A/N: Welcome to another one-shot! If any of you out there have read one of my other fics, Replacement, you'll notice that it is very similar to the one you are about to read. It's the same basic premise, of one person trying to replace a lost loved one with another person. It's an idea I like to play around with, and in this particular case it lets me play with canon so that I like it better. Unlike Replacement, which revolves around Hermione, Hollow centers around Remus. I'm not really a Tonks/Remus fan, largely because I'm such a big Remus/Sirius fan. Remember that reviews are the best gift you can give (and my birthday IS coming up) and enjoy!

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Warnings: There are implications of slash, so if you don't like it--shocker--don't read it.


She likes to pretend that things are different. She pretends to live in a fairytale world, where he loves her and not a memory.

But she knows what the truth is. She sees.

She isn't fooled by his words; she isn't blind or stupid, and she knows exactly what the circumstances are. She is a replacement, and she knows it.

But she pretends.

He is happiest, she knows, when she changes her hair to black and has it short, almost boyish, and when her eyes are gray like ice, like storms, like the sky before a blizzard. He seems to love her just a little bit more when she smells like cinnamon—which was his scent, not hers.

She knows that, sometimes, when he pulls her close, his lips form that name. She knows because she can feel those round syllables pressed against her neck, pressed against her collarbone, pressed against her lips. She swallows the name that he never says in front of her.

And sometimes in the night she'll hear that whisper finally escape—that name. She doesn't know if it is in dreams or insomnia that he torments himself and taunts her—that name, that person that she can never be.

But she is happy—or so she convinces herself—to just be with him. She wants nothing more than to be in his arms, held closer, held against his heart. To feel it beating in his chest and to think—for just a moment—that it beats for her.

She looks in his eyes and—sometimes, always—they are dead. Hollow, as though there is some part of him that is missing.

She thinks that—maybe, just maybe—she can fill that void. Maybe his eyes will come alive again, for her.

They don't.

Reviews are love!