clumsy_auror: (profile pensive [black])
The days that Nymphadora's been back have sped by far more quickly than she'd like. There've been near-daily visits to the Healers, for tests and exams and ultrasounds, and Durkin's been scratching his head trying to re-calculate Charlotte's exact due date. Then there's Allbright, who hugged her, told her off, and dumped a foot-high stack of reports on her desk, in that order.

Other things are coming more slowly. Time with Bernard and the kids is still tenuous, fragile. Like no one's exactly sure she's home to stay, deep down.

'Dora hates that.
clumsy_auror: (pumpkin pickles [black])
"All right, let's see if our little friend is going to say hullo today-- ah ha! There we are."

Healer Durkin prods the floating sonogram image with his wand, and moves the transmitting stone just a hair so that the fetus comes into sharper focus.

Nymphadora blinks at the picture with wide, eager eyes.

"How does it look? Is it the proper size? Is that the head?"
clumsy_auror: (quiet child)
When you're not terribly old, even the littlest things can get you down.

Take, for example, the whole talking thing. You've got lots of words down! You do! But the whole concept of the letter D seems to largely elude you, and you can tell it's really bumming Dad out. So you're working on it.


But even worse is the walking. You're crawling like a pro, and taking steps with help, even pulling yourself up without help!

And yet.

And yet.

Not so much.

So it's best to practice this sort of thing when everybody's busy. Looking the other way.

No pressure.

Nooooooooo pressure.
clumsy_auror: (whut? [purple])
Nymphadora's been far more careful about keeping track of things, since she lost the baby. She knows it's almost obsessive, the way she ticks off each day in her calendar, but doesn't care. She'd rather be too careful than her usual forgetful self.

She waits for a few days. Waits and waits, just to let things... percolate. Coalesce. Decide if they like the accomodations.

Then, she takes a test.


There's a knock on Allbright's door.

"Alohomora," he barks, not looking up from his work as Nymphadora steps through the opening door.

The witch shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "Sir, is it all right if I take the afternoon off?"

A snort. "'Course it's bloody well all right. We don't pay you any overtime, do we, and you've still got enough comp time from the war coming to you to hare off to Belize for three months if you got the urge." With a tap of his wand, the scroll in front of Allbright seals itself shut, and he finally looks up at his Auror. "But you won't do that, will you, because you know my poor old heart just couldn't handle the strain."

'Dora does her best to keep a straight face, and shakes her head. "No, sir."

"All right then, get the hell out of here."

Her smile breaks through.

"Yes, sir."


Jan. 27th, 2007 03:07 pm
clumsy_auror: (OOC by potterpuffs!)
Reply here and I will:

1)Tell you why I first approached you.
2)Associate you with a song/movie/book.
3)Tell a random fact about you.
4)Tell my favorite memory of you.
5)Associate you with an animal/fruit.
6)Ask something I've always wanted to know about you.
7)In return, you MUST spread this questionnaire amongst the patrons.
clumsy_auror: (teary-eyed smile)
"Christ on a sodding bike, Bernard, slow down!"

Nymphadora braces one hand on the dashboard and the other on her husband's arm, her stricken eyes wide and fixedly staring out at the road.

"Knew we should've taken the train. 'It'll be fine, 'Dora, driving's just like falling off a log! You never forget how! It's no big deal!'"


Jan. 17th, 2007 08:57 pm
clumsy_auror: (OOC by potterpuffs!)
What's the worst thing someone could do?
Kill someone in cold blood.

What's the worst thing someone could do to you?

What's the worst thing that could happen to you?
Watching my family die.

What's the worst thing someone could say about a person?
In my world? Call them a Mudblood.

What's the best thing someone could say about a person?
Call them friend and mean it, I suppose.

Are men and women basically different?
Physically? Of course. But there's a lot of ways where it all comes down to personality quirks, and those aren't gender-specific.

Which is better, to be a woman or to be a man?
I don't think either one necessarily has it better than the other. Pros and cons for both.

What can men do that women can't do?
Piss standing up. That's a terribly obvious answer, isn't it?

What can women do that men can't do?
Give birth. Except for that bloke in the permanent residence wing of the magical catastrophies ward at St. Mungo's, but I don't see him going out on a lot of dates, so.

Is it possible to change genders?
Seems to happen at the bar often enough. Isn't it part of the Wednesday lunch special?

How old is old enough to have sex?
There isn't any set age for everybody. Maturity has more to do with it than anything.

Is it wrong to have sex if you're unmarried?

Is it wrong to have sex with someone other than your spouse if you're married?

Is it wrong to have sex with a person of the same gender?

Is it wrong to have sex with a person of a different race (or a different intelligent non-human species)?

Is it wrong to have more than one sexual partner at the same time?
Um. Probably, yes.

Doesn't mean it wouldn't be fun.

Is it wrong to have sex with someone you don't love?
Only if they love you.

What are the responsibilities of a mother toward a child?
Might be simpler to list the things a mother isn't responsible for... but mostly I see it as being a foundation for my kids. To be an example, which sounds corny, but it's true, isn't it? I won't do anything I wouldn't want my kids doing, tomorrow or next week or in twenty years.

It's about protection, and unconditional love, too. But that's pretty much a given.

What are the responsibilities of a father toward a child?
Same as the mother's, I should say.

What are the responsibilities of a child toward a parent?
To love. To listen. And to teach in return.

Which should be more important to you, your parent or your child?
I don't know how I could be expected to choose. My parents raised me. I wouldn't be who I am unless they had. Even when I don't see them every day, they're a part of my life that I can't set aside. But my kids are my kids. They depend on my more than anyone else does in the world.

So, in conclusion: I have no idea.

Which should be more important to you, your parent or your spouse?
What is this, Sophie's Choice?! Augh.

Which should be more important to you, your child or your spouse?

Is it wrong to have a child if you're unmarried?
Heck no.

Is abortion wrong?
Not universally, no. Personally I don't think I could do it, 'cause I'm a witch, and we magic-folk are bloody few enough as it is. But I know there are times when it's a necessity.

Is contraception wrong?
No. It just doesn't work.

Is there one true religion?

Does a deity or deities exist?

How important is it to believe in a deity or deities?
I don't think it's all that important, in terms of what happens to you in the end; though I think believing in something, having an idea of the bigger picture, makes you better able to cope with the bollocks life tosses at you.

How important is it to actively practice your religion?
For me? Not very. I believe what I believe, and that's all I need to do.

Does magic exist?
Do I really have to answer this?

Is practicing magic wrong?
Fuck, I hope not.

Is killing always wrong?
Not always.

Is war always wrong?

How old is old enough to fight in a war?
When you're old enough to have to.

Is rape always wrong?

Is torture always wrong?

Is theft always wrong?

Is slavery wrong?

Is lying wrong?
Not always.

Is swearing wrong?
Oh what kind of a bloody stupid question is that.
clumsy_auror: (lounging (black))
It's late; far later than the lights are generally on in the living room. But on they are, even though the fireplace has died down to its embers. There are some files on the coffee table, and a half-finished grocery list. One pile of neatly folded clothes occupies the armchair, while basketful of unfolded laundry sits on the floor beside it.

There are also a couple of limp forms on the couch.

'Dora's head is pillowed on the arm of the sofa, her mouth hanging slightly open.
clumsy_auror: (ummmmmm)
"All right, there, Fireproofing Charm on the deck accordingly renewed."

Nymphadora straightens up, nodding with satisfaction as the deck planks glow blue for a moment. Then she adjusts her fuzzy pom-pommed hat, and turns back to her husband.

"Is there anything else likely to be set on fire by your little toys?"

The witch squints out over the darkened lakefront as though expecting to see errant piles of drapery or old newspapers.
clumsy_auror: (ummmmmm)
It's three in the morning, and Bernard and Nymphadora are awake.

...No, not because of that.

"--Where's the rest of the sparkly tinsel paper?" 'Dora asks distractedly, shuffling through the mess of wrapping accoutrements around her on the floor of their bedroom.
clumsy_auror: (tea!)
Distractions are a positive thing.

Books are somewhat helpful, but her attention keeps wandering; the television or music are even less effective. Doing something with her hands is a definite improvement, so Nymphadora's sitting on the couch with a scrap of fabric, a spool of thread, a needle, and her wand in her hand. She's practicing the sewing spells Molly taught her.

As a concession to Bernard's nerves, there's a blanket tucked around her legs, and a cup of tea on the table in front of her.
clumsy_auror: (look me in the eye oneechan19)
It's mid-morning when Imogen sticks her head into Nymphadora's cubicle. "Oi, Tonks," she whispers. "Got any supplies? Started early."

The Auror gives her friend a sympathetic wince, and nods towards the bottom drawer of her desk. "Yeah, help yourself. Got a few vials of muscle-relaxing potion in there too, if the cramps are bad."

Imogen rummages in the drawer and pulls out a few items, secreting them away in the pockets of her robe. "Thanks," she says emphatically, and cuffs Tonks on the shoulder. "See you at the meeting later."

"Yeah, all right. No problem."

The smile fades from her face a moment or two after Imogen heads off towards the loo, and with a convulsive movement, Nymphadora turns to her calender and starts flipping the pages backwards, then counting forward.

She's late. Two weeks late.

Well. She's been a bit irregular now and again since Anthony, so there's no reason to get excited just yet, Nymphadora thinks, and attempts to get back to work.

Still, a pleased flush pinks her cheeks, and she hopes.


Sometime shortly after lunch, the familiar cramping pull across her abdomen and back seeps into Nymphadora's consciousness, and she sighs, disappointed. Well, there we are, then. Power of suggestion.

But the cramping doesn't ease off, even with a potion, and then Nymphadora realizes with an uncomfortable twinge that things seem-- heavier than they usually do, for her.

Then a stabbing pain in her lower belly elicits a gasp.

Her heart thudding, she heads off to the loo again.


When Meggie Forke walks into the women's loo some ten minutes later, she doesn't hear it right away. But just as she's about to step into the stall on the right, she realizes there's someone in the stall on the left, and that that someone is crying.

"Hello?" Meggie says tentatively, and ducks her head to look at the occupant's shoes. Black combat boots -- nothing unusual there -- with turquoise laces. Ah-ha. "Tonks? All right?"

Nymphadora's breath catches, and she shakes her head, pressing the heels of her hands into her puffy, red-rimmed eyes. "N-no."

"Are you-- what's happened, can I get you anything? Something from lunch make you ill?" Biting her lip, Meggie shifts nervously from foot to foot.

Just say it, Nymphadora. You need help, just tell her.

"I-- um. Think I maybe just miscarried."

The words make it sound so final, so true, and they hang in the air before her, echoing in her ears. She can hear Meggie suck in a shocked breath.

"All right, hang on, I'm going to run out and call for a Healer, and then I'll be right back, how far along are-- were you?" Past experience washes over Meggie like a grim sort of deja vu, and she thinks of her sister and the babies she miscarried. Four, in all. Meggie knows the drill.

"Not far," Nymphadora whispers. "I didn't know till just now."

"Christ. All right, Tonks, I'll be right back, I promise--"

Her voice fades as she ducks back out into the corridor, and Nymphadora can hear her running down towards the offices.

Into the silence, she suddenly sobs, feeling emptier than she ever would have thought possible.

Who were you? Nymphadora thinks wildly, shutting her eyes against the memory of dark red tissue against white porcelain. Red. Red.

Well. I did want red.

Then the footsteps outside return, and she wipes her eyes.

Later, she promises herself. You can think about it later.
clumsy_auror: (calm [black])
Dear Crowley,

Happy Thanksgiving! Look at us, Brits infected by a silly American holiday. But it means bloody good food, so bring it on, I say. Here's a basket of leftovers that's heavy enough that I reckon Hestia'll glare at me until I charm it lighter for her. I highly recommend the sweet potato pie. It's heaven on a stick, minus the stick.

Right now everyone's sort of lolling around in a food-induced stupor. Dude and Kathleen came for the day, and Bernard and Dude are currently arguing on the relative merits of the 1968 versus the 1969 Ohio State defensive lines. (I think. It's difficult to say, really. And Americans think cricket is weird.)

Hope you're feeling better. Eat up, keep your head down, and we'll see you soon.

Love from,

'Dora et al

Enclosed in the hamper are a number of food containers, as well as a set of (black) gloves, hat, and scarf. The entire basket, including the knitted things, are charmed to stay warm.
clumsy_auror: (profile pensive [black])
They enter the flat slowly; Ellie bounds up, and then stops, her head cocked to the side, perplexed.

It's early; almost too early for the kids to be up.


When they get to the hall, Anthony seems to sense their presence from the master bedroom, and begins to wail. 'Dora deposits Bernard on his side of the bed, and crawls across to the baby, picking him up and patting his back. "I know. I know. You're dying."

Once Anthony is fed and changed and settled in his cot for the moment, 'Dora turns her attention back to her husband.

He's been sitting on the edge of the bed this entire time. Hasn't even taken his coat off.

She walks around to his side of the bed again and kneels, unlacing one shoe, almost biting through her lip. "We need to get some ice for your head, love. You can't go to sleep."
clumsy_auror: (profile pensive [black])

Aziraphael has been busy.

Quite enormously so, in fact.

His Italian is getting so he almost doesn't sound like a foreigner, which is mildly unnerving - every now and again he made sure to make a deliberate mistake to remind them (himself?) that he really didn't belong there. That he wouldn't be staying there any longer than he had to, thank you very much.

(His Kinyarwanda, on the other hand, is genuinely quite dreadful. It'd be a marvel if his letter was delivered, quite frankly - the man had seemed to think that Aziraphael was attempting to buy his goat.)

He finally caught on, though, that there was work and there was work, and all work that had to be done had been settled to satisfaction, and if he gave them the chance they'd keep him another week at least.

And he had far more important things to be doing.

So he'd left, and he'd made his way back, and he'd not even stopped at the shop. He's almost outside the unobtrusive little door in the unobtrusive black wall when he suddenly pales, fingers clumsily undoing coat buttons and fumbling inside to brush against a long black feather that's pinned to the lining.

oh, he thinks.

...not again.

A moment later and the street is deserted again, brick dust still gently drifting down from where a handle had slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a scar.

Nymphadora refuses to panic.

Bar said Bernard went to look for Crowley, that he said to tell his wife that everything is fine. They should still be around somewhere behind one of the innumerable doors in the residential hallways. At first she suspected that they were having a kind of a man-to-demon chat about some problem or other. Maybe the Christmas card. Maybe Iraq. Maybe Crowley's continued skittishness with the angel. Maybe--

Shut it, Nymphadora, she tells herself firmly, as she buttons Anthony into his pajamas. From down the hall she can hear Aziraphael reading Sunny a story in her bedroom. He can't quite keep all the worry out of his tone, but 'Dora hopes Sunny won't notice.

He'd stormed in, feather in hand, pale as salt, just as she was beginning to pace. Said the feather'd been cut off. A quick trip out to Bar had confirmed what Nymphadora already knew, deep inside.

The Binding was cut off, too.

There are a thousand explanations, a thousand things they could be doing, none of which have anything to do with danger. Who's to say where Crowley and Bernard ended up? Maybe they... went to Tortall with Alanna. What happens to the feather-connection when Crowley goes to another universe, after all? It's not like he's jaunting off to the Disc every other day.

She refuses to worry.

Because there is nothing to worry about.

Anthony goes to sleep easily, but Sunny asks more than once where Bernard is, and it's past her bedtime by the time she finally drops off. When Nymphadora quietly pulls her bedroom door shut, she steels herself and walks into the kitchen to join the angel.

He's making tea, unsurprisingly; having cleverly discovered her secret stash of the best blends, he is brewing a pot of ginger green. Neither of them speaks until they're settled at the dining room table, steaming mugs before them.

"They're fine," Nymphadora blurts abruptly. "Bernard left a message with Bar, he had time to do that much, so it's nothing to worry about. Nothing at all."

Aziraphael lets out a slow breath and avoids her gaze. "Of course, my dear. They'll undoubtedly be back before too long. Some very manly ritual involving alcohol and-- and back-slapping, I'm sure." He pauses, studying his tea, and then goes on. "I'm sorry. I. I can't be entirely optimistic. The feather. And you say Bernard's Binding is broken." He looks around, somehow both urgent and impotent. "I can't quite believe that there's nothing to do but wait."

At that, 'Dora's carefully-crafted front falters. "I know. But I don't know what else to do."

But the pot of tea empties, and the night grows chilly, and still they sit at the table, waiting.

Finally 'Dora stands, her sore joints protesting. "I'll get you a blanket and pillow," she says quietly.

As she stands in front of the open linen closet, the witch hears the first knock.

He spills tea over himself, when he hears the first knock. And he's mechanically mopping himself with a tea towel -

(His only handkerchief today is tucked neatly in the inside pocket of his jacket, just above where a feather is pinned. It's going to stay there.)

- when it registers.

Three quick knocks.

Three   with   pauses.

Three quick knocks.

(Where there is life, there is hope - Cervantes.)

(Hope and fear are inseparable. - La Rochefoucauld.)

It's possible he's never felt quite so helpless, so personally responsible for being unable to assist. For what more direct appeal to an angel than this?


Save Our Souls.

There's a pattern to it, Aziraphael said. Nymphadora shivers, as she stares at the darkened ceiling of her bedroom. Three short knocks, three long, and three more short. Her chest hitches, and the covers twist in her hands. S.O.S. Save Our Souls.

Beside her Anthony stirs fretfully, brow wrinkled in sleep, one tiny hand fisted in his mother's shirt. She'd given up trying to get him back in his cot an hour ago; the knocking made him jumpy and weepy, so Nymphadora brought him to bed with her.

She'd be lying to herself if she said it wasn't for her own sake, too.

Morse code, the angel said, his voice breaking. Distress, someone's in trouble, someone trapped in the walls? They can't tell. 'Dora wants to shout, to bang back, but there are the children to keep calm, and there's herself to keep calm, too.

They went out to the main bar and put a sign up.

If anyone has any information pertaining to the recent disappearance of bar patrons, as well as any odd knocking coming from the walls, please come forward as soon as possible. We are in the flat at the end of the hall, and are guaranteed to be awake. Thank you. --N. Tonks & Aziraphael

They looked, then, for any odd doors. Nothing. Bar was confused, more than anything else. She insisted that there were doors here and there, that weren't there before, and which had disappeared now.

It's been a long time since Nymphadora felt so helpless.


She stares up at the ceiling and worries her lip, as two fat tears trickle into the hair at her temples.

From the living room she can hear the soft chink of a mug on the coffee table.

She isn't the only one having a sleepless night.
clumsy_auror: (ancient and most noble)
They were in her living room, the fire warding off the chill wind that beat against the windows, the lamps low, candles guttering. He looked older than Nymphadora remembered. Older than she cared to ever imagine him looking, really. But that's what happens when people die, she thought. You remember them the way you want to. Not the way they were.

Sirius raked his long fingers through his lank black hair, dark eyes staring into the fire and reflecting it like two opaque marbles. Or perhaps two tiny, clouded crystal balls, unwilling to give up their secrets to someone as bad at Divination as Nymphadora had always been. "Nice place," he said finally, his voice rough and quiet.

A half-smile quirked at her lips, almost nervously. He was, after all, still Sirius, still her brave grown-up cousin, still the one who was going to make sure everything was all right. He and his brave, brilliant friends.

They are all of them dead or dying, she reminded herself. For a moment she was shocked at her dispassionate view of things -- Remus, what about Remus? -- but Nymphadora reflected that it was easier to be truthful, in dreams, no matter how unpalatable the truth. She could lie to herself later, after the dream had faded.

"Thanks," 'Dora replied finally. "Bernard built it, with help."

A low grunt. "Never figured he'd be one for settling down. Not after the way he was with Madamoiselle Delacour."

She shrugged, and glanced over at her cousin. "We're happy. We've both changed, I think."

With a sudden, jerky movement, Sirius was standing, pacing slowly, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. "I didn't get to finish it," he muttered, and for one odd moment she couldn't quite understand his meaning. Then he went on. "Didn't get to see it through. I never do, do I? Always haring off, half-cocked, before a thing can be finished. Lucky I ever finished Hogwarts. Miracle, really."

There was an uncomfortable pricking up the length of Nymphadora's spine, and she looked down at her hands. "You had a-- a bit of a rough go of things. But you did everything you could."

The wizard leveled a flat look back at her. "I could've defeated Bellatrix that day, instead of letting her get me. It was a stupid mistake, I could've feinted to the left and hit her on my way, I was always the better dueler in school, she didn't used to be able to touch me when it came to hexes."

"Don't underestimate the power of insanity," 'Dora murmured. "By that time she was completely mad, Sirius. It gave her an edge that was almost impossible to beat."

"Yeah, well. Least your mum got her in the end." He flashed a fond, inward smile, his eyes warming slightly at the thought of his equally-defiant cousin.

"She did." A breath. "But it isn't-- it isn't really over, you know. None of it. It isn't finished for me, just like it isn't finished for you. There's always gonna be something."

Sirius stilled, and Nymphadora thought absently that it was a very Padfoot sort of stance; a great black dog sighting his prey through a tangle of trees. "There isn't going to be anything more for Harry."

She had to force herself to say it, had to take a deep breath and shake her head. "You know that isn't true. It's Harry. Even if it doesn't find him, he'll go looking for it."

"No." He was almost trembling, now, hands balled into fists, too-thin frame taut like a violin string waiting to be plucked. "No. Not after everything we-- that's not why I-- I didn't do all this so he could be a hero. I did it so he could live, and have some peace."

'Dora stood, finally, and walked over to face her cousin, looking up into his hollowed eyes. "Yeah, I know you did. So did I. I did it so nobody'd ever call my kids mudbloods. But they will. And I did it so that Voldemort wouldn't win. And he didn't. But someone else is gonna come along, because that's the way it works. That's the balance, isn't it? That's the tension."

His face twisted, and he half-turned away, gaze falling heavily on a picture of her, Bernard, Sunny, and Anthony that was framed on the mantle. The children laughed silently, Sunny gnawing affectionately on one of her brother's hands. Bernard's arm was slung easily around his wife's shoulders. Sunshine warmed their faces, open and happy. "What tension?" he replied flatly, his eyes flickering to hers with reproach. "I don't see the tension, here."

"No, I--" Her heart constricted. "It's there, Sirius. Maybe it's less, for a time, maybe it'll spare them in the end like it didn't spare you, but it's still there. For everything we did, my kids are still gonna know fear. Harry will still know it, too. Because that's just the way it works."

The anger drained out of his face, leaving a shadowed mask behind.

All the Blacks wear masks, Nymphadora thought suddenly. We spend half our lives learning how to put them on, and the other half figuring out how to take them off.

But Sirius hadn't gotten to the second lesson in time.

"So why'd we do it, then?" he asked quietly. "Why'd we go to all that trouble?"

Nymphadora didn't answer him. She simply kept her gaze trained on him, waiting for Sirius to meet it.

He did, finally.

Then he answered his own question.

"Because there wasn't anything else we could have done. Was there."

'Dora shook her head slowly.

You can't lie to yourself in dreams, she thought again, as Sirius turned once more to stare into the flames. You can't tell yourself that winning means never having to lose again.

The inky blackness of their hair seemed to grow, swallowing the light from the flickering fire, from the candles, and the dream melted away into darkness.
clumsy_auror: (nymphadora)
Since Bernard returned from visiting Raph, it's been quiet in the Tonks-Wrangle flat. Anthony had a fussy night, and Sunny was grumpy about Bernard's disappearance at bedtime. Nymphadora's tired, which accounts for part of the reason she's quiet; mostly, though, she's waiting for Bernard to talk to her.

That can sometimes take a while.
clumsy_auror: (band candy)
'Dora's starting to idly wonder why Aziraphael invited Sunny and Anthony to the bookshop for the day. They'd been having fun, she feels, though she had forgotten to give Sunny her bath last night.

The thought is starting to worry her, a tiny bit. More than a tiny bit, even.

But she's still quite enjoying the lengthy spate of kissing she's engaged in with her husband on the sofa.

Thoughtfully, against Bernard's cheek, "...Have you thought of anything we can bribe Bar with, yet?"

Stupid Bar. Cutting off their chocolate.
clumsy_auror: (no shit)
Not exactly your typical Friday night in the Tonks-Wrangle household. Generally Nymphadora puts aside work on such nights in favor of socialising in the bar, or spending time with her family, but tonight there was a report that had been mocking her silently all week. It had to be done come Monday, hell or high water.

So this, perhaps, explains the clutter spread out over the entirety of the dining room table -- including papers, quills, ink pots, empty plates with crumbs on, and half-full teacups -- and the woman bent sullenly over it all.
clumsy_auror: (auror shati)
It's been a hectic couple of days, at the Ministry of Magic. Nymphadora has slowly been excavating her desk from the detritus that accumulated whilst she was gone, which was considerable even though she owled work in from home nearly every day.

Right now all she wants is a cuppa and a biscuit, but it's not quite teatime. Suck it up, Tonks, she tells herself sternly, and scribbles furiously at the report in front of her.


clumsy_auror: (Default)

October 2007



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