Tuesday hadn't come soon enough for Charlie, and wasn't that the strangest thing? Likely because Friday had been utterly miserable, with mum finally losing it and spending the afternoon locked in the attic with Fred's tattered baby blanket. Saturday had been awkward, with Angelina coming by to pick up the broomstick Fred had left for her. Sunday hadn't been half bad, though everybody knew that the number of chairs at the dinner table was off balance, in spite of the fact that adding Harry, Hermione, Fleur and Lee to the group made it an even number.

But Monday—that was the worst of all, because George took off without telling anyone where he was going. For a good six hours, everybody patted Mum's hands and came up with a million things that he might be doing—and really, wasn't it to be expected to think that he might just need to get away and be alone for a bit?
Of course, everyone was really thinking that George never, ever wanted to be alone and that maybe George had decided that Fred was probably having a hell of a lot more fun wherever he was.

When he returned, Mum didn't even have the heart to berate him for worrying her, which was worrying in itself, as far as Charlie was concerned, and he'd had a bad night sleep that couldn't entirely be blamed on the fact that he'd outgrown his childhood bed years ago and couldn't be bothered working out how to widen it.

Plus, the house was noisy and disorganized, and the thought of a few hours in a place with actual usable worktop space and a chair that you didn't have to rid of boots or books or knitting before you could drop down on it had undeniable appeal, even if it came with a squalling infant. Infants were easy enough to pacify, Charlie remembered. It was just a matter of working out what they wanted—or failing that, throwing them up in the air and distracting them. At least their problems had workable solutions, which was infinitely preferable to sitting around looking at your empty shell of a brother and knowing there wasn't a damn thing you could do to help him.

Charlie was looking forward to seeing Dora's mum again, too, if only to work out how she managed to live through three losses with so much grace and dignity when he was an unholy mess after only one (or two, when you counted Dora.) Or maybe he was just looking forward to talking to someone who didn't know what a fucking miracle Fred had been, and how the world was so much worse off without him.

He'd thought about wearing her husband's shirt for a moment, and only because it was the nicest one he had. But that might well have dampened the smile on her face, and he didn't want to do that, so he dug up the next best thing—his standby for the rare times he got to head off to Bucharest for a night of pub crawling and socialization with the fairer sex.

It made him feel slightly less awkward this time when he stood at her door—knowing that he at least looked respectable and not so much like a camp rat. Why he cared to make a good impression, he didn't know, but he decided to chalk it up to respect for her and love for her daughter,

She had a ready smile for him this time and gave him a warm welcome as she let him in, but closer examination (once she finally met his eyes for a moment) revealed that maybe she'd had as bad a weekend as he had. Not that she looked bad—in fact, she looked...well, she was a beautiful woman, and it was obvious that she'd taken some care in her appearance today, (a date, maybe?) but her eyes seemed even more haunted than the last time.

"You're right on time," she said, as he thrust his hands in his pockets and shifted on his feet.

"Yeah, I-" Was desperate to get out of the house? That wouldn't do at all, would it? "Dora always said you valued punctuality. Well, not exactly in those words, you know. It was more like, 'bugger, bugger, bugger, I'm so late and Mum's going to kill me' sort of thing…" he said, and trailed off, realizing that not only was it disrespectful to be swearing in front of your friend's parents, but she probably didn't want to hear about Dora's famously foul moth, and for that matter, she probably didn't really want Dora brought up at all, did she?

However, she laughed and reached out to pat his shoulder, then apparently changed her mind, turning away from the door. "Teddy gave me a bad night last night, but he's had one nap and will be ready for another in just about an hour. I've just fed him, but if you give him a bottle and hold him a bit, he'll probably fall asleep easily enough. If you want to wait, though, that's perfectly fine. I don't expect to be long. I have plans for lunch and then I wanted to pick up something in London for my mother-in-law's birthday."

"Right," he said, wondering how she'd explained the events of the last year to a Muggle. Maybe someday he'd ask. "Take your time, really. I'll be all right. And if all else fails, I could always floo Mum, though that might bring you all sorts of help you weren't planning on."

Andromeda laughed. "I rather expect that will be what Harry might do the first time I let him take Teddy for the day. I've never witnessed someone so terrified of babies."

Charlie started at that, remembering a bit late that someone had told him Harry was the kid's godfather. Once again, he wondered if he was overstepping the bounds of his friendship with Dora by doing this. But Mrs. Tonks had taken him up on it, hadn't she?

"Still," she added, possibly reading his mind (well, Dora had always been convinced she could do it, hadn't she?) "I'm quite sure you'll be all right."

"Reckon so," he said, and smiled.

After a cough, she turned again toward the back of the house. "I suppose you ought to come and meet him again. Perhaps if you play with him, I can just slip away, and he might not notice I've left."

Charlie nodded and followed her as he turned toward the sitting room. "Sounds like a plan."

"You know," she said as she walked; "I think he liked you. His hair was red for hours after you left."

Charlie stopped in his tracks for a moment. "That's…brilliant. I mean, wow. I didn't know he could change it at will. This young, I mean."

"I often wondered how other mothers were able to tell what their children were feeling. With Nymphadora, it was always so obvious. Which made her 'black' period when she was fifteen a bit tiring, but I'm told that it could have been worse. No piercings or mutilation, at least."

Charlie nodded, thinking of the…well, brown period he'd heard about. When he'd finally seen it for himself, he very nearly didn't recognize her.

They found the baby laid out on the floor, kicking and gurgling, mesmerized by a miniature solar system floating just beyond the reach of its chubby fingers. Charlie's mum used to do that sort of thing with his plush dragons, but this was really far beyond that, and he was impressed. He reached out to touch it, but found that his finger went right through Jupiter as if it were one of Nearly Headless Nick's buttocks. None of that creepy cold feeling though, which was a relief. He tried to catch the baby's eye, but Teddy was following the progress of Saturn's rings and couldn't be diverted. "This is bloody brilliant."

"Ted—" Andromeda smiled and looked away. "He worked out how to do it when Nymphadora was a baby. She liked the rainbows best, but this one seems to be Teddy's favorite. Perhaps he'll be an astronomer when he grows up.

The baby squirmed a bit and whined, then caught sight of Charlie and grinned, waving his clenched fist in Charlie's direction.

"See, I told you he liked you," she said. Charlie offered up a finger and the baby grabbed on to it, cooing and gurgling. He felt a bit uncomfortable under Andromeda's watchful eye, but started making faces that got more smiles, and eventually she caught his eye and nodded toward the door.

He waved her off and pulled the baby onto his lap, letting Teddy chew on his knuckle and attempt to reach his hair with grasping fingers. Just like riding a broomstick, Charlie supposed. It eventually comes back, and he was sure as hell less trouble than a baby Horntail, right?

Playing with the kid had been good for him, Charlie reckoned. Distracting, anyway, and that was the whole point. He carried him around the house, but didn't find much work that needed doing. It was a warm and breezy day, and in Charlie's opinion, it was a crime to stay indoors. Perfect day for a match, but as that wasn't going to happen so he decided he could just as easily play with the baby inside as out.

After looking around the back garden, he took one of Mrs. Tonks' deck chairs and transfigured it into a hammock of sorts, carefully laying the baby inside where he could watch the clouds roll by and listen to the leaves rustling in the trees. Teddy seemed to be enjoying himself, so Charlie set the hammock to rocking and got started cutting the lawn. After that, there were weeds to be pulled, a dry patch that needed watering, and a pair of fornicating garden gnomes to be chased off.

At this point the baby started getting fussy, so Charlie hoisted him on his shoulder and took him back into the kitchen to find the bottle he'd heard tell of. And that was where things started to get difficult, because when he took Teddy back into his room and tried to lay him in the cradle, he screamed. When Charlie tried to sit in the rocking chair and feed him that way, he screamed again. The only thing that worked was carrying him outside, so he fed him in a deck chair, trying to bounce him to sleep. Once the bottle was done, the baby was burped and rubbing at his eyes, but he was still fighting him every step of the way. Eventually, Charlie opted to enlarge the hammock and climbed in with the baby in his arms, setting the pair of them to rocking.

When Andromeda returned (after a few moments of panic at the empty house) she found them asleep like that.

Charlie awakened to find Tonks' mum reclining on a second lawn chair, apparently taking advantage of the panoramic view of the valley below them. She'd set up a tea service on a nearby table.

"Sorry," he said. "Reckon I was more exhausted than I thought."

He'd startled her from a reverie, apparently, for she turned quickly, trying to be discreet as she dabbed at her eye.

"Oh, no, Charlie, don't apologise. I'll bet he loved that. Remus could calm him like no one else, and you reminded me of him, there, asleep like that. That's just what he would do on the sofa closest to the fire, the pair of them all bundled up and peaceful."

He didn't know if the tears were a result of her lunch date, or if being reminded of her late son-in-law had done it, but he stifled the second apology that was on his lips. If there was one thing he was sick of it was meaningless apologies. Instead, he did his best to wriggle out from under the baby, who gave him a moment of panic as he seemed to awaken in protest, but by keeping the hammock in motion and his body in contact with the baby for as long as possible, he managed to get free.

She'd begun to get up herself but he motioned her back down. "There's tea," she whispered, pointing toward the table. She'd got out different china from the last time, green and gold and finer, more delicate than before. He wondered if it was a gesture of gratitude or a reminder that in spite of the fact that she'd given him run of her house, he really was in essence a guest; a distant acquaintance.

He changed his mind when he saw the spice cake she'd set out, and picked up a slice, murmuring his thanks even as he sat down next to her and took a bite.

"That's heaven, that is," he said just as soon as he swallowed.

She actually blushed a bit at that, and he found it strangely endearing to know that she was susceptible to flattery after all.

"I found something over the weekend," she said, and picked up a leather-bound photograph album from her lap, opening it up toward the middle and handing it to him. He was a little startled to discover his own face staring back at him, and when his younger self made a face and stuck his tongue out, he choked back laughter. There was Dora, too, sitting next to him on a picnic blanket, a pair of brooms on the lawn next to her feet. They might well have been sitting in this very spot—there were the trees he'd hung the hammock on, a bit shorter but still recognizable. Tonks crossed her eyes for the person behind the camera, then held her breath and made her nose extend just like the wooden boy from that muggle fairy tale.

He touched the photograph, his chest constricting and his eyes going prickly. "She really was brilliant, wasn't she?"

Andromeda sighed and smiled. "Very special. Too special for this world, apparently. I'd like to hope, Charlie, that some day you might be able to help Teddy see her the way you saw her. He'll have Harry, of course, but he'd know more about Remus, I suspect."

"I will," he said, and meant it. "May I…?" he gestured at the album, and when she nodded, he started at the beginning. There were several black and white motionless photos of a fair haired, red faced, stocky little boy that had to have been Ted, then a couple of Wizarding photographs, solemnly posed of a pair of beautiful little dark haired girls, and then another where they were joined by a third, with hair so fair it looked silver. There were photographs of an apparently hastily planned wedding, one of them in front of this very house, and then Tonks as a baby.

When he got to this point, Andromeda pulled her chair closer and explained what he was looking at, and though it should have been morbid to be discussing the dead, he found himself laughing as she recounted some of her daughter's and her husband's more memorable antics.

"This was such a happy house," she said after a point. "I know it's hard to imagine right now, but it was just what I'd always dreamed of. My family…well, there was laughter, but it usually came with dire reminders of the proper behaviour expected of a Black. I remember Ted seemed such a breath of fresh air—it was so easy to love him—all he ever wanted was to make me and everyone else around him smile.

Charlie squirmed in his seat, thinking that she could very well be talking about Fred and wondering if she wanted him to talk about his loss, wondering if he should just lean over and give her a hug. That's what Mum would have done under the circumstances, but he didn't have that sort of relationship with Tonks's mum. The one time he had touched her, she'd seemed shocked and he'd felt uncomfortable.

When that lower lip of hers had just begun to wobble, she bit down on it and tried to compose her face, and Charlie decided to sod it all and just go for it. Sure enough, Andromeda stiffened, but before he could pull away, she'd leaned into his shoulder and exhaled, making him automatically tighten his embrace in reassurance. He tried to think of something inspiring to say, but came up blank. Nothing he could say could possibly change what had happened to her, but apparently the physical gesture helped, so why bother saying anything at all? He just let her stay there, pretending that she was Ginny that time he'd been in charge of her and she'd scraped her knee, though admittedly Ginny had sobbed and soaked his shirt.

Andromeda, on the other hand, was silent, and if there were tears, she wasn't letting him see them. He could feel her shaking n his arms, though. Eventually, she pulled away and exhaled once more, wiping at her eyes.

"Thank you, Charlie," she said, and before he could wave off her gratitude, she continued. "Thank you for giving me the chance to visit my friend today without all the distractions, and thank you for listening. And more than anything, thank you for thinking of me, remembering me, period. It means a lot."

He swallowed the lump in his throat, not certain how to respond. "I thought somebody should have," he finally said, and when she bit her lip and turned away, he reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, if only for a moment. "So, next Tuesday, then?"

Andromeda nodded. "That would be lovely."