AN: Well, what's there to say? This contains some HBP spoilers. Read and reveiw, please.

Disclaimer: It's not mine and I know it. You should too.


"I'm not going to go."

He turns to look at her, and of course she's all wide eyes and determination. He simply stares.

"To the funeral." She elaborates, as though Remus needs it. She's looking out the window, tracing the patterns of the rain running down the windows with her finger. The funeral. The fucking funeral. He's not sure he's even processed it all yet, that Dumbledore is really and truly gone.

"I just can't. I can't." She's grabbed at his hand now, studying it as though it's some rare piece of art.

"People'll be crying, Remus."

"That's what the general public seems to do at these type of things, Tonks." He replies wearily, using his free hand to scrape across his face, slightly disgusted by the stubble there. She makes an odd sort of sighing noise, and he realizes that she herself is holding back tears.

"Nymphadora..."

"Don't you dare!" She hisses, snatching her hand from his and nibbling on a fingernail that's coated with peeling polish. They sit there, in his battered excuse for a Muggle car, watching as people make mad dashes across the street hoping to escape the rain. He wonders idly at those who have folded newspapers and hold them over their heads, do they realize how futile an effort it is? He feels obligated to say something to her, but isn't sure what. He'd desperately like cigarette or a stiff drink, but can't for the life of him remember where he'd put the pack. Most of all he'd just like to pretend that everything is peachy and kiss her.

"I'm going to shove off, then." She says suddenly, looking back at him with puffy eyes and smudged mascara.

"It's pouring."

"How observant." She unfolds her legs from what looks like a highly uncomfortable position and stares at him for a moment, gnawing at her lower lip. "I didn't mean to embarrass you in front of Harry. Fucking stupid of me, actually. Sorry bout' that." She doesn't sound terribly sorry.

For a moment he hasn't the faintest idea what she means, but then it hits him. Her little declaration over Bill at St. Mungoes. It had terrified him, actually, and he wasn't ready to explore just what this meant. Ready to explore just how he had managed to fuck this up, this quasi-relationship that they had.

"I'm not..." He starts, but closes his mouth when a wry smile crosses her face and she quirks an eyebrow.

"Righto, Remus. You just keep telling yourself that." And then she's out of the car, turning her face to the rain and he watches as the mascara smudges become trails. "Your fags are in the glove compartment." She tells him as she slams the door and disappears under an awning, her pink hair fading into the background. He wonders if feeling like a complete fuck-up has become routine as he reaches across the seat to open the glove compartment.