"That is enough," Dumbledore said at last, with the calm finality of a man who always knows precisely when to stop. "Let us conclude for today."
I lowered my staff, allowing the last of the magic to settle.
Before me, arranged in a neat, deliberate pattern, hovered five perfectly formed wardstones, each one etched with clean, stable runes, their faint glow steady and obedient.
I studied them carefully, then inclined my head slightly.
"Yes," I said. "Acceptable."
More than acceptable, if we are being entirely honest.
Five at once.
Not a full array, certainly, but enough to construct a basic ward structure in seconds rather than minutes.
I dismissed the stones with a flick, letting them dissolve into harmless motes of magic, and took a moment to compose myself. A faint sheen of sweat lingered at my temple, entirely understandable given the level of precision required.
I brushed it away with effortless dignity and leaned lightly on my staff.
Or cane, depending on one's aesthetic preference.
"Alright," I said, rolling my shoulders. "I am famished."
Dumbledore chuckled softly.
"A fortunate coincidence," he said, gesturing toward the door. "As it happens, so am I."
We stepped out into the corridor together, the door closing quietly behind us as we made our way toward the Great Hall.
Hogwarts, at this hour, was alive in a way few places manage to be. Students moved through the halls in clusters, voices echoing with laughter, complaints, and the occasional panicked whisper about unfinished assignments.
A portrait called out a greeting as we passed.
I nodded graciously, of course.
After a moment, Dumbledore spoke again, his tone casual.
"And how," he asked, "is your Animagus training progressing?"
Ah.
Now that was a subject worth discussing.
I brightened immediately.
"Exceptionally well," I said. "In fact, I have already identified my inner animal."
There was a pause, then Dumbledore smiled.
"Do not tell me," he said.
I blinked.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I would very much prefer it to be a surprise," he continued, his eyes twinkling. "For your first transformation."
I stared at him.
A tragedy.
A genuine tragedy.
"But it is quite remarkable," I insisted. "Highly fitting. Symbolic, even…"
"I have no doubt," he said gently. "All the more reason to wait."
I exhaled slowly.
"Well," I reluctantly said, "if you insist on depriving yourself of this knowledge, I suppose I can exercise restraint."
A difficult task ,but not impossible.
"Meanwhile," he added, "you should begin practicing partial transformations."
I frowned slightly.
"Partial?"
"Yes," he said. "A hand. An ear. Small, controlled changes."
He glanced at me.
"Do not attempt a full transformation without supervision."
I tilted my head.
"Surely that is a touch excessive. I am hardly prone to mistakes."
Dumbledore's expression remained pleasant but unyielding.
"There are," he said, "numerous recorded cases of witches and wizards who believed the same."
He paused dramatically.
"And are now permanently… altered."
I grimaced.
I had, of course, read about such incidents. Half-formed transformations. Features that refused to revert. Limbs that remained stubbornly… animal.
A paw where a hand should be.
Fur where there should most definitely not be fur.
A deeply unfortunate look, no matter how one attempts to style it.
"Yes," I said. "That does sound… suboptimal."
"Quite."
I sighed.
"Very well. Partial transformations it is."
We turned a corner, the familiar sounds of the Great Hall growing louder.
"Though," I added, unable to help myself, "I must say, my particular form is exceptionally well-suited to elegance."
"I am certain it is," Dumbledore replied.
I narrowed my eyes slightly.
"You are enjoying this."
"Immensely."
I huffed.
Unreasonable.
Entirely unreasonable.
Still…
As we approached the Great Hall, the doors already open to reveal the warm glow of enchanted candles and the long tables filled with students, I found my earlier irritation fading.
Nothing that a warm meal couldn't fix.
…
(Nymphadora Tonks)
"Nymphadora dear, you look awful."
I groaned the moment I stepped through the door.
"Don't call me that," I muttered, already dragging myself toward the sofa like a woman on the brink of death. "And I feel awful, so I'd say everything's working as intended."
I collapsed onto the cushions with zero grace, one arm flung over my eyes.
"I think I ate something bad," I added miserably. "I've been sick all day. I even hurled on top of a smuggler I caught earlier."
There was a beat of silence.
Then…
"What?"
I peeked from under my arm just in time to see Mum go from concerned to alarmingly focused, something I call the mediwitch mode.
Before I could say anything else, she had her wand out and was already casting diagnostic charms over me, her expression sharpening with every flick.
"What did you eat today?" she asked briskly.
I sighed, letting my arm fall to the side.
"Well, I didn't have breakfast," I began, counting on my fingers, "but for lunch I had two burgers, extra pickles, and a chocolate ice cream."
Mum paused mid-spell.
"…Pickles?"
I blinked.
"Yes?"
She lowered her wand slightly, narrowing her eyes at me.
"Nymphadora," she said slowly, "you hate pickles."
I frowned. "…Do I?"
"Yes."
"Huh."
I shrugged weakly.
"I just felt like it."
That did not seem to reassure her.
If anything, it made things worse.
Her expression shifted subtly, but I knew that look.
"Oh no," I said immediately. "Please don't do that face."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she changed the spell she was casting, the light at the tip of her wand shifting color as she focused more carefully.
I watched her as she watched the spell.
A moment passed.
Then another.
And then, her eyes widened.
Oh.
Oh, that was never a good sign.
"Mum?" I said cautiously.
She lowered her wand.
"Nymphadora," she said, making me tense.
"You're pregnant."
I shot upright so fast I nearly fell off the sofa.
"What?!"
The room spun.
"No… no, that's not… how?!"
Mum blinked at me.
Then, very slowly:
"You do know how babies are made."
I stared at her.
"I… yes, I know how it's done," I said quickly. "You gave me that very thorough lecture when I was ten, remember?"
"Good."
"But that's not the point!" I said, gesturing wildly. "I don't even have a boyfriend!"
After the words left my mouth, I froze.
Because I suddenly remembered the Christmas party.
The drinks.
The…
"Oh no…" I whispered.
My hands came up to cover my face as the memory hit me with all the subtlety of a Bludger.
"Morgana's tits."
I groaned, dragging my palms down my face.
"Please tell me I'm imagining this."
There was a heavy silence.
"Mum?" I mumbled into my hands.
Her voice came calm, way too calm.
"Nymphadora."
I winced.
This is definitely not good.
"Who," she asked, each word perfectly measured, "is the father?"
I hesitated, briefly considered pretending to faint, but decided against it.
"…It's nothing," I muttered.
"Nymphadora."
I sighed.
"He's just… someone…"
"Nymphadora."
Right.
No escape.
I took a deep breath.
"…Gilderoy," I said quietly.
"What was that?"
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Gilderoy bloody Lockhart."
I did not dare look up.
"…Mum?" I tried.
I slowly peeked through my fingers.
She was staring at me, not blinking or speaking.
Just…
Staring.
"…Please say something," I said weakly.
She inhaled slowly.
Very slowly.
Then sat down opposite me with deliberate calm.
"Nymphadora," she said.
I flinched.
"Yes?"
"We are going," she continued, "to have a very long conversation."
I groaned and dropped back onto the sofa.
"I shouldn't have mentioned the pickles."
…