Longer Summary: Hermione has earned a research fellowship at a small college. Remus is her faculty advisor and lives a fractured life. Hermione struggles to make her old life and relationships from back home work. Both feeling alienated by the cramped and gossipy town around them, they eventually find solace in their work and in the company of each other. But there is a darkness here that reaches for them, particularly concerning a secret cult that calls itself the Death Eaters, along with townsfolk who have been cursed in their own ways.
Set in 1999 amongst Y2K paranoia. AU/skewed birth years. Hermione is 24 and Remus is 39.
Non Magic AU, but Remus is still a werewolf and Sirius is a clairvoyant.
(Title and subtitle are derived from Beach House's 'Lazuli)
Disclaimer: Everything is J.K. Rowling's; am just borrowing for a bit to see if I can make these characters do anything interesting.
A/N: I just really want a Remus/Hermione piece where they come to be in an eventual student/professor relationship in a college setting.
OMFG I AM SO BAD AT EXPOSITION...
Apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors. I've combed over it many times. I use Ulysses to write on and am still learning its nuances and sometimes miss issues.
Also, I am afogocado on AO3, where you may have already ran across this piece. I will update it here and there are chapters are written.
'This is how autumn always seems to come,' she thinks, as she enjoys her walk. There is an intoxicating drop of romanticism entwined within this thought and it is equally lovely as it is jarring once she realizes another year is about to be gone and she won't get to spend it with those she loves best. But there is a slight hope that the beauty in the fading sky gives her—she will indeed begin again. She doesn't know that in time, in this place, she will find something she never thought she was looking for.
The sun is falling away to the far off horizon in a soft burst of cerulean skies streaked pink, mingling with a soft glow of the early evening's light. Hermione can feel the summer struggling to resist autumn, but failing, and she relishes in its failure. The temperature, much like each evening's sunset, drops little by little every night. It is a slightly warm sixty-five degrees outside and she is remorseful for leaving her cardigan back at the studio apartment she moved into earlier in the day when it was much warmer and held more humidity. Her bushy hair must have soaked up all of said humidity, for it lay in bushier and frizzier unruly coils—she has been considering cutting it short. Perhaps even in a pixie fashion. She can hear her best friend, Ginny's, protests merely at the thought of it being shorn.
Hermione Granger is on her way to a cocktail party that Lucius Malfoy is having at his massive home, just on the outskirts of the college's small campus. He holds these parties at the start of every fall semester for faculty and his fellow Board of Trustee members, meant as an icebreaker of sorts. All graduate students get an invitation in their school emails and are encouraged, though not required, to attend. Hermione, ever the eager student, is flush with excitement at the prospect of spending more personal time with her professors at this new school and grateful for the opportunity to introduce herself to them before classes start. She has repeatedly reminded herself that though this is a semi-professional soiree, she should still allow herself to have fun and not bog herself with anything too serious so early on. Easier said than done.
She has always loved school and learning, but she is even more excited at the fact that graduate students (especially Ph.D. candidates like herself) are considered to be colleagues (albeit, amateurish and junior colleagues) to full-time tenured and associate professors. She will no longer be the obnoxious over-achiever and teachers pet, as she had been labeled as such in her undergraduate studies, but instead, a near equal. 'Graduate school is everything those with a thirst for knowledge and passion for academia wanted in their undergraduate studies, but may not have experienced,' she was told by a former teacher after she informed them of her fully-funded acceptance into Godric Hollow's College of Arts and Liberal Studies.
The college isn't very recognizable to many outside of the circle of disciplines she has spent the past near-decade entwined in. For those in the circle, this place is extremely well-known and houses some of the top, most brilliant minds. So much so that the emeritus professors are hailed as pioneers in their specific fields. She gushes at these thoughts, hoping that the professors in question would be there tonight.
Hermione is walking to the Malfoy home—everything in town is walkable and convenient, and even though everything is so tight-knit and spatially close, there is still a sense of isolated foreboding and a sublime tug that the dying trees and gothic architecture exude. Also, she isn't sure how much she is going to drink since libations are free, and didn't want to worry about driving or embarrassingly leaving her car at the place and having to come get it the next day, as she was wont to do in her younger years whenever she managed to spend too much time at a house party. She is contemplating the line between house party and professional shindig and preparing herself for appropriate decorum—not that she would ever be inappropriate! She shakes her head, trying to stop over-thinking it all.
She crosses paths with young people her age out on an early evening stroll and enjoying the last bits of warm weather before it becomes too chilly to relish wearing shorts and a simple t-shirt, as they are currently dressed. Some are with friends, and some are walking pets on leashes. Most are dogs, but there is even a lone gangly, dark-haired man walking his cat. She smiles at the sight, trying to talk herself into doing the same thing with her orange, squashy-faced feline familiar, Crookshanks. However, she is sure Crookshanks would be much like the man's own grey tabby: he would just throw himself upon a patch of warm grass and lazily fling his tail around until she scooped him up into her arms and hauled him home.
Hermione, lost in thoughts about Crookshanks, almost failed to notice that she has come upon some spaced-out houses on the correct street, and checks them against the address she hastily scribbled on her palm earlier. These homes are set in front of a wooded area, and leading into the wooded area is a gravel driveway that twists and disappears beyond the trees. She figures this is the way and she feels a jolt of nervous flutter in her stomach. She has gotten better with things like this over the years as as she has matured, but even now at twenty-four, she feels like a young teenager again starting a school year all over again and worrying about how her peers would treat her.
She bites her bottom lip tentatively as her feet pick up the pace and she all but scurries down the dark and unnerving path. There's a niggling thought in the back of her mind that this is all a ruse—some kind of hazing scare tactic to initiate herself into this new world of academia. She is scandalized at the thought and hopes this is only some wild fabrication never to become realized.
'Okay, relax,' she tries to calm herself, inhaling deep and slow breaths of the small forest's clean air into her lungs. It isn't easy to remain relaxed as she looks around once more at the immaculate hedges that line the walk up to the front. There are even hedge animals and she shivers at the thought that some of them may be watching her.
She smiles, a jittery feat, and finds herself in front of what appears to be more of an ornate building adorned with columns and lion statues rather than an actual home. Surely, Mr. Malfoy didn't live here on his own or even with a small family? When she first got the email, only days ago, this is not what she had expected. Although, the title 'manor' plastered upon the home's name now makes more sense.
Though she feels calmer now, her hand does shake when she reaches for an antiquated knocker on the front door. She balls her hand into a steady fist before uncurling her slender fingers once more and wrapping them around the knocker's silver loop. She taps it gingerly, wincing because it sounds all too loud to her, though the forest or anything around her hears nothing at all.
No answer.
She makes a fist again and knocks several times.
Nothing again.
A crow's caw signals the end of the day. An owl's hoot welcomes the night.
She harrumphs and checks the time on her wristwatch. She isn't super late. The invitation indicated a time frame in which invitees could come: it advised that any time within the frame would be fine. Not wanting to look way too eager, she talked herself into waiting for about an hour to pass before showing up. Mr. Malfoy would have the festivities going on until about midnight, which she didn't find outrageous, but very interesting. Surely everyone wouldn't stay all night like that?
Deciding that since a lot of people have been invited to this thing, there was probably an open door policy in place. She resolves to test this theory out and pushes one of the doors open, and finds herself treading lightly into the foyer.
The outside aesthetic has definitely been recycled into the interior of the manor. It is definitely akin to a castle, or what she thought the inside of one ought to look like from her past experiences reading about them. The ceilings run high, and heavy satin emerald curtains are drawn around the large windows that line every wall. She hears voices in the distance and follows the sound into what appears to be a dining hall more so than a dining room.
The room is full with chatter. Hermione tries to navigate where to stand, but deices to get something to drink before jumping into any conversation. Her eyes scan the room, quickly in search of what she needs when her gaze stops at the center of the room.
There sits a long and impressive table, all full with plates of different finger foods and at the foot of it, an elaborated champagne fountain that Hermione finds far more tacky than anything. All chairs have been drawn away from the long table and are now occupied by wallflowers pressed into the shadows of the room, pursuing what appear to be very private conversations, or are purposefully avoiding everyone else—almost as though they are merely here to put in an appearance before they can vanish. Meanwhile, others are treat the long table more so as a bar, cluttering it with their drinks and food stuffs, and lean against it as thought it isn't the most expensive piece of dining room furniture they've ever seen in their lives.
On her way to the end of the room where it looks like a small bar has been established—she would like to avoid the champagne fountain, especially now that she sees a cheese cube and nearly disintegrated piece of bread floating in a glass— her ears perk up at a nearby conversation being held by a tall, slender wizened looking man. He's wearing half-moon spectacles and a suit made from a violent shade of violet. He is speaking to a much shorter man whose face is ruddy, and the shorter man sips greedily from his pint of ale as he pushes his glasses up his nose with his free hand. They steadily fall down with every vehement nod or shake of his head at the tall man. The short man plays with his wispy mustache, as though it is fake and he cannot get it to lie flat.
"As I've told you before, Filius," the taller of the two goes on, stroking his beard with his free hand and raising his brow. "Foucault was spot-on with his ideas of panopticism. I don't understand how you can continue to deny his brilliance in the way he has established himself as one of the most influential Western thinkers on the condition of western culture itself under a prying government. The only proof you need is to see how heavily surveilled our society becomes as technology grows more intrusive and further permeates our lives, privately and publicly." He is gesticulating wildly with his long-since empty wine glass.
"Albus, surely you must be aware of the Millennium Bug coming along at the end of this year. It shall wipe out technology as we know it, plunging civilization into a dark age. We will be thrusted into a Hobbesian state of nature, with a lack of a sovereign body ruling us. You will turn to our 'archaic' thinkers in time, for they alone have the best ideas of how to survive in a world without the luxuries of modernity."
"Then let us drink to that to celebrate and welcome our more feral sides of nature."
Hermione is sure that the language and postulations in these arguments would have been more cleverly organized and stated had they not already been drinking. She would love to know what else the two thought about Foucault, particularly on his theses about power, and what Hobbes would hypothetically say to Foucault, had they been contemporaries. She feels a more urgent need to hurry up and find a drink to clutch to as a protective shield so she may brave such conversations.
She makes it over to the bar, which is a smaller table adorned with towers of pint sized glasses and wine glasses. Opened and unopened bottles of wine leave a trail off to the side and there are kegs of beer on the floor sitting in sweating metallic buckets of ice. The proprietor of the makeshift bar is a ridiculously handsome older man with a mischievous glint in his dark eyes as he scans the crowd, watching people drink. He's wearing tight fitting charcoal gray slacks and a tight fitting stark white button down shirt. Apparently, he'd tried to wear a bowtie tonight, but it already lay untied and loose through the shirt's collar. The shirt is now unbuttoned down to his chest to show off the dark sprinkling of hair against his pale skin. Women near the bar stare daggers at her when she approaches him. She feels herself flush when his smile full of perfect teeth offer her a cheeky, but charming grin.
"Help you, kitten?" He asks, brushing layers of his near-shoulder length raven hair out of his face. His gray eyes are steely as he takes in her appearance and calculates what he thinks her to be.
"Er…yes, actually." She is amazed at how she doesn't scold him for calling her such an absurd pet name. Perhaps she just doesn't want to cause a riff or make a scene so early on. He seems like the kind of person to get away with giving complete strangers nicknames all the time. "I'd like something to drink."
"You've come to the correct spot." He waves his hand over the table's surface, much like a magician waving his own over a deck of cards splayed out in front of onlookers. "Everything here has been lovingly crafted in my own microbrewery, right here in town. I have it all: pilsners, IPAs, stouts, wheats—"
"What about those wines?" Though Hermione is able to enjoy a good (or even cheap) beer from time to time, she really is in the market for something sweeter…or stronger.
"I've those, as well, but I daresay, they are not from my brewery. I have liquors and mixers, too, but same deal as the wine. I can tell you're a woman who enjoys a bit of quality in everything she consumes," he offers a wink and she feels herself flush.
"I'd actually love a vodka tonic if you're able?" She offers him her own dazzling smile—the product of having worn braces for too many years.
"I am. It would be my pleasure." He's all teeth and laughter lines with her, glad he can give her what she wants, even if it isn't a beer that he is trying to advertise. "I apologize for my in-your-face marketing. Anyone who knows me will instantly tell you its really the only way I know how to be." His smile is sheepish, but not the least bit apologetic, and she finds it terribly endearing.
"That's fine. I'd just rather have something else tonight. Maybe I can check out what you're offering another time?" Her cheeks flame pink once she realizes this can be taken as her flirting with him, but it is not what she meant in the slightest way at all.
"I'd love that! Black's Brews." He grabs at a nearby coaster and writes its address down, as well as the names of its neighboring establishments so she could find it with ease. She examines the thin piece of cardboard: a silhouette of a black dog is in the background, howling at the moon. The name of the establishment is written over the logo in a simplistic and very readable, yet basic, calligraphy script—it looks almost handmade. She smiles at the creativity before tucking it in her back pocket, hoping to avoid crumbling or folding it in a crude manner.
"Black? I suppose that's you?" She can feel the eyes of other partygoers on her, and has become embarrassingly aware of just how long she's lingered here and worries that perhaps she's doing something wrong.
"Yes, that is I. Sirius. Sirius Black," he offers her his hand after he's made her drink with a perfectly shaped spherical ball of ice. Her brow frowns as she examines it with intrigue—she wants to ask how he's managed to craft this, but doesn't ask. "And you are?"
She takes his hand and he grips hers gently. "Hermione Granger. I'm new to the college."
"Masters student?"
"Doctoral candidate."
He looks taken aback as he jerks his head to the side when he relinquishes his grip on her glass. She sips at it. Its perfect. She doesn't jolt or gag from the overwhelming burn of bitterness that they usually give her.
"Really?" He asks, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "A bit young looking to be that far along in academia."
"I graduated undergrad early and never took a break in between." She takes another long sip from her drink.
"God, I thought my best mate was bad enough with his own studies. You've beaten his record, I reckon. Speaking of, he ought to be around here somewhere." Sirius cranes his neck to look around the throng of people that seems to have grown twice its size in the short amount of time that she's been here. He narrows his eyes at those who shoot him furtive and impatient glances as they stand off to the side, waiting to get in line, but not wanting to interrupt the person making drinks.
"He teaches up at the college," Sirius continues, pointing behind him with his thumb. " I'm sure if you don't meet him tonight, you will soon." Sirius offers her another smile and looks at her appraisingly, but in a very platonically fond way. Hermione returns the look, and with clear approval. She thinks they're sharing one of those seemingly rare moments where you know you like someone as soon as you meet them and would like to see them more often.
Before she has the chance to ask Sirius who his friend is, there is an assault of women lining up behind her to get drinks from her new acquaintance. Apparently, they have exercised all forms of patience they could muster, and wanted a chance to speak with Sirius.
'You're here to meet peers and colleagues,' she tells herself, and can't help but think of something either her mother or another teacher told her when she was small. 'Hermione, at some point, you have got to talk to and make friends with people your own age.' This was after spending lunches and even recesses speaking with teachers.
She frowns at the memory and decides to take that decade-plus advice into consideration tonight, so she bids Sirius farewell. "It was really nice to meet you."
"Hope to see you at the brewery some time," he rushes with his words as she's walking away. "Please do come by whenever you'd like to. I'm always there." His smile is sincere and he's dropped the obnoxious, shallow flirtatious tone for which she is glad. He seems like a really nice guy, and 'friendly' is definitely what she is looking for in new people around here.
"I will," she calls to him, a hand cupped to the side of her face to extend her voice as he becomes over run by a crowd of grad students loudly clamoring for free drinks. Most of them are the catty young women from before, each trying to cut in line.
She turns her back to the scene and scopes out the rest of the dining hall, wondering if it will be as easy to make friends with others here. The students look haughty, as though everyone is competing with one another to see who is the most brilliant and to see if the professors will prefer them over the others. There really is nothing like a good dose of healthy competition, but being antagonizing just for the sake of it isn't something that she's into and she hopes that relations aren't going to be as cutthroat as they seem.
"Hermione Granger!" Sirius is yelling at her and when she whips around to look at him, she sees he is waving both arms in the air as though he is stranded on a deserted island and is trying to flag a rogue aircraft down to rescue him. "Come to trivia night this Wednesday!"
"I will!" She will definitely have to check her schedule, and stop by his bar to see what time trivia actually starts. Perhaps her late evening class won't conflict with the time.
"I will, too!" Someone else whoops out somewhere in the line., wavering their voice in a very suggestive and annoying way, so as to make fun of she and Sirius.
"Not you, ya prat!" Sirius responds before going back to playing bartender. He will definitely water down this round.
Hermione grins to herself and goes back on the hunt to find some more company.
There is music playing, but she can't find the sound system set up, and she realizes that someone is actually playing on an acoustic guitar near the back of the room. They are playing instrumental music of popular songs, without the lyrics. She can appreciate that. Not many people are near the musician, so she avoids going that way. More people are standing in clusters near the dining table, utilizing it as a surface to set their drinks and small appetizer sized plates full of cheese upon. They already seem to be in rapt conversation and that they aren't really in a place to have someone randomly jump in and derail or disturb whatever they're talking about.
The groups in the dining hall seem familiar enough with one another that the little clusters seem more like cliques of sorts instead of strangers meeting for the first time. She thinks about the two old men she saw when she first arrived, but they seemed to have disappeared all together. Not only that, but she is trying to take past advice and do well with people closer to her age. She thinks of perhaps going back to speak to Sirius now that his line is dwindling down. Not only would that be pathetic, but he is also working at the moment, so it would most likely be inappropriate in some way. However, she could go back to get a second drink…
The lighting is dim in here, and its hard to avoid spilled drinks. Hermione finds herself nearly slipping on more than one occasion. Her face burns, but nobody seems to have noticed her. She throws the rest of her drink back in one gulp. Whatever Sirius had done to this drink to make it taste fine was nothing short of magic: she is feeling more buzzed than she usually does after just one. She feels loosened up enough to be so bold and talk to people now, but the question was: who ought she approach? Most people are townies who have always known one another, and it seems to Hermione that staying here long enough to get a degree was not only a rite of passage, but some kind of requirement. She thought it amusing, but also thought any extraneous learning ought to be done because one desire to and finds some pleasure in it.
She finds herself wandering towards the fireplace, and decides that's as good a place of any to just post up for a bit until people wander her way, when she slips again, and a strong hand grabs her by her upper arm to right her again.
"Whoopsies," a female voice says with a slightly shrill titter of laughter.
Hermione finds her balance again and turns to look at her rescuer: a tall, slender young woman with straight highlighted hair and eyes spaced almost a bit too far from another. She's wearing a breathtaking, if not provocative, tight off-the-shoulder black dress that stops several inches above her knees. Her heels are also black and dangerously high, and she has a diamond-studded clutch dangling from her free, dainty wrist.
"Thank you," Hermione says, giving her an apologetic grin. "I am quite accident-prone sometimes." She means this in a self-deprecating enough way to cause the woman to laugh along with her, to break the ice and put this awkward stumble and catch behind them.
"Grace is something that must always be practiced." The young woman gives her a mischievous grin and sizes Hermione up. "I'm Pansy Parkinson…and you're new."
It isn't a question, and Hermione isn't sure what inferences or analyses of her character that Pansy is leaving implied in her curt assessment. So Hermione just tells Pansy, "Yes," and offers her name, as well as her soon-to-be affiliation with the college.
"Ph.D. already?" Pansy doesn't try very hard to conceal her sneer. "I'm a masters candidate myself. Most people are age are. How freakishly ahead you are," she says this in a sweet tone, as though she means no offense, yet Hermione cannot help but feel shamed in some way.
Hermione, wanting to move beyond this, and Pansy herself at some point, asks her what she is studying.
"Oh, please." Pansy holds up a hand to stop Hermione in her tracks. "Everyone knows the real reason we all come to these things."
"And what is that?" Hermione frowns, and brings her nearly empty glass to her lips, drinking the dregs of melted ice because her mouth suddenly feels dry.
"To gossip, of course," Pansy is almost aghast as to how Hermione did not immediately pick up on this. "And to determine whose sleeping with who."
Hermione now knows that she doesn't care for Pansy Parkinson and she doesn't like the way her dark, beady eyes sear the room in search of her next target for ridicule. It is a cruel gaze (and game) and in her more formative years, perhaps teenage Hermione would jump at the chance to refine Pansy with lessons in kindness through an offer of friendship. But in truth, she'd always known people like Pansy and they seemed either born this way or loved to grow further demented.
"Daph, come here," Pansy says suddenly, waving her extended arm in a beckoning manner.
They are joined by a blonde young woman who is the mirror of Pansy, except she has lighter tones and is wearing a similar dress, but of emerald.
"Lucius just throws the best parties sometimes, doesn't he, Pans?" The woman is saying, sipping from her glass of champagne. "Pity the right crowd must always mix with the rest of them when that other lot decides to show up. I've always told Draco that he needs to speak some sense into his father and convince him to make these things more private."
"Daphne," Pansy says as though she hasn't heard a word of her friend's short tirade, "this is Hermione. She's coming to GHC this fall. She's a doctoral candidate."
Daphne raises an eyebrow and shares a snide look with Pansy as they raise their eyebrows at one another. Daphne coughs to hide a chuckle before reaching out a small hand to shake Hermione's and introduce herself. "Daphne Greengrass. I didn't know that Godric Hollow attracted such brainiacs."
"I—" Hermione started, but was interrupted by Pansy.
"Brainiacs who are friends with Sirius Black."
Daphne's eyes light up. "Are you really?"
Hermione now recognizes her as one of the girls who had shot her a gross look earlier when she was speaking with him. "I suppose, yes."
"Do you think you could mention me to him the next time you speak?"
But before Hermione can speak, Pansy interrupts her yet again and tugs Daphne close beside her to whisper loudly. "There he is!" She points a long-silver painted-nailed finger in the direction of the makeshift bar.
At first, Hermione thinks she is referring to Sirius, but realizes that she is pointing at the man standing off to the side, speaking to Sirius. He's wearing a light gray tweed jacket with sandy brown elbow patches over a white button-down shirt without a tie, and dark navy chino trousers that stop just above the ankle and show off loud yellow socks, and bone colored oxford shoes.
"He just always seems to wear the same things," Pansy says, that deviant look clouding her eyes once again, and Daphne mirrors it.
"Its almost as if he's only got a change of clothes for each day." Daphne giggles into her champagne flute.
It is as though Pansy cannot stop herself from saying horribly rude things. "And no one's ever seen him with a woman or even a man."
Daphne is no better with how she reaffirms her friend's absurd claim that's come from nowhere. "I hear he's basically like a virginal spinster."
"I think he looks quite nice in those clothes," Hermione has no idea where this courage has come from. "Its not as if he just showed up in some tattered pajamas."
Daphne and Pansy share a look of vicious glee before looking at Hermione and then at the man speaking to Sirius. Hermione follows their gazes, and locks eyes with Sirius when he turns his head from the other man, still speaking. Sirius smiles kindly at her and waves. Hermione waves back. The man follows Sirius's eyes. He looks at Pansy and Daphne, then at Hermione and offers a small smile. He raises her own arm to wave, and a hole in his jacket's sleeve becomes apparent. Daphne nearly drops her glass when she and Pansy start shrieking with laughter and clutch at one another.
Hermione finally divorces herself from the situation, no longer wishing to be affiliated with them. She hears Sirius calls for her, but ignores him in search of a bathroom. She needs to cool her face off with some water before her fuming mortification burns it enough to cause tears.
With her empty glass in her hand for company, she walks the length of the dining hall staring at her feet, and peers down the adjacent corridor. The glass is cool in her hand as the ice cubes melt in the warmth of the manor. Droplets of the glass's sweat slicks her palm and chills her fingers—the slight uncomfortable feeling keeps her grounded in a way. The corridor is very long and now she's worried that someone is going to see her here, and ask her just what the hell she thinks she's doing nosing around like she owns the place.
She finds a bathroom at the very end of the corridor, and locks the door behind her when she closes it. She places her drinking glass on the edge of the sink, then wets a paper towel with cool water from the tap. She slides into a sitting positing with her back against the wall and holds the damp towel to her brow, cheeks, and closed eyes. She lets out a short, shaky sigh.
'What horrid girls,' she thinks to herself. Once she's sat here long enough, she tells her that she can either go back out there and try again with new people (hopefully they aren't all like that, and that she is able to avoid the 'right' crowd that Daphne previously mentioned), or she can call it a wash and just go home and get some reading done.
Home sounds more pleasurable than anymore of this stuffiness, she decides, and leaves the bathroom door open behind her to indicate that it is vacant.
The room across the bathroom has caught her fancy and she decides she will not leave until she has explored what appears to be a small, private library.
This is something out of her daydreams—something on the invisible list of things she hopes to have in her future life someday. But for now, all she has is many very cheaply made bookshelves all straining to hold her massive and impressive and ancient tomes until she is in a place to afford something like this: wall to wall built-in shelves and a ladder that swivels around to every wall, a spiral staircase to a second floor landing full of more shelves and books and furniture by beautiful windows. She can't help herself as she is pulled into the room by what she loves best. She heads straight to one of the shelves in the middle, tracing her finger along a line of spines, walking the length of the bookshelf, reading titles, until it stopped at the corner.
"Impressive, isn't it?" A voice to her left says softly. He is quiet, as though they are in an actual library.
Hermione starts as she turns to face the speaker. Of course she was lost in her thoughts in here (how couldn't she be?). It is the man from earlier. "I-I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't laughing at you with them, I promise. I'm also sorry to intrude, I didn't know if this was off limits."
The man closes the book he is holding onto his finger to hold his place in order to greet her. He's much taller than her and smiles down at her, amused by her sputtering panic. "Its all right. This isn't even my house. I don't know if I'm allowed in here, either." He pauses before adding, "I'm hiding, too."
"I'm not hiding from anyone." She sets her chin in defiance of what he's said to her.
He raises an eyebrow and gives her a crooked smile. "I see. You just got lost. Its very easy to miss a room full of people on your way to the most secluded area of the first floor."
She knows that he's just trying to be funny with her, but something about the way that this could be taken as him fully making fun of her like everyone else really hurts her feelings and she feels her eyes burning with the mist of impending tears, but doesn't quite tear up yet.
He sees that he's made a mistake and his amber eyes turn sad once more. "I apologize for my facetiousness. Please don't pay attention to any of them out there. Trust me. I've known most of them for a very long time—too long of a time—and its all the same every year. Tomorrow, they will act like they've no idea that they were so rude to you the night before. Most of the people who are worth speaking to are not here yet, went home already, or never planned on coming at all because they knew what everyone else is always playing at."
"Then why are you here?"
"I try to meet as many new students I can." His face breaks out into an amused and brilliant smile. "I daresay too many of them are distracted by my friend at the bar."
She sniffles and breaks out in the first grin he's seen from her. "Sirius? He's lovely."
"He's something all right."
They are quiet again for a spell and Hermione goes back to reading the spines of the books on the rest of the shelves, while he walks around aimlessly, his book too close to his face.
"I've been trying to find someone decent to speak to all night," she confesses, rubbing at her temples with closed eyes once she's finished perusing titles.
He plunges a hand in his already-messy hair, making it look like he just got out of bed. "Welcome to my year-long problem. Chronic, self-selected solitude." His pacing has brought himself back to her again, and they stand in the middle of the room.
She chuckles at his tone and asks him what he's reading.
"Just a bit of old poetry." He recites a few lines from the book, looking down at her every so often when pausing.
The music at the party in the other room grows louder, as it appears that more instruments have joined the foray. And now that a proper band has fallen into place, they launch into a cover of the song 'Wonderwall' immediately, inciting wild cheers and sing-shouting from the crowd. Hermione cannot help roll her eyes and the man enjoys this greatly, muttering something like, 'same'.
They move to one of the small tables in the corner and discuss Romanticism and the Byron-Shelley circle. Hermione gives an impassioned almost-lecture on the symbolism in 'Frankenstein' that she finds most compelling. He listens politely, nodding or shaking in his head in all the right places of her tirade. When she finishes, she is breathless, and beaming. "You're Sirius's friend that teaches at the college, aren't you?"
Her wild transition is jarring to him and he stumbles with his answer, caught off-guard by being asked a question so suddenly.
"Yes. I teach literature and theory. Er, I'm Remus. Or, Professor Lupin, I suppose." He offers her his hand, and he can't help but notice how small hers feels in his own. He also can't help but notice how her slight chuckle warms his chest when she says something sardonic about being glad to have finally met him after all this time (spent in the library). Sirius was totally right about how easy to talk to she is and how refreshing it is to be around someone so new and so nice.
"It is lovely to meet you, Professor Lupin. This is one of the best conversations I've had in a few days."
"I can say the same, Hermione. And if this conversation is indicative of, or only a fraction of what you are capable of, I am absolutely looking forward to working with you this semester. It isn't every day we have Ph.D. candidates as young or as brilliant as you."
"I'm afraid I have a lot to live up to now."
"You will be fine," he says briskly. "And I shall be there to help you when you aren't."