As first meetings go this one has been banner, Remus thinks.

Severus has scowled, Sirius has scoffed, and Tonks . . . well, she looks far too amused for her own good, sitting in the corner beside a grumbling Mad-Eye, her knees pulled up to her chin, her pink, pink hair waving down around her face. It really makes her eyes pop, Remus decides, noting that they've mysteriously changed from their sparkling blue back to warm brown (he'll think more on that later). He also decides he likes it before he has the common sense to stop thinking about such things.

Their scene in the alley still has him shaking, the wolf pacing inside now, urging him to move just a bit closer. He wants to be able to smell her again: vanilla and apple blossoms in early summer. To be able to see the gold flecks dusted inside those warm brown eyes. To feel her body pressed—

Well that is more than enough! He curses himself and the moon, his runaway thoughts, and the grumbling deep down in his chest.

The wolf likes her. Really likes her. And he just can help himself right now. She's intriguing and mysterious. Vibrant in ways that light up dreary Grimmauld Place. She's funny without meaning to be and bold and outspoken and just everything he is not. The wolf wants to get to know her.

And Remus does, too. It's the one thing they've agreed on in a really long time.

Across the table, Tonks twirls a wand between her fingers—his wand: unicorn hair, 101/4 inches, cypress—and he can't help but think she's about to break into a flamboyant drum solo with it. The cheeky grin she gives him immediately after that thought does nothing to reassure him to the contrary.

Sirius tips forward, nudging Remus' shoulder with his own, eyes narrowed. "Isn't that your—"

"Yes."

"Did she—"

"Yes."

"Bloody hell."

Sirius leans back in his chair again, feet propped on the table, the Prophet spread-out between his hands. There's a lopsided smirk on his face, like none of this surprises him, or maybe, because Remus knows him better, the smirk really means that Sirius thinks he got exactly what he deserved. "I'm mean, really," the ex-con says softly, carefully, like he's trying not to crack the delicate tone of his voice, "cornering young witches in alleys. What'd you expect?" His eyes shift across the Prophet, glancing at a headline about himself. His lips twist so far it almost looks painful. "And she is an Auror after all. You've got to be careful, Moony."

Remus simply huffs and sips his tea, the closest he's come to glowering at his friend in a long time, and the fact that it's over a witch brings back faded, time-warped memories of their fifteen-year-old selves. Sirius would think this is a riotous laugh.

Remus waits for the meeting to end and then promptly makes his move: anything else would be admitting defeat to an entire table of witches and wizards who he'd rather not explain things to, especially the reason that he lost his wand to Nymphadora, a witch who barely manages to Apparate without falling over.

He grabs her arm again, the one hidden beneath the grey, oversized cardigan she wears, dragging her over to the corner of the room.

He shoots a disdainful look at Kreacher who scurries off mumbling obscenities.

The words merge with Tonks' as she hisses in reverse, a sucking sound that splits the air backwards through her teeth. "Would you stop that already?" she says, extricating herself from his grip. "I thought we already did this once."

His face softens, his determination to secure his wand no less resolute, but somehow forced to the back of his mind for the moment, though he's not sure why. "You should really get that taken care of."

"I will."

"Tonight," he urges. "It could get infected."

"I'm not worried about infection."

"A Healer could whip you up a fix."

"I don't fancy a date with a Healer at this late hour. They prod and poke and there's always a mountain of paperwork."

He takes pity on her then, her sweet, teasing face. The grace-less way she stumbles into the kitchen counter as she attempts to slip away from his hovering presence. The cut-off breaths she struggles with as he reaches for her arm again to steady her.

And that's how she ends up seated on the counter, Remus Lupin standing between her knees, her arm being gently prodded with a magical, silvery paste.

"So, when did you take up a secret career as a Healer?" she asks, examining his handiwork

"I've experienced my fair share of bumps and bruises," he says. At least once a month. "It was a handy thing to know."

"Hmm," she murmurs, sighing in silent relief as the sting of dragon breath slips from her mind. He's wrapping her arm now, her hand pressed flat against his chest as the gauze twirls around and around. His hands are warm through the cloth, his grip firm but no longer painful.

"You should really change these bandages tomorrow."

"Hmm . . ."

"Nymphadora, are you listening?"

"Yes."

His gaze is questioning. He leans closer. "You seem to pay better attention when I have you pressed up against a wall."

"Hmm . . . WHAT?" she stammers. The words are muffled because she thinks she's forgotten how to breath sometime during the last two or three minutes.

"Now I have your attention." His head turns down, dragging that cocky smirk with it, the better to see hers with. She's still shorter than him, even stacked upon the counter. "You're not going to change these tomorrow, are you?"

"I-yes . . . well, I do work and though I'll try not to get distracted, it may slip my mind for a time, who can really say?" Is she rambling? Surely not. Tonks doesn't ramble. That's the one thing she can attest to. She says exactly what she means, exactly when she thinks it, whether it's an appropriate reflection of the situation or not. But she certainly doesn't ramble.

Foot in her mouth disease, sure. But gutter lips? Nope.

"Will you be here tomorrow? For Molly's lasagna?"

"That was the plan," she says, biting firmly on her bottom lip. Let's try full sentences that actually stop.

He rolls the excess gauze into a ball and nods, gesturing to her arm once more. "Then it's a date."

"A . . . what?"

And somehow, while she's floundering like a fish with her mouth open, a hand sneaks into her pocket and retrieves the wand there.

Remus twirls it between his own fingers, relieved, satisfied, with the barest trace of a smirk on his lips. "Constant vigilance," he whispers, pocketing his wand and wrapping his hands around her hips. He gently slides her from the counter—his body far too close, his lips almost tangled in the hair at the side of her face—and deposits her on two feet. "Good as knew," he says, releasing a deep breath that smells of mint tea leaves.

She's still staring, gaping really, when he says goodnight, squeezes her shoulder, and leaves the kitchen. Her hips burn with a cold fire where he's touched her, like it starts in her bones and sears out from there.

Does she shiver? No, surely not. Tonks does not get unnerved like this. It isn't in her nature. It isn't . . . she's pretty sure he was inhaling her shampoo. Her stomach twirls and she feels a blush touch her cheeks.

Sirius clears his throat, the sound making her jump.

He flaps the corners of the Prophet as he turns the page, looking up over his shoes which are still propped on the table. "I should warn you, Cuz, Remus really is a piece of work."

So . . . reviews are quite nice :)