Though Tonks was not normally self-conscious, there was something in Remus' question that reminded her of being a very young girl, experimenting with what she could and couldn't do with her shape. She was sure no one would believe it of her now, but Tonks had moped and panicked for a whole summer wondering if she really actually looked like anything or if what she saw in the mirror was subconsciously fashioned, if there was anything about her that was real and immutable.
Her mother had put her fears to rest when she'd taken a photograph of Tonks when she was asleep, her soft features unchanged in sleep.
"There's a real me," Tonks said, more gently than she had said anything else that night. As she spoke the color fell away from her hair, fading to a mouse-brown, plain but pretty. Weariness and youth stressed her features in equal parts, her usual animation softened, her lips pink and chapped with worry. Was he looking at her? Tonks wasn't looking at Remus, but at the mug cupped in her hands now.