A/N: This was written for The Second Person POV competition :D over at the HPFC forum, where I was given the character Lucy as well as the prompt "piano keys."
Also, this is the first RemusLucy ever. :)
Many thanks to mew-tsubaki for her wonderful beta-job!
for a passing moment, i felt loved
You tap with your fingers and close your eyes for a while. It just cannot be more boring than this, can it?
Who could care less about the early stages of the First Wizarding War? Okay, sure, your entire class is all captivated, glued to your teacher's every word, but you've always found history incredibly boring.
And it doesn't matter how many times your father has asked you what isn't interesting about it, when it in fact had been your family that had fought, but you've always rolled your eyes and answered that yesterday doesn't matter, that there's nothing that can be changed about it anyway.
You are pulled out of your half-asleep state when your teacher yells, "Miss Weasley," but let's talk about the surprise when he isn't there when you open your eyes.
And neither is your class. Or your classroom. It's only the excellent view from a tree—or, excellent until the branch begins to crack and you fall down on the ground with a yelp.
It did hurt. It does hurt.
You lay there, splayed on the ground with grass in your mouth and nose, and you really don't want to move. If you do, you might start crying, because your ankle hurts so much.
"Look, I told you, Prongs, didn't I? Girls are growing on trees!" A cheerful voice is heard from the left, and someone pokes at you with his toes. "See here—ready to pluck, all fresh and just fallen from the tree!"
"Don't kick her, Pads!" another voice sounds, just precisely able to be discerned from the laughter that surrounds you now.
"Exactly," you groan. "Listen to that sane person speaking—don't kick me."
The laughter dies out before turning into something that could resemble an embarrassed giggle, but you only hear that same, not-giggling-at-all—instead a little bit upset—voice which asks you, "What happened?"
You realize you haven't yet opened your eyes, so you do so and find a pair of brown eyes staring at you. "I fell. I think I've sprained my ankle…"
"But where did you come from?" That first voice again is heard, and it belongs to a boy with black hair and grey eyes. What he says, though, makes the other boy punch his shoulder.
"Sirius! She's hurt, for Merlin's sake!"
Sirius… You frown. It can't be…or can it? You dart your eyes to the third member of the group, and yes, his hazel eyes are exactly like those of your cousin Lily's. And then there's the fourth, and you swallow hard, because you know what he's done—or will do, if your hunch is right—and there's nothing you can do about it.
You suddenly realize something. If you have travelled in time, what if you do something, mess up everything, and then return home and everything's different? Or what if you won't even be born? But, wait, isn't it that you would have been here the…hmm…last time, as well? And in that case isn't it that you already have messed it all up, and that it can never affect anything else more than it already has?
Merlin, this is confusing.
"Hello, are you still in there?" The hazel-eyed one—because you don't want to think of him as your great-uncle because that would be too weird, and James…well, James is James as in James the younger with red hair and freckles and not this James—is kneeling in front of you.
"Yeah," you say, and you brush your hair out of your eyes. "I was…just thinking. Could you please help me to the Hospital Wing?"
The bespectacled one (you really have to come up with something you can call him which won't make your head spin unpleasantly) begins to haul you up, while…well, Sirius makes a little huff. "Wait, guys, we really oughta be more careful about this. Who is she, even?"
"I'm Lucy We—" you begin, but you stop yourself and try desperately to come up with a last name that can sufficiently work as an alter ego for Weasley. But no one notices your troubles, because Sirius grunts and pries—Prongs? That could work—Prongs' hand from your arm.
"James, let go of her now! Okay, you're Lucy," he says, turning to you. "That's interesting. But, what really is the matter here is who are you and where did you come from and how do you know about the Hospital Wing?" He says the last part really quickly, having bent down so that he stares at you with narrowed eyes.
"Well…," you begin, not knowing whether you should explain everything to them or just make up a story…or maybe curse them all into oblivion. But then there's that altering-the-time problem again, coupled with the fact that your ankle doesn't support you.
Ah, that's an idea. You look carefully at them all, the one you figure is Remus with his wrinkled forehead and sincerely concerned eyes, Sirius with his arms folded, and the round one who has to be Peter with…whatever, you don't want to look at him, and Prongs casts a doubtful glance in Sirius' direction.
You sniff. And the result comes as soon as you hoped—all four of them suddenly look as though they are about to be beaten into pulp. You had no idea your crocodile tears were this effective; they weren't when you tried using them on Louis and Fred last summer. But then again, Louis and Fred are used to you and Lily. And Dominique. And Hugo, even.
"Okay, okay!" Sirius says quickly, hunching down. "Don't cry…we'll take you there—it's fine!"
"Does it hurt much?" Remus asks softly, and you silently regret pretending to cry, because you do feel a bit silly and you don't want to seem weak. But then again, it was the best idea you could come up with for the moment.
"Yes" is your answer, because that could, in a way, justify your tears.
o~o~o
Later, you find yourself lying tucked into a bed, noting that Madam Pomfrey is just as much of a mother hen now that she…er…will be, in the future.
And again, you're confused out of your mind about it all.
"Hey," a voice says, and you would have jumped straight up in the air if the sheets weren't practically so close around you that you can't move an inch. "How are you?"
It's Remus, and he's standing at the threshold with a sheepish look on his face, and you wonder if that's where Teddy got that same expression. It probably is.
"Better," you say, because, again, you don't want to sound weak, and if you say that you're completely recovered, he might find your tears from earlier silly, so you go for the I'm-really-hurt-but-I'm-so-strong-I-don't-show-it voice.
"Okay," he answers, and he carefully sits down on the edge of your bed. You take a moment to marvel over how he is exactly as everyone has told you he was when they tell you and your cousins about the legendary Marauders.
But then again, honestly, he's almost a little bit better than that. Uncle Harry only told you about his compassion and struggles, never about his slender fingers and the scar that was just below his eyes, or the way his face now looks as though it was sculpted from precious stones and how it could light up when you smile at him.
And Aunt Hermione told you about his teaching, how he ensnared the entire class without even trying, that time when you complained about your newest teacher in Defense Against the Dark Arts to her, but she never mentioned how his hair was all ruffled and wind-blown and currently looks so soft that you want nothing but to run your fingers through it.
Oh dear. This is convenient. Now you have fallen for a boy, that is, well, very much older than you, as well as the father to Teddy Lupin, whom you last week shagged in your sister—his fiancée's—room.
Things are complicated, but maybe that is good, because it makes you forget how wrong it is that you lean over and kiss him, even though it has been only hours since you'd first met. You hear that all the time—well, you don't really hear it, it is more of a whisper behind your back, how you are a slut, how you are a man-eater, and so on and so forth.
Here you haven't that reputation, so maybe people actually will not mind that you are snogging Remus Lupin in the Hospital Wing.
You hope so, at least, but then you feel him pulling away from you quickly. You open your eyes, prepared to find the oh-merlin-what-have-I-done-please-kill-me-this-is-lucy-fucking-weasley-she'll-leave-me-now look in his eyes—because that is what's usually found in the eyes of people you've just kissed— but instead, he blushes bright red and takes a few steps away with a speed you didn't think possible.
You open your mouth, but no words come out, and then he looks up at you. The only thought you have in your mind is Shit, what have I done now?, so you say "sorry" in a voice that doesn't sound like your own.
"I gotta go," he mumbles, and he wipes around his mouth with the back of his palm, still looking flustered. He turns around and disappears, while you sink down on your pillows, groaning.
You think of how maybe, at least one time in your life, you could try and think before you act. At least this time—but oh no, you have to screw it up immediately. Even now, when you have, in a way, been given a second chance.
You don't know how long it takes until you finally fall asleep that evening, because all you can see in your mind's eye is Remus' retreating figure.
o~o~o
"Miss Lucy, this isn't a matter of your pride—or whatever else it might be that hinders you—anymore. Avoiding all our questions in this way is not going to help at all; you have to tell us at least something."
You look McGonagall straight in the eye and keep your mouth shut. Because what could you tell? I know that, in forty years from now, you'll be so tired of some of us Weasley and Potter kids that you won't even bother scolding us anymore. Yup, professor, I'm from the future. Spooky, huh?
When she understands you aren't any closer to spilling something, even after half an hour in her office, she rises from her chair and looks down at the desk. "Well, then. As you might understand, this is no longer acceptable. I would say I'm sincerely sorry about this, because you do seem to be a nice young woman quite honestly, but I'm afraid that would be quite inappropriate of me. Miss Lucy, with the impending war, you being here without telling us why is too insecure—I have to call the Aurors and have you arrested."
Shit, you curse under your breath. "No! Wait…wait." Sounding as desperate as you are now isn't helping the situation at all, but you are desperate. "Okay, I'll tell you more. Just…please don't call them. I swear, I'm as harmless as a Flobberworm."
McGonagall looks at you without blinking, and you have to swallow to be able to get the words out.
"My name is Lucy Weasley."
"Weasley?" McGonagall repeats. "Related to Weasley who graduated a couple of years ago?"
"He's my grandfather." You know this is the moment where everything could blow up, where your sanity could be claimed to be absolutely non-existent—as you almost yourself have begun to fear it is.
"Explain" is all McGonagall says, sinking back down in her chair.
"I'm from the future. Arthur Weasley marries Molly Prewett, they have a lot of kids and one of them turns out to be my father—"
"Okay, don't explain," McGongall interrupts quickly. "It's enough that you're from the future…" She trails off for a moment, and then looks straight at you with piercing eyes. "I'll take this as your word that this is the truth and that you are not here while actually being on the 'Dark side.'" The last words are said with the tiniest of frowns, and the realness of everything hits you. These people, your ancestors and their friends, are in those early stages of the war your history teacher spoke of before you arrived here—in the middle of it.
"You have my word," you say, and never have you said something that is so heavy, that means so much.
o~o~o
You're installed in a room close to Gryffindor Tower and are claimed to be a transfer student from Norway and thus do not belong to any House. Only three days have passed since you fell down from the tree and kissed Remus Lupin out of nowhere and watched him run from you as fast as possible.
Quite depressing, if you're being honest with yourself.
"Hello, tree girl." You turn around and find the famous foursome behind you, Sirius being the one having greeted you.
"That makes me sound like I'm a monkey, or someone who's lived in the woods all my life," you answer, and you can see how, even though he stubbornly stares down at the floor, Remus smiles.
"Well, we wouldn't know if you have or have not," Prongs interferes.
"I don't think she did. Or she wouldn't have fallen down from the tree, would she?"
"I think you're right, Petey. Which means I'm fully allowed to call you 'tree girl,'" Sirius concludes.
"No, you're not!" All five of you begin to walk down to the Great Hall for dinner, as it has become some sort of tradition for the four boys to pick you up in the afternoon on their way past your place.
You enjoy their company, far more than you had expected you would, especially Sirius' and James'. You can't really enjoy Peter's, as every time his eyes meet yours, you think of how he'll soon turn into something so…so not him. Because what you have learned from these three days is that this Peter—the Peter who isn't a Death Eater yet, who isn't a traitor (even though he will be)—truly earns his place among the Marauders, and you can see why he is included in the group. But you simply can't erase what you know about him.
And then there's Remus. You would sure enjoy his company—very much—if he didn't sit quietly all the time and refuse to look at you. But oh well, you guess you deserve it.
After dinner, you follow them to their common room, because even though you aren't a Gryffindor (in this decade, at least), you've decided you must speak to Remus and make things right again.
His eyes are huge and still averted from yours as you sit down on the sofa next to him. "Hi there," you say, clutching your knees to your body. "I'm sorry about—"
"Don't speak of it," he interrupts. "Let's pretend it never happened, okay?"
You nod quietly. After a moment in silence, he clears his throat. "What?"
"Who are you?" he asks, looking at James and Peter having a wrestling match on the sofa while Sirius cheers them on and pokes them whenever there's an opportunity.
"Lucy."
"Lucy who?" And finally his brown eyes meet yours, and you really don't want to destroy this moment, as well, so you stay put in your position and take a deep breath.
o~o~o
"So you're from the future," he says, mumbling as he stares up at the ceiling, and you decide this was the only way you could regain his trust, by revealing everything. "How is it there?"
"I really don't know if I should tell you more," you say quietly, and you wish for him to grab your hand, but as there're so many other people around you, even though no one at all is watching or listening, you know he won't. "Maybe that will affect things, alter things."
He nods and his hands lay in his lap, and you wonder if he ever has played the piano, because you can imagine how he would slide his fingers across the keys, and how tender every tone would be.
"But then again," you continue quickly, clasping your own hands together, "I should be able to do whatever, because this has already happened, so maybe I was meant to go here, and I already have, so whatever I do is what I did, if you get my drift."
He looks at you with his head cocked to the side. "Don't you miss your own time?"
You raise your eyebrows and watch how his eyes reflect the fire. "I do," you say, a little breathily, but you decide not to care about that, because he's so very right. You miss it with your every bone in your body, but it also makes you feel so good that he asked you that. That he cared. And you realize the reason you fell for him three days ago was maybe just shallow—but now you've fallen in a completely different way. He doesn't compliment your curves or hair or eyes, as people usually do, but he cares. Even though he doesn't know you. Even though you don't belong here. Even though you kissed him and scared him and were your usual fucked-up-self.
He smiles at you, a little bit sad. "Maybe you'll be able to go back soon."
"Maybe."
o~o~o
"Lucy!" Remus approaches you with a stack of books in his arms, and he pulls you with him into an empty study room.
"What?"
"I've done some research on time-travelling." He takes a seat next to you and opens one of the books. "I've found out there are two plausible options for how you travelled here, as I assume you don't have a Time-Turner?"
"No," you say with a shake on your head, feeling strangely excited about this.
"Well, then it could be someone having cast a spell on you—did you see someone nearby before realizing you were here?"
"I was in a classroom, so…well, there were loads of people."
"Oh, that makes things a bit harder." He opens another book. "There is also another thing, which is a bit vague, but it's more 'natural,' you know. There're supposed to be these 'time loops;' they've been documented as far back as the twelfth century, people appearing out of nowhere and then disappearing just as abruptly."
"Time loops? Wouldn't people, like, know about them, in that case? Because I sure as hell have never heard of them before," you say, thinking of Muggle films and those science fiction books Dominique keeps under her bed.
"No, because…well, when I said 'documented,' I meant 'appeared in folk tales,'" Remus answers with a grimace.
"Oh," you say, because you don't know what else to say, and if this was any other guy but Remus—if this was any other time than this—you sure would have kissed him instead, just to displace the awkward tension. But you don't want to mess everything up again.
"And, when you study those tales a bit closer," he says, biting his lower lip, "you realize that the time travelers only stayed for the same exact amount of time."
"…which is how long?"
"Ten days."
"Which means…," you begin, realizing with a sinking feeling in your gut that you have been here for exactly ten days.
"You're going back, anytime now." His eyes are unreadable as they meet yours, but then he quickly continues, "But it could be a spell, too."
"Yeah, I suppose," you say, and you refuse to look at him, crossing your arms over your chest.
Silence hits the two of you, and suddenly he grabs your hand, just as you had hoped he would do that other day. "I'll miss you, Lucy."
You're just about to agree when you blink and realize you shouldn't have—and you think of how very inconvenient everything is, how it's just too fucking well-timed—because now it feels so wrong and it is so wrong, so you open your eyes as quickly as possible.
He's gone.
There isn't a single trace of him left, and you are for some reason in the Hospital Wing, and Madam Pomfrey enters, looking like her older self again as she peers at you through her glasses. "You've woken up now, Miss Weasley?"
And you listen to her explaining how you had a break-down in History of Magic, and how the air in there certainly wasn't good, and how you oughtn't feel pressured, and all the while you don't really hear it.
Because you're busy staring down at your hand, having the ghostly feeling of someone's—Remus'—hand still being there. But it's not there, and right now Remus is dead and what has happened might as well have been a dream or a hallucination or whatever.
You certainly won't tell anyone about it, but maybe, just maybe, you decide that it won't be forgotten by you either.
As if you ever could forget the only romance you've had that actually meant something.