Even in her wildest dreams, Tonks had not imagined a world where Alastor Moody might be gone, taken out by Voldemort no less. As far as she was concerned, he had been practically invincible, and as she sat there halfway up the staircase running between the first and second floors of the Burrow, hidden away by the railing, she tried to acknowledge the reality of Moody being dead and converge it with the world as she knew it. It wasn't working.
She was in some form of shock, she was aware of that much, and she knew Moody would have told her to toughen up and stop being a little girl about his death, which made her ashamed of the tears that were running down her face without her consent. She was silent, staring blankly in front of her at a wall or a door or whatever that blurry shape happened to be.
When something obscured that blurry shape, she forced herself to bring her eyes back into focus, though her vision still swam with tears. She saw the mug and the hand connected to it first, and she gripped the handle with trembling fingers. As she looked to see the face connected to the hand with the mug of tea, her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Remus. The cause of the emptiness that had been inside of her, eating away at everything she was for the past year. Not anymore, or at least that feeling would be given a reprieve, replaced however temporarily by the aching guilt and loneliness from Moody's death that seemed to fill her chest and spread out across her body, making her feel as if she had been filled with lead. She'd thought there had been no worse feeling in the world than knowing Remus was out there somewhere, risking his life amongst the werewolves for what she thought was a hopeless mission. She'd been wrong.
Swallowing dryly, she blinked back tears and curled her cold fingers around the mug, absorbing its heat. "Thank you," she said in a tiny, miserable voice, the only response she could think of.