‘Of course. Dumbledore. He’s got to be here. He can get us back,’ Tonks said confidently, and she started to stride down the hall. A hand whipped out and grabbed her forearm, and she was jerked back. It was Remus. ‘What?’
‘What would you do if you saw someone who looked exactly like you did, except twenty years older?’
She sighed. His logic was annoyingly irrefutable, as usual. ‘I’d probably… attack myself or something… I’d think I was a Death Eater.’
‘Exactly,’ Remus replied simply. ‘And while you may be too young to find a carbon copy of yourself traipsing down these halls – ‘
Too young. Tonks bristled, not willing to admit that the words had struck her like a knife. He had no idea what she’d done, what she’d seen, how much she’d had to prove herself over the past few years. He didn’t know sh–
‘ – I still don’t think it’s a good idea for you to look like you normally do,’ he concluded, blind to her reaction. ‘The littlest thing can alter the fabric of time, especially now, in the midst of a war.’
Like you normally do. Was he honestly that stupid? Did he really think that she wanted to look this way, as brown and ugly as a rotting pear? Could he genuinely not see the effect his presence had on her, the way his refusals had crumbled her Metamorphosing powers into powder? You fool, she thought bitterly.
‘I need you to change me. Hair colour, skin tone, anything. Get my appearance as far from my own as you can…’
Change me. Tonks almost laughed. How she had tried, how she had pleaded with him to do just that, change his mind, his views, his distorted, horribly wrong vision of himself… if only. She blinked rapidly to clear her thoughts and raised her wand. It’s over. What’s done is done. Get a grip, Tonks.
‘Okay… well…. there’s always… and I can try…’ Tonks trailed off, muttering under her breath every Transfiguration spell she had learned, the Latin words flowing fluidly off her tongue. Despite her complete and total anxiety for her situation, she couldn’t help but smirk in accomplishment as a new man gradually appeared before her.
Full lips quirked beneath a thick black beard – a true Muggle ‘Moses’ beard, as her father liked to call it – as an olive-coloured hand reached up to stroke it.
‘Facial hair, Nymphadora?’ Remus’s voice asked from the stranger’s body, as a thick eyebrow raised itself sceptically at her. The sudden joking tone startled her so much that she forgot to reprimand him at the use of her first name.
‘Have you ever grown a beard?’ Tonks snapped back defensively. ‘Besides, it was the only thing I could think of to cover your scars. They don’t seem to like magic very much.’
The words had fled her mouth before she gave them permission to. His face, which had shown the slightest of signs of amusement, slammed closed like a book.
‘Werewolf scars don’t like anything very much,’ he answered crisply. ‘You should probably Metamorphose quickly, before anyone notices us standing here.’
Silence fell. Tonks cast her eyes down, away from him. She bit her lip, feeling her cheeks grow warm. Yeah... about that...
His irises, still resolutely golden despite her many spell attempts to change their unique colour, searched her face and crinkled in confusion, the book opening back up as quickly as it had closed.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, his tone gentle for what felt like the first time in months.
Probably a reflex reaction, she thought acidly. It’ll harsh up as soon as he remembers it’s me, his perpetual aggravation.
Out loud, she said, ‘I can’t.’
It was barely more than a whisper. Tonks took a deep breath and cleared her throat.
‘I can’t,’ she repeated, stronger, lifting her eyes defiantly to meet his. ‘I... I haven’t been able to change... for... months.’
She saw the pieces connect in his mind, the spark of realisation and instant dousing of all possible meaning in relation to him. It was a coincidence, she knew he was telling himself. Due to Sirius’s death, perhaps, or the growing danger her Muggleborn father was in. Maybe even a fluke of the chilly, Dementor-induced weather. It couldn’t possibly be because, heaven forbid, she actually loved –
‘Oh.’ Tonks’ internal monologue was cut off. ‘I’m... sorry, Nymphadora.’
You should be.
‘It’s probably better this way, if you don’t mind my saying so. My charming your appearance will be less recognisable than your particular brand of Metamorphosing.’ He had reverted back to the overly-polite, borderline-elitist pattern of speech that he now used every time he addressed her.
In even less time than it had taken her to transform him, she was staring apprehensively at his handiwork. Freckles dotted every inch of her now-overly-pale skin, chin-length chocolate curls gleaming over a sharply angular face from her peripheral vision.
‘Thanks,’ she said in a strangled voice.
‘Not at all,’ he replied smoothly, and started a brisk walk down the corridor. The pursuit her still-short legs had to make to keep up with him gave her a sense of déjà -vu, and she couldn’t help but feel that his quick pace was meant to keep them as far apart as possible without being entirely separated.
They were lucky enough, Tonks noted, as they walked down a strip of hallway she recognised as leading to Dumbledore’s office, not to meet a single student. Class time, her mind told her. It seemed bizarre, the idea that life could continue with even a semblance of normality and order when there was a storm raging through the world around them, but that was Hogwarts; an untouchable fortress. Or, at least, it had been...
‘Peto auxilium sociorum.’ Remus’s voice cut through her ears; they had arrived at the stoic stone gargoyle that loyally guarded the entrance to Dumbledore’s office.
I seek the aid of an ally, Tonks remembered, Dumbledore’s words echoing in her brain from her first ever meeting of the Order of the Phoenix. It was the secret password ‘loophole’ of the Order, if any of them had ever become so endangered that a visit to Dumbledore was unexpected and unannounced. She was surprised the words worked, even before the Order had been created, but she supposed it was just another of Hogwarts’ many secrets.
‘Enter,’ the familiar calm voice called to them, before Remus could even raise a hand to the doorknocker. The sound sent shivers up Tonks’ spine... it was something she had steeled herself never to hear again, never to hold close in times of utmost terror.
‘Greetings, time-travellers.’ Crystalline blue eyes glittered at the two from behind a handsome wooden desk.
She inhaled sharply. This isn’t possible.
But it was. The man was, implausibly, impeccably, Dumbledore. Tonks instantly knew it, would instantly have known it even if she hadn’t seen the flowing beard (auburn now, and streaked with only a few wisps of gray) or the eccentric robes (amethyst purple, marked with swirling bronze designs) adorning his deceptively fragile body. The man had an aura about him, of wisdom and integrity and all sorts of other storybook clichés the likes of which Tonks had clung to as a child.
‘How did you –‘ she began, and Dumbledore nodded towards a whirring silver instrument on his desk.
‘I was notified of your arrival as soon as you appeared... caused quite a stir with all of my concealment detectors, you understand...’ The friendly crinkling of his eyes told her that the phrase wasn’t meant to be taken offensively.
‘Oh,’ Tonks said, still rather apologetically. ‘Sorry about that... but, Professor, that’s why we’re here, you see, I’m Nymph -‘
‘I would prefer not to hear your names, my dear,’ Dumbledore interrupted her kindly. Seeing her immediate look of confusion, he amended, ‘Through no fault of your own, of course... time is a difficult thing, and I wish not to learn anything that might tamper with that. How you came here, and how we can get you home, however, are two things that I do wish to know. But first, please, sit.’
‘Why do you trust us?’ Remus spoke up sharply. It was the first time he had opened his mouth since seeing the (formerly) dead Headmaster. He looked unsettled, almost frightened; Tonks knew he had been close to Dumbledore, and all of this topsy-turvy time-travel compiled with his death had to be hitting him worse than she could possibly imagine.
‘Hogwarts has stood for several thousand years,’ the Professor replied. ‘It is a fortress –‘
Tonks jerked her head up from where she had been studying the intricate stonework patterns on the floor as Dumbledore repeated her exact phrasing from minutes before.
‘ – not an infallible one, I assure you, but it is a fortress nevertheless, and, if you will allow me to indulge an aging man’s ego, I do not believe that it will fall under my Headship. It would not remain this way, especially in this time of war, if I didn’t place the strictest of security measures over it. No Dark Wizard, time-traveller or no, would have been able to get this far into the castle. Furthermore, I am the only person from this time who knows that password, and I assume that I have had noble reasons to entrust you with it,’ he concluded. Remus’s muddled expression dissolved into a look of relief, and Tonks could tell how much he wanted to believe in the Headmaster’s infinite abilities.
‘It was a Time-Turner,’ Remus told him. ‘Year-Increment... they won’t be invented until 1978, and then banned a year later. It left us, vanished into thin-air as soon as we’d arrived here.’
‘It seems, then, that you are stuck here for a year... unless, of course, they have discovered a simple spell for time-travel where you come from?’ Dumbledore proposed. Tonks and Remus shook their heads simultaneously. Dumbledore sighed. ‘I’d rather thought not, but one can always dream. You have nowhere to go, and I am, once again, short of a staff member. As long as you are wise enough to be discrete with your futuristic knowledge – and my, forgive me, rather flawless intuition tells me you are – I see no reason why we cannot help each other.’
The look on Remus’s face told Tonks that his synapses were already connecting the proverbial dots, but she had absolutely no idea where Dumbledore was taking his speech.
‘In exchange for food, bed, wages, privacy, and, as soon as it is invented, access to a Year-Increment Time-Turner, I would like to offer you both the joint post of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.’
‘I don’t...’ Remus began.
‘Yes,’ Tonks responded at the same time. ‘Absolutely.’ She turned to Remus with pleading eyes and lowered her voice. ‘Dumbledore’s the only chance we have to get out of this alive – beyond these walls... who knows? We could get ourselves killed before we even meet. We have to do this.’
There was a pause in which Tonks was afraid he would destroy her reasoning with his own more potent kind. A look she knew all too well had settled in his eyes, one that told her he was weighing all possible options and trying to find a better way out. Probably one that doesn’t involve spending a year trapped in 1970’s Hogwarts teaching teenagers with me.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Remus agreed slowly. He raised his voice, although Tonks suspected that their decrescendo in volume hadn’t hindered the Headmaster’s hearing. ‘I agree, Professor. We accept.’
‘Marvellous! I do so love when things work out this perfectly, don’t you? In light of the circumstances, I think,’ he added suddenly, ‘we’ll waive the typical contract. Two things I will need to have are the names you wish to be addressed by for your stay here.’
‘Dora... Alphard,’ Tonks decided. Remus gave her an odd look. ‘Great-Uncle Alphard was the only one in my family I could actually stand. Aside from –‘
Tonks broke off abruptly. Wetness pricked sharply at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to get rid of it.
‘Sorry,’ she murmured, flushing. ‘I didn’t mean to –‘
‘Romulus... Woolf,’ Remus finished, making no sign that he had heard the rest of Tonks’ speech. Tonks hastily disguised her laugh in a hacking cough, and Remus shot her a glare. ‘But, Professor Dumbledore, there’s something you need to know about me...’
‘Yes, Romulus? Though, now that you are a member of my staff, I must insist that you call me Albus.’
‘I... I really don’t know how... I have this... condition, sir...’ Remus’s eyes traced the outline of Dumbledore’s scarlet inkpot, his midnight blue quill. Tonks could almost feel the shame emanating form him, knowing he had gone through this moment dozens upon dozens of times, only to be thrown out by his prospective employers again and again.
‘I am a werewolf.’
The words sliced through the air like the sword of Godric Gryffindor.
‘Ah...’ Dumbledore said softly. ‘I take it, then, Professor Woolf, that this isn’t the best year for you to have dropped in to?’
Tonks’ mouth fell open. He knew. The marvellous, brilliant, completely nutty old man knew who Remus was! She could have laughed. She glanced at Remus’s face and knew he was going through the same thought processes she was.
‘Not exactly, Professor,’ he responded eventually, the trace of a smile briefly gracing his face. ‘But the full moon –‘
‘Is two weeks away,’ Dumbledore finished for him. ‘Meanwhile, I will begin searching for accommodations for you, as, I’ve heard, the Shrieking Shack is occupied this time of year.’
He stood up and gestured for them to do the same. ‘I have no doubt that, by now, you have discovered the location of the teachers’ quarters, Professor Woolf. You will find the rooms for Professor Alphard and yourself within the door the end of that hall.’
‘There are several pairs of spare robes and a set of the standard required schoolbooks stored there for moments like this,’ he supplemented, in response to Tonks’ unasked question. ‘I admit, in the past decade, they’ve had to be used more than I like.’
‘Thank you, Professor – Albus,’ Tonks corrected herself. She got up, carefully straightening the high-backed chair into its precise original position. ‘Erm... when do classes start, exactly?’
‘Tomorrow,’ the Professor replied with a chipper grin. ‘I let you go, knowing you have a full night’s work ahead of you.’
They both started for the door, Tonks reaching it first and stretching out for the shining handle. She looked back, intending to thank the Headmaster once again. Remus had stopped in front of a gold-framed mirror, his hands moving across every inch of his foreign face. A look of wonder was spreading slowly across it, a peculiarly familiar expression on a not-so-familiar countenance.
‘It’s me,’ he muttered, so quietly that Tonks had to lean in to hear him.
‘What?’
‘I had a professor, two professors, my seventh year, I remember it... Professors Woolf and Alphard... I always used to think they had the strangest names... it didn’t come to me until now... I am Professor Woolf.’
Tonks’ jaw dropped. This was weird, even by Wizarding standards. Remus remembered being taught by himself. Remus and the Woolf.
Whoa.