A/N: Hello all! Yet another speculatory story, but this time with everyone's favorite lycanthrope/metamorphagus couple: Remus and Tonks! Hope you enjoy it, and please review, it would be very much appreciated.

I was listening to this song when I started writing it Quelqu'un M'a Dit, by Carla Bruni. C'est un merveilleux chanson!

I want to stop looking at their faces, 'cause whenever I don't have anything to contribute to the discussion, I end up just watching whoever's talking, and then that makes me want to look at his face.

But if I mind my own business, and show that I'm not really listening, I look juvenile, and uninterested. I'm determined not to make that impression. I hear uproar in the argument, and then he speaks loudly, so to be heard, which took my unconscious attention.

"But if he were to stay at his post for any longer, he wouldn't have hope of communication or resources before November rolls around. I suggest we relocate him before the months out."

Another jumble of voices.

From what I gather, they are discussing Trenton Ringnose, who is in Whales acting as a muggle, and set to keep an eye on Thorfinn Rowle and his doings. I don't know anything else about it, but I do notice the concern all over Remus's face.

I watch his expression change from wary to grim, and back again.

Arthur walks into the room with a rush and speaks, "We just got a distress call about Death Eaters on 31st street. It's minor, but I think a couple of people should come with me."

"I'll go," offers Shacklebolt, getting up.

"Yeah, me too," says Remus. I flick my eyes away as he stands, and bring my knees to my chest in my chair. I wanted to volunteer; I need something to do. I glance over to him again, buttoning up his coat, and he smiles and nods at me before he walks out the door. The meeting is adjourned, and everyone starts to disperse. The activity in the room is slowly diminished, and it's only a matter of time before it's just Molly and me. Ginny walks into the room, and sits next to me.

"Watcha," I say smiling, "cute jumper." She looks down to her sweatshirt and tugs on it primly.

"Thanks," she grins.

"You girls need some stew, don't you?" Molly says as she set's ready-warmed bowls in front of us. I dig in gratefully.

"This is brilliant, Molly. I've no hope for household magic," I joke wistfully. Molly seemed to take it more seriously than I intended.

"You'll be a wonderful wife, Tonks," she says. Ginny snorts into her stew, holding in a giggle.

"That's not what I-," I start up laughing, and Molly interrupts.

"Of course it is, dear," she says with something like a dreadful kind of pity I her voice. "Now I'm off to bed, Ginny don't hang about too late. Tonks, your welcome to stay tonight, the rain is beastly. If your awake by the time Arthur and Remus come back, tell them about the stew, if their hungry." She went up the stairs and leaves me with her daughter looking at me with a glint in her eye.

"Well, that was unexpected," I say after a moment. Ginny laughs.

"My mother is a bit intense."

"That's why we love her, though. We'd all starve without her." I sigh.

We talk for a long time about shoes, and Quidditch, and Harry, and after a few more laughs, she dismisses herself. I take it upon myself to wait for the two men, giving myself the excuse that I'm not tired, and that I am all too preoccupied with a crossword puzzle for sleep.

After getting bored with it, I resort to just sitting, and looking around, and pondering.

I lift my hand and pick at my bright pink nails. On the back of my hand, there's a small scar at the base of my middle finger. I got it the time Bill and I got sloshed the night of our graduation at Hogwarts. I don't know how the puncture came to be; I don't recall much from that night. My jaw twitched a little bit before the skin on my finger melded together, concealing the scar.

"Well, now that I'm at it…" I say to myself.

I glance at each freckle on my arm, and they disappear one by one. I lift up my foot and change the way my pinky toe sticks out. I look across the room into the black window, seeing my reflection. I tilt my head and get rid of the small dimple in my chin.

I slack my shoulders against the chair and let out a big breath. My wrists catch my eye. I've always hated them; they're too big.

"Thick Scottish wrists!" I hear my father say in my head. "It's a family trait, passed to all the Tonkses! You should be honored." I smile in spite of myself, and hold them in front of me and sigh. They shrink before my eyes, and I grimace.

"How do you know what you look like?" I hear a low voice coming from the doorway. I jump and whip my head around.

"Eh?" I grunt unattractively. Remus is leaning against the door frame with a curious look on his face, wet from rain, and his hands in his pockets.

"Beg pardon?" I put out, finally composing myself. He walks into the room and sits down a couple seats away from me.

"What do you look like?" A pause. "Naturally, that is," he clarifies. I look at him sideways, and smile, but avoiding his inquiring gaze.

"Do you insist?" I ask starting to laugh, hiding my nervousness. He looks down, smirking, and I can't help but notice that I had probably embarrassed him a little. But he looks up and shrugs playfully.

"I'm really terribly curious, Dora," he admits with a silly grin.

"Well, I'm really terribly apprehensive, Remus!" I say, surprised at my new nickname, and flustered by his smile.

He looks at me wide-eyed. "What happened to the most confident girl I know?"

"First of all, I am not a girl. I'm a woman," I say defensively. "And second, I don't look that different right now from how I am naturally, anyway."

He looks affronted, but it melts away into a smile. A charming smile that brightens his face, making him look as young as he really is. I sigh, relaxing my shoulders, and leaning back.

"Close your eyes, and open them when I tell you," I command. He hesitates then leans back as well, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes.

"Don't hide anything," he says, and I grimace.

I take a moment, and then I kind of relax all of my muscles, and let out an enormously big breath. I let all the tension in the world out of my skin, and I'm suddenly very, very, Nymphadora Tonks in every line, and curve, and dapple.

"Erm," I manage, "okay."

He opens his eyes, and I'm cringing fiercely.

For a while all is quiet, I haven't been this 'exposed' in a long time. I avoid his gaze and begin to look at myself instead. The freckles reappear on my arms and my nail-beds shorten; the dimple on my chin returning. A strand of mousy brown hair falls limply across my eyes. It's longer than when I last saw it like this, my fringe is nearly all grown out now. I never change my body weight, because I'm mostly happy with it, but without feeling, I know the flesh on my inner thighs has expanded slightly.

I muster just enough courage to look up at him.

His gaze is soft. There's a small smile corning at his mouth. He's not looking at my nails, or the skin on my arms, but is fixing on my eyes, as if I had just said something pleasant.

At long length he speaks.

"Why did you shrink your wrists?" he asks, smiling affably.

Horror flits across my face. "Are they that noticeable!" I squeal, throwing them between my knees.

He laughs. A loud, long, wonderful laugh. "Absolutely not! I saw you doing it when I came in." I heave a sigh, and run a hand though my hair.

"I have thick Scottish wrists." I supply simply.

He leans forward, elbows in his knees, and reaches out to grab my arms.

With the underside of my forearms up, he sits there for the best part of a minute and just looks at them. I am all too aware of his touch. My skin is so pale, and my wrists… I feel so raw and unfiltered in front of him.

He lets go and looks up to me, with those honest hazel eyes.

"You have gorgeous wrists."

I wish his voice wasn't so serious sounding.

"All the Tonkses have them," I say weakly, not being able to think of anything else to say under this regard.

He nods, elbows on his knees, and looks to the left. There's something like conflict screwing up his face, and it scares me a little bit.

Scared that the one time he shows any type of admiration or affection for me, he regrets it so soon after. I know he thinks I'm just a child, when I'm already 23. My mom was only two years older when she married my father.

Maybe if I just show some maturity.

"What was the distress call about," I ask at length. He looks up at me, the weariness in his eyes returning.

And as he tells me about Death Eaters, and threats, and sickness, and danger, the lines around his mouth deepen, and a shadow is cast over his stare, which makes it seem like he's looking a thousand miles behind me, I realize that his worries are making him sick, and bitter-hearted.

And I realize the change from when we were talking lightly about something so trivial as my wrists, and when he started his overbearing explanation, that maybe I don't need to put on an act for him to like me. Maybe I'm here so that he can become himself again.

Maybe my youthfulness is a blessing to him.

When he finishes talking, I reach over and pat his shoulder tenderly. I give him a sympathetic smile.

"Well, I'm glad you're safe," I say comfortingly.

And he breathes, and he smiles, and I can see him again.