's not going to understand why this matters to me. Why he matters to me."
Chiara reached out and nudged her foot. "So tell her. Maybe she'll get angry. Maybe she won't. But you owe it to yourself to be honest. You can't live your life on her terms."
Tonks nodded slowly. They were right. She knew they were. But that didn't make the lump in her throat any smaller, or the idea of confronting Ismelda any easier.
Still… if she was going to be serious about this—about Professor Lupin, about growing up, about leaving the person she used to be behind—then she had to face this. All of it.
Even the fallout.
And so she sat up straighter, brushing the hair from her face and giving her friends a half-hearted grin. "Alright. I'll talk to her tonight."
Penny gave her a mock salute. "If we never see you again, we'll tell the Aurors where to start."
Tonks laughed weakly. "Thanks. That's… oddly comforting."
But as the girls returned to their usual chatter, Tonks sat in silence for a moment longer—bracing herself. Not for Ismelda's reaction, exactly.
But for what it would mean when she finally said the words aloud:
I've changed.
The corridor outside the Room of Requirement was unusually quiet. Not even a whisper of wind through the castle's stones. Tonks stood motionless before the blank stretch of wall, and then the door appeared.
Tonks hesitated, hand on the latch, her stomach churning. She could still walk away. Pretend she'd been too tired. Make up an excuse. But that would be cruel. Cowardly. And she'd had enough of both.
She pushed the door open.
Inside, the room had shaped itself into something oddly familiar—low lighting, soft armchairs, and a worn fireplace crackling gently with orange light. The kind of place that could trick you into thinking everything was okay.
Ismelda sat on the windowsill, legs curled up, her dark hair tucked behind one ear. She looked up the moment Tonks entered, her eyes lighting with something too close to hope.
"You're late," she said, smirking softly. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."
Tonks smiled, weakly. "Sorry. Lost track of time."
"Hmm." Ismelda hopped down, crossing the room toward her. "So. What's the big secret, then? You sounded all breathless about it earlier. You're not in trouble, are you?"
"No," Tonks said. "Not exactly."
She sat down on one of the chairs, clasping her hands tightly together, willing herself not to fidget. Her heart pounded in her chest—so loud it was all she could hear.
Ismelda sat beside her, leaning in slightly. "You're acting weird. Just spit it out, Tonks."
Tonks inhaled sharply.
"I've fallen for someone."
Silence.
Ismelda blinked. Her body went still in a way that made Tonks's skin crawl with nerves. "What do you mean… fallen?"
Tonks kept her voice low. Gentle. But honest. "I'm in love."
The silence stretched.
Ismelda's face remained neutral, but her hands clenched in her lap. "So… You've found a boy?"
Tonks hesitated. "Not exactly a boy."
Realisation flickered across Ismelda's features like lightning on water. "It's not him, is it?" she whispered. "The professor?"
Tonks looked down. "Yeah. It is."
A beat passed.
Then: "You're serious." Ismelda's voice cracked—just barely, but enough. "I thought… I mean, I knew you liked older men, but this—he's a teacher, Tonks."
"I know," she whispered. "Believe me, I know how complicated it is."
Ismelda stood abruptly, pacing away from the fireplace. Her arms crossed tight over her chest. "So what—this is you breaking up with me?" she asked bitterly. "Just like that?"
Tonks stood too, alarmed. "No—I mean, yes, but no, not like that. We weren't together, Ismelda. Not really."
Ismelda whirled on her. "Then what was all this?" she snapped, gesturing wildly around them. "You brought me here. Again and again. We laughed; we schemed; we—" She stopped herself, but the implication hung in the air like smoke. "And now you want to pretend it didn't mean anything?"
"It did mean something," Tonks said, voice thick with guilt. "You mean something to me. But not… not in the way you want."
"Because of him," Ismelda spat.
Tonks winced.
"Ismelda… I didn't plan this. I didn't go looking for it. But being around him—it's different. I feel more like me. Like I'm finally choosing what I want instead of just going along with everything."
"So you're done?" Ismelda's voice was shaking now, hands balled into fists. "With everything? Just like that? No more sneaking out, no more… us?"
Tonks stepped closer, reaching out instinctively—but Ismelda recoiled.
"We'll always be friends," Tonks said gently, trying not to cry herself. "I care about you so much, but I want something different now. Something real. Something that isn't built on pretending I don't know what I want."
Ismelda's voice cracked open completely then. "And what am I, Tonks? A mistake?"
"No," Tonks whispered, fiercely. "You were someone who mattered. Who matters. But I can't lead you on, not even a little."
Tears welled in Ismelda's eyes, and she blinked them back violently. "You're just like everyone else," she choked. "You made me feel like I was seen. Like I wasn't some broken, angry girl everyone avoids. And now you want me to go back to that?"
"I don't want you to go back to anything," Tonks said, heart shattering with each word. "I want you to move forward too. To find someone who really sees you. Who wants you the way you deserve."
"But it's not you."
"I'm sorry."
The silence that followed was the worst yet. Dense. Final.
Ismelda shook her head, wiping her face with the back of her hand. "I hate you right now," she whispered. "But I also don't. And I wish I did."
"I know," Tonks said, voice trembling.
Ismelda stared at her for one last, piercing moment—then turned and walked out the door.
She didn't slam it. Didn't scream. But the click of it closing behind her was somehow louder than either.
Tonks sank into the couch, burying her face in her hands.
The grief wasn't clean. It wasn't just heartbreak or relief or guilt. It was all of it. Tangled and raw and pulsing beneath her skin.
She sat there long after the fire dimmed, feeling the weight of her decision settle into her bones. It had been the right thing to do.
But it still hurts like hell.
The days started slipping by faster than she could count them. One blink, and it was November. Another, and she was chasing parchment scraps across a snowy corridor in December. But Tonks wasn't really watching the calendar anymore—not the way she used to, counting down to Hogsmeade weekends or the next late-night thrill. She wasn't looking for an escape these days.
No. These days, she was working.
Like, properly working.
And not just scribbling half-hearted answers five minutes before class, either. She had highlighters. She had colour-coded flashcards. She had a timetable stuck to her wall with little stickers shaped like cauldrons. Somewhere along the line, Tonks had gone from lovable academic disaster to the girl you asked for help from before an exam.
And, frankly, she was both proud and mildly terrified of herself.
She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it changed—maybe it was in Professor Lupin's office, when she'd felt something crack open in her chest. Or maybe it was after that night in the Room of Requirement, where she'd hurt someone she cared about just by choosing to move forward.
But the truth was simple: she didn't want to live on the edges anymore. No more sneaking about in shadows. No more pretending her decisions didn't weigh on her. And definitely no more using cheap thrills to cover up the aching need for something more.
Because now, she wanted more.
She wanted purpose. She wanted clarity. She wanted to earn every inch of the future she was starting to picture in quiet corners of her mind—the one where she was strong, steady, and maybe walking beside someone like him.
Professor Lupin.
Even thinking his name made something in her stomach twist and flutter, like leaves caught in a sudden gust.
She still had those private lessons with him. Not every week, but often enough that her heart hadn't calmed since September. Every time she knocked on his office door, parchment tucked under her arm and nerves dancing under her skin, it felt like she was stepping into some little world only the two of them shared.
He didn't treat her like a silly girl. He listened. He challenged her. He saw her—and not just the version she put on for laughs. He noticed when she improved, pointed it out with quiet pride, and those little nods of approval carried more weight than any grade ever could.
So she studied harder.
She started waking early just to revise in peace before breakfast. She skipped gossip sessions and Quidditch distractions, choosing instead the comforting scratch of quill on parchment. Her wandwork sharpened. Her essays became sharper, more confident. Even Professor Snape gave her a rare, half-hearted nod of approval once—and he didn't do nods.
And the strangest thing? She wasn't miserable.
No, she actually liked this version of herself. The one who tried. The one who cared. The one who wasn't afraid of doing things the long, hard way if it meant getting something real at the end of it.
She didn't preach about it to her friends either—Merlin, no. That wasn't her style. But Chiara started lingering in the library longer when Tonks did. Penny swapped out her mirror for a Transfiguration textbook one afternoon and didn't even moan about it. Badeea stopped pretending she wasn't clever and actually started flexing that brilliant brain of hers. It was like they'd all quietly agreed to be a little better—not perfect, not saints, just… better.
It wasn't just about school, either. It was about themselves.
Tonks still had a laugh with them, of course—there were prank spells, midnight snacks, long talks about love and life and how bloody hard it was to be young and unsure. 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 quiet of her dormitory, when the lights were low and her hair was the soft brown it defaulted to when she was too tired to shift it, she allowed herself to dream.
About him.
About sitting beside him, not as a student but as an equal. As a woman he might admire not just for her spirit or her stubbornness but for her discipline. Her choices.
She knew it wasn't the time yet. She knew the world was still watching, that he had rules to follow and walls around his heart thicker than Hogwarts itself. But she didn't need everything now. She just needed to keep becoming someone who could handle it—handle him.
Because what she felt wasn't a crush anymore. It wasn't a fling of fancy or a mad obsession.
It was something quieter. Steadier. Stronger.
It was love, blooming in the soil she'd finally decided to tend to.
And for once, she didn't feel lost in it.
She felt ready.
The moment she stepped into his office, Tonks could tell he noticed.
It wasn't anything obvious—he didn't gasp or drop his quill dramatically or say, "My word, Tonks, is that a colour-coded study binder?" But his eyes, tired and warm as ever, paused on her face a second longer than usual. Long enough to make her stomach twist itself into something resembling a Celtic knot.
She hadn't done anything special that day. Hair a calm shade of auburn, pulled back into a tidy plait. Robes ironed—for once. No dramatic entrance, no tripping over furniture or slipping on her satchel strap. Just her. Quiet, focused, still buzzing slightly from finishing three essays before dinner.
He looked at her like she was… different.
"Hello, Ms. Tonks," he said, his voice gentle. Not quite surprised. More like… curious.
"Hi, Professor," she replied, setting her notes down with a kind of reverence. She sat straighter now. Didn't fidget as much. Merlin help her; she might actually be maturing.
He studied her for a beat too long, then cleared his throat and turned to the parchment on his desk. "You're early."
"Figured I'd rather wait here than listen to Chiara dissect her romantic crisis involving two Ravenclaws and a very dramatic broken quill."
He chuckled—soft and low, the kind of laugh that always sent something warm spiralling through her ribs. "That does sound like dangerous territory."
"Positively lethal," she said, grinning.
As he sorted through some scrolls, Tonks watched him—discreetly, she hoped. There was something comforting about the way he moved: precise, measured, always mindful. His sleeves were rolled up, as usual, forearms ink-smudged and scattered with old scars. She used to find those little details distracting.
Now she found them grounding.
"Let's start with your essay," he said, holding out his hand. "The one on Muggle witch hunts."
Tonks handed it over, nerves fluttering in her chest even though she knew it was good. She'd rewritten it twice. Spent three hours citing sources in the library. Badeea had even proofread it, bless her.
Professor Lupin began to read silently. As he scanned the pages, his brow furrowed—not in confusion, but in concentration. His lips pressed together. He was taking it seriously, and somehow that made her more anxious than if he'd just skimmed it.
After a few minutes, he set it down.
"This is excellent work."
The words hit her like a spell.
"Oh," she said, trying not to beam like an idiot. "Thanks."
"I mean it," he added, leaning back in his chair, looking at her with something new behind his eyes. "Your voice is sharper here. More deliberate. You're thinking like a historian, not just retelling facts."
She felt heat creep up her neck, and not just from the fire. She nodded, hoping her voice wouldn't wobble. "I've been… trying."
"I can tell."
There was a pause. A charged one. It buzzed in the space between them like static, subtle but unmistakable.
"I'm glad," he said finally. "You've changed. In a good way."
The words settled in her chest like a stone sinking into deep water. She looked down at her fingers, clasped in her lap, then back up at him.
"I'm still me," she offered quietly. "Just… me with better study habits."
That earned her another soft laugh. "Yes. But there's more than that, isn't there?"
She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. "Maybe I wanted to prove I'm not just the loud one. Or the clumsy one. Or the girl who always has pink hair and a joke ready. Maybe I wanted to see what I could be if I actually tried."
Professor Lupin looked at her for a long time. And this time, it was obvious. His expression softened into something she couldn't quite name—pride, maybe. Or understanding. Or something heavier.
"You've always had that in you, Ms. Tonks," he said gently. "But I'm glad you decided to show it."
Her heart thudded. It was the kind of compliment that didn't feel like flattery—it felt like truth.
And somehow, that was even more dangerous.
She broke eye contact, busying herself with her ink bottle. "Well. Wait till you see my revision notes for the Goblin Rebellions. I've got a whole system involving colour codes, footnotes, and absolutely no social life."
Professor Lupin chuckled again, the sound easing the tightness in her chest.
"I look forward to it," he said. "You'll put the rest of the class to shame."
"Good," she smirked. "They deserve it."
The rest of the lesson passed in a blur of parchment, quill scratches, and occasional banter. But under it all, Tonks could feel it—that tiny shift. The way he looked at her was like she wasn't a girl anymore. Like she was becoming someone worth seeing.