Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
…
She walked quickly away from the Three Broomsticks, sniffing against the cold and cursing her cowardice.
Gryffindor, where the brave dwell at heart.
Where did that put her, then? The Sorting Hat had put her in the House of the Lions for a reason, but running away from stupid Seamus Finnigan and his humiliating comments wasn't very courageous, was it?
"You're a bloody idiot, Remy," she told herself, looking down at her feet as she trudged through the snow. "Stupid, so stupid. You should have punched him in his bloody face. That's something a Gryffindor would do, innit?"
Slam!
Momentarily stunned, she lost her balance and fell backward in a heap of robes, cloak, and angry girl.
"I'm so sorry," a voice stammered, obviously a boy's. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Sorry – "
She whipped the hood of her cloak off of her face. Only to find that there was no one there.
She paled.
"Wh- who's there?"
"Oh, right." Almost as if out of thin air, a boy appeared. He had ridiculously messy black locks that hung down near the top of his round, snow-specked frames. His nose and cheeks were red from, she supposed, the bitter cold. But there was something about his downtrodden expression that made her think otherwise. A thin, lightning bolt-shaped scar stood out against his pale face, and he wasn't very tall – about the same height as her.
"Harry Potter," she said, breathlessly, glancing at the shimmering cloth hanging from his right hand. Then, she scowled, cringing at the dripping snow all over her back. "As if I don't have enough to be upset about today, you come along and bowl me over. Now my jumper's all wet…" She grimaced, before saying, sardonically, "Cheers!"
And with that, she turned on her heel and continued on toward the castle, leaving a stunned Boy-Who-Lived behind her.
…...
That one, brief altercation was certainly not the last that Harry experienced with the mysterious girl who always seemed to be in a foul mood.
Not that he had been the best company the first time around, either. He didn't think anybody would be if they found out their parents had been killed by one of their best friends.
Sirius Black will die, he thought scathingly. Even if I have to do it myself.
Hearing Hagrid's anguished words had twisted something inside of him. Made him so angry he wanted to hunt down the escaped convict all on his own. But Hermione and Ron were right; it wouldn't do to go after someone that dangerous when the staff and Dumbledore were trying so hard to keep him from doing the very same.
Didn't mean he couldn't wish.
It irritated him beyond belief that Hermione tried to keep him from even leaving the castle. Despite her insistence, however, he and Ron wore her down and they headed down to Hagrid's cabin that very same day to pay him a visit.
Ron knocked. Almost immediately, the door swung open.
Except it wasn't their favorite Care of Magical Creatures professor and gamekeeper. It was the mysterious and perpetually angry girl. Her countenance was initially fierce and unwelcoming, but her shoulders lost their tension a bit at seeing them.
"I'll see you later, Hagrid," she called behind her, her naturally-wide eyes expressive to the nth degree.
He stared after her in mild irritation as she brushed past him roughly, his anger toward Sirius Black still festering under the surface. Stupid Black. Stupid safety measures. Stupid dementors.
He didn't even want to think about the dementors.
The visit was a sad one, admittedly. Buckbeak had been sentenced to execution for the attack of Draco Malfoy. The attack that, they tried to remind Hagrid, had been provoked by the blonde Slytherin himself. Hagrid was hearing none of it, convinced that "Beaky" was going to die. When it was clear they were getting nowhere with their line of comfort, they assured him fiercely that they would all help with the appeal.
"It'll be okay, I promise," Hermione tried again, patting Hagrid's arm and near to tears herself.
Seeing this seemed to be the trigger. Hagrid blew his nose on a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and said, "Yer right. I can' afford to go ter pieces. Gotta pull meself together..."
Fang the boarhound came timidly out from under the table and laid his head on Hagrid's knee.
"I've not bin meself lately," said Hagrid, stroking Fang with one hand and mopping his face with the other. "Worried abou' Buckbeak, an' no one likin' me classes – "
"We do like them!" lied Hermione at once.
"Yeah, they're great!" said Ron, crossing his fingers under the table. "Er – how are the flobberworms?"
Hagrid seemed to perk up at that. "Well, Remy's been helpin' me with 'em fer a while, now. They're doin' alrigh'. If it weren' fer her, the grounds work really would ge' ter be too much."
"Remy?" Hermione inquired, wiping her eyes. "Is that the girl that just left?"
"Yeah, Remy De Luca," Hagrid gave a great sniff. "She's no' much of a talker, ter be honest, bu' she's been a great help."
"I know her," Harry said. Ron and Hermione turned to him, expressions curious. "I ran into her at H – " he glanced at Hagrid, who was busy blowing his nose again. "At – Hall. Great Hall. The Great Hall."
Hermione was regarding him with a questioning quirk to her mouth. Ron just shrugged.
They left Hagrid's cabin soon afterward. Sirius Black's betrayal was still fresh in Harry's mind, but he knew that brooding would be counterproductive to trying to work up a decent case to contend with the Committee for the Disposal of Dangerous Creatures. The next day, he, Hermione, and Ron went to the library to gather a bunch of books that would help them with Buckbeak's case.
While looking around on one of the shelves filled with tombs of the law, Harry saw a familiar head of layered dark brown hair. Her thick side fringe hid her face, but he knew it was the ever elusive Remy De Luca. She was running her finger along one of the thicker books, her eyes narrowed curiously.
On a whim, and trying to abide by Madam Pince's strict noise rules, he whispered, "Hey."
She jumped and turned to him, retracting her hand. Apparently, his presence didn't bother her as much as it did their past two encounters, because she raised her eyebrows and said back, "Hullo."
"So," he said at length. "You're close to Hagrid?"
She turned back to the book she was looking at, taking it down off of the shelf and dusting off the worn cover.
"It's not easy – doing your best when you've lost someone," she informed him. Harry shuffled closer to the spot where she stood. "Or, about to lose someone. I'm just easing his burden a little. To make it easier."
He leaned forward and saw the title of her book. Getting To Know Nifflers by Felicity Furbish.
She looked up at him and frowned, tucking it under her arm and walking away.
He was tempted to call her back; to ask for her help in finding books that would help with the case. But the tired sag of her shoulders and the hurry in which she strode away made him hesitant to do so. She was already doing enough. More than anyone else had done for their large friend.
After gathering many books relevant to their cause, they checked out and headed back up to the dormitories, their arms laden with their findings. Sitting around the fire and surrounded by the common room's Christmas decorations and cheer, they dug into the information. Occasionally, one of them would bring something up aloud, but it would be useless.
Harry didn't notice Remy until she was in front of the three of them. Out of his peripheral, he saw Hermione and Ron look up simultaneously. She gazed at all three of them evenly.
"Hagrid gave us all clear warning what would happen if we approached Buckbeak unceremoniously." She turned to Harry. "You demonstrated the correct way to do it. Draco was purposefully insubordinate of the professor's orders – that's a violation of a school rule. That ought to count for something."
And with her large book still tucked under her arm, she scurried away and climbed the stairs to the girl's dormitory.
Hermione stared after her for just a moment, and then tapped her fingers against her lips in thought. "She's right – that ought to count for something!" She then dug into her school bag and whipped out Hogwarts: A History, and flipped through it rapidly.
Harry wondered why Remy stayed at the castle for Christmas.
….
Remy woke up in the morning with the corner of Getting To Know Nifflers pressed uncomfortably against her side. With an irritated grunt, she shoved it off of the bed and was only mildly satisfied at the thunk it landed with.
Bloody book, she thought bitterly. You're not even that interesting. You don't get to be forgiven for giving me pain.
It was Christmas Day. She smiled indulgently, thinking of her mother. And then frowned, thinking again of the same woman.
She looked to the foot of her four-poster and smiled lightly at the sight of the small pile of presents awaiting her eager unwrapping. The holidays always cheered her up; she was still on the cusp of becoming a true teenager, and thus the wonders of Christmas still made her starry-eyed and gave her the childlike stomach flutters of excitement.
She leaned forward, rubbing hard at her eyes with the heels of her hands and then grabbing the nearest parcel. It was wrapped in brown package paper. There was a card.
"Dearest Remilda,
Your mother requested that I send you this package, as she is quite overwhelmed with work at present. The Black debacle calls for her constant attention at the Ministry, but she tells me to give you her sincerest regards and apologies.
The package contains something that once belonged to your father. That is all that I know. Your mother was quite close-lipped about anything else of substance.
With Many Warm Hugs,
Griffiths."
Can't even wrap a stupid present yourself, she thought bitterly. You had Griffiths do it.
She frowned curiously at the package, tentatively picking at the wrapping until only a black, velvet jewelry case sat on the duvet in front of her crisscrossed legs. With a steady hand, she cracked it open. Sitting in its plush cushion was a silver chain. She lifted it out of the jewelry case and held it up.
The dark, dog-shaped pendant glittered in the weak morning light.
"Wow," she breathed, smoothing a thumb over the obsidian. It wasn't the most beautiful thing in the most conventional of means, but it seemed to emanate a sort of warmth that made her fists close around it just a little bit tighter.
Her father's chain. Had he worn it often? Did it mean something to him?
She shook her head and fastened it around her neck with only a minimal amount of fumbling. It hung in the dip of her throat between her collar bones. She looked down at it, feeling majorly conflicted about wearing it at all.
Her father was one thing – one person – that she had absolutely no idea what to make heads or tails of. Her mother spoke not a word about the man; she'd been left to deduce that he didn't know he had a kid, was dead, or – the scenario that sent thrums of hatred through her veins – he'd done a runner when she was born.
Dead was probably the best of those three things.
She knew, since her mother's father was so vocal about it whenever he launched into one of his long anecdotes, that she was a pureblood – therefore her father must've been a wizard. She hoped her father hadn't been like Grandfather, with his deprecating opinions and comments toward muggleborns.
She sighed and picked through the rest of her presents. From Grandfather, purple silk pajamas and an empty, leather-bound journal. From Griffiths himself, a chess set. From Tizzy, a tin canister of butter cookies and a bright green knit cap with flaps and tassels – it was obviously handmade. Or rather, elf-made.
After a quick trip to the bathroom, she ran a brush through her hair and tugged on the knit cap, then changed into her silk pajamas. Christmas was a time for pajamas, after all. She remembered that much from the brief normality of her early years. With a grin at the sheer silliness of her outfit, she grabbed her cookie canister and hightailed it out of the virtually empty dormitory.
She walked right up to the fire and sat down, noting the three Gryffindors on the chairs behind her. Potter had gotten a new broom – a Firebolt, by the look of it. Both he and his redheaded friend were busy gibbering over it in awe, the latter shooting the occasional nasty glare at their female friend. Granger sat a little ways away, looking resentful, and more than a little angry.
She swallowed and sighed. It was Christmas. If she wasn't nice this time of year, then she wouldn't ever be.
"Hey," she called to Granger, getting up and strolling toward her. The know-it-all looked up. "Butter cookie?"
She shook the tin and held it out. Granger looked wary.
"Is it sugar free?"
Remy rolled her eyes. "You going to take one or not?"
Granger tentatively took a cookie and nibbled at it. Her eyes widened as she took in the taste and took a larger bite. Remy nodded and sat down in the chair next to her, stuffing a cookie in her mouth and tugging on the left tassel of her knit cap absently.
"What's your problem?" Remy asked briskly. The bushy-haired girl looked affronted.
"Problem? What makes you think I've got a problem?" She was obviously trying hard not to hiss. Remy had offered her a cookie, after all.
"Forgive me for being perceptive, Granger," Remy rolled her eyes, throwing back another cookie.
The girl was silent for a beat, before she said, "Hermione."
"What?"
"You can call me Hermione."
"Oh." Remy shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat. "Then, you can call me Remy, then, I s'pose."
"Well, then, Remy… it's nothing, really. I – they just – they never listen to me when it counts." Hermione sniffed and began fiddling with a tendril of curly hair.
Remy frowned. "And why not? I'd say you're pretty smart."
Hermione pinked a bit. "Thank you."
Remy turned to her with a hard stare. "It's a fact, not a compliment."
She bit her lip. "Oh. Well, I don't know. They're too busy fawning over that stupid broom to realize that its origins are more than suspicious."
"How d'you mean?"
Hermione looked away. "No card. The sender was anonymous." She turned to Remy with eyes that pleaded for agreement. "Does that not seem strange to you? With what's going on?"
"It is pretty strange," Remy shrugged, putting her feet up on the ottoman. "But you can be sure they'll be beside themselves if you tell."
"But it's the right thing to do," Hermione seemed to say more to herself than Remy. "I have to do it. Even if they'll hate me."
"Hate is a strong word," Remy wrinkled her nose. "You've been friends for… how long?"
"Almost three years," said Hermione.
"I don't know about them, but I'd find it pretty hard to hate someone after being mates for three years."
Hermione bit her lip and folded her legs up to her chest. Remy sighed.
"Look, Hermione. If the stakes were any less than potential danger, I would tell you to nip it and quit whining." She took a deep breath. "If they hate you, so what? At least they won't be six feet under, y'know?"
Hermione stared at her, and then turned toward the fire. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right."
"I'm always right," Remy mock-boasted. Hermione gave a small smile and shook her head.
…...
At lunchtime they went down to the Great Hall, to find that the House tables had been moved against the walls again, and that a single table, set for twelve, stood in the middle of the room. Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, Sprout, and Flitwick were there, along with Filch, the caretaker, who had taken off his usual brown coat and was wearing a very old and rather moldy- looking tailcoat. There were only four other students; two extremely nervous-looking first years, a sullen-faced Slytherin fifth year…
And, of course, Remy De Luca.
Remy had walked down with Hermione behind them. They had bantered back and forth about who knows what, and it both intrigued and irritated Harry. Since when were they suddenly thick as thieves?
"Merry Christmas!" said Dumbledore as Harry, Ron, Hermione and Remy approached the table. "As there are so few of us, it seemed foolish to use the House tables... sit down, sit down!"
The four of them sat down, side by side. Remy was all the way at the end of their succession, next to Hermione.
"Crackers!" said Dumbledore enthusiastically, offering the end of a large silver noisemaker to Snape, who took it reluctantly and tugged. With a bang like a gunshot, the cracker flew apart to reveal a large, pointed witch's hat topped with a stuffed vulture. Harry, remembering the boggart, caught Ron's eye and they both grinned; Snape's mouth thinned and he pushed the hat toward Dumbledore, who swapped it for his wizard's hat at once.
"Dig in!" he advised the table, beaming around.
As Harry was helping himself to roast potatoes, the doors of the Great Hall opened again. It was Professor Trelawney, gliding toward them as though on wheels. She had put on a green sequined dress in honor of the occasion, making her look more than ever like a glittering, oversized dragonfly.
"Sibyll, this is a pleasant surprise!" said Dumbledore, standing up.
"I have been crystal gazing, Headmaster," said Professor Trelawney in her mistiest, most faraway voice, "And to my astonishment, I saw myself abandoning my solitary luncheon and coming to join you. Who am I to refuse the promptings of fate? I at once hastened from my tower, and I do beg you to forgive my lateness..."
"Certainly, certainly," said Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling. "Let me draw you up a chair -"
And he did indeed draw a chair in midair with his wand, which revolved for a few seconds before falling with a thud between Professors Snape and McGonagall. Professor Trelawney, however, did not sit down; her enormous eyes had been roving around the table, and she suddenly uttered a kind of soft scream.
"I dare not, Headmaster! If I join the table, we shall be thirteen! Nothing could be more unlucky! Never forget that when thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die!"
Harry heard Remy murmur, "Yeah… and the first one to burp will spontaneously combust."
It seemed everyone at the table heard it. The first years were stifling their giggles. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled madly, like they always did. The Divination professor glanced in Remy's general direction but said nothing.
"We'll risk it, Sibyll," said Professor McGonagall impatiently, her lips twitching. "Do sit down, the turkey is getting stone cold."
Professor Trelawney hesitated, then lowered herself into the empty chair, eyes shut and mouth clenched tight, as though expecting a thunderbolt to hit the table. Professor McGonagall poked a large spoon into the nearest tureen.
"Tripe, Sibyll?"
Professor Trelawney ignored her. Eyes open again, she looked around once more and said, "But where is dear Professor Lupin?"
"I'm afraid the poor fellow is ill again," said Dumbledore, indicating that everybody should start serving themselves. "Most unfortunate that it should happen on Christmas Day."
"But surely you already knew that, Sibyll?" said Professor McGonagall, her eyebrows raised.
"Burn," Remy muttered. Harry bit back his grin and saw Ron do the same. The other students, including the Slytherin, were obviously finding Remy's quiet comments amusing. Hermione was trying and miserably failing at looking mortified.
Professor Trelawney, who didn't seem to have heard Remy, fixed Professor McGonagall with a cold stare.
"Certainly I knew, Minerva, she said quietly, "But one does not parade the fact that one is All-Knowing. I frequently act as though I am not possessed of the Inner Eye, so as not to make others nervous.
"That explains a great deal," said Professor McGonagall tartly.
Professor Trelawney's voice suddenly became a good deal less misty.
"If you must know, Minerva, I have seen that poor Professor Lupin will not be with us for very long. He seems aware, himself, that his time is short. He positively fled when I offered to crystal gaze for him – "
"Imagine that," said Professor McGonagall, dryly.
Professor Dumbledore interrupted their conversation – which was them saying words at each other more than anything – and asked Snape whether he had brewed the potion for Lupin. Harry was immediately concerned, but decided not to jump up at the table and demand to know why they were allowing Snape the opportunity to poison their DADA professor.
Professor Trelawney was almost normal until the very end of the dinner, when Harry and Ron got up from the table. She demanded to know which one of them stood first.
"I dunno," Ron shrugged.
McGonagall was adamant that it didn't matter, unless a mad axe-man was waiting outside of the doors to the Great Hall. Professor Trelawney looked highly affronted.
"You coming?" Harry asked Hermione.
She turned to Remy, briefly, before muttering, "No, I want to have a quick word with Professor McGonagall."
"Probably trying to see if she can take more classes," Ron yawned as they strolled into the Entrance Hall, which was gratefully devoid of mad axe-men.
When they reached the Gryffindor common room, Sir Cadogan was partying with a couple of monks, several previous headmasters of Hogwarts, and his fat pony.
"Merry – hic – Christmas! Password?"
"Scurvy cur," said Ron.
"And the same to you, sir!" roared Sir Cadogan, swinging open and allowing them entrance.
Harry went straight up to the dormitory, grabbing his Firebolt and his broom servicing kit before racing back downstairs. There was absolutely nothing to do with it; there were no bent twigs and the handle was as shiny as the day it had arrived. He and Ron simply sat and admired it from every angle until Remy De and Hermione walked into the common room, accompanied by Professor McGonagall.
Remy sank into a chair and threw her feet up onto the foot rest, folding her hands over her stomach. Hermione sat on the couch and grabbed the nearest book, cracking it open and hiding behind it.
"So that's it, is it?" Professor McGonagall walked over to them and staring at his Firebolt. "Miss Granger has just informed me that you've been sent a broomstick, Mr. Potter."
Harry and Ron turned toward Hermione, who reddened and raised the upside-down book higher to hide her face.
"May I?" Professor McGonagall didn't wait for an answer before pulling it from his hands. Harry immediately felt the loss of his most prized possession. The professor examined it from twigs to end. "Hm. And there was no note of any kind, Potter? No message? No card?"
"No," said Harry blankly. He tried burning a hole in Hermione's book with his eyes.
"I see…" said Professor McGonagall. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to confiscate this."
"W – what?" Harry cried out, shooting up to his feet. "Why?!"
He barely registered her saying something about Hooch and Flitwick stripping it down through his anger.
"There's nothing wrong with it!" he said loudly to try to disguise the shaking in his voice. "Honestly, Professor – "
"You can't know that, Potter," said Professor McGonagall, quite kindly, "Not until you've flown it, at any rate, and I'm afraid that is out of the question until we are certain that it has not been tampered with. I shall keep you informed."
Professor McGonagall turned on her heel and carried the Firebolt out of the portrait hole, which closed behind her. Harry stood staring after her, the tin of High-Finish Polish still clutched in his hands. Ron, however, rounded on Hermione.
"What did you go running to McGonagall for?"
Hermione threw her book aside. She was still pink in the face, but stood up and faced Ron defiantly.
"Because I thought – and Professor McGonagall agrees with me – that that broom was probably sent to Harry by Sirius Black!"
Ron bawked. "That's ridiculous! How could Sirius Black waltz right into Quality Quidditch Supplies and just buy one? Don't you think that would've been in the papers?"
Remy De Luca scoffed from her chair. Harry turned to her, scowling. He didn't like yelling at Hermione, but this girl seemed to be consciously trying to irritate the hell out of him.
"What's your problem?" he demanded heatedly.
Remy shrugged, fixing him with a hard stare. "I'm just here for support."
Harry didn't say anything to that. He simply grabbed his broom servicing kit and stormed up the stairs to the dormitory. He knew exactly what the unsaid words were in that one statement; that he and Ron were being so unreasonable that Hermione needed support to face them with her decision.
He didn't care. He just wanted his broom back.
…...
Classes started shortly after New Year.
Even though the Care of Magical Creatures lesson was probably one of the better ones that year, Remy could hardly enjoy it when her extremities were in danger of freezing and falling off from the weather. The cold did, however, give her a reason to wear her bright green hat everywhere.
She sang while gathering firewood off the ground in the forest for the salamanders. "Tip-toe through the window, by the window – that is where I'll be… come tip-toe through the tulips with me…"
She straightened to start back toward where Hagrid had set up the fire. When she turned around, Harry Potter was staring at her from where he stood, dry twigs cradled in the crooks of his arms. She was momentarily unfazed, until the reality of the fact that he'd heard her sing set in.
Her cheeks burned and prickled. She brushed past him roughly to get back to the lesson, praying to Merlin that he blamed her reddening on the January chill.
...
When Remy walked into Ancient Runes, she immediately noticed a couple of things.
One, her usual desk buddy – Terry Boot – was sitting with Michael Corner. She tried burning holes into the back of Terry's head. It must've worked to some extent, because Terry sensed someone watching him, turned around and visibly shrank in the heat of her glare.
Two, Hermione was upset. How did she know? The noticeable sag in the girl's shoulders and the fact that her hands, instead of being used to hurriedly jot down who knew what before the lesson had even started, were propping up her chin as she stared at the far wall.
Nobody sat next to Hermione Granger, ever. Not in this class. Nobody wanted to be outshone.
Remy could admit that she had been one of those petty enough to think it. Spending most of Christmas break hanging around with her, however, had changed things. Hermione was just a girl; a girl with heaps and tons of knowledge stored in that ginormous brain and a thirst to prove herself among her peers. Remy couldn't blame her for that.
…Hermione could afford to be less of a show-off, though.
"Hey," Remy greeted and sat down next to her. Hermione jumped and turned. Her angst-ridden expression cleared in surprise.
"Oh, hello," Hermione blinked.
They sat in tense silence for a few moments, and then Remy huffed a sigh of exasperation.
"We were chatting like we've known each other for years just last week," Remy told her, confused herself. "Why is it about this bloody classroom that creates awkward atmospheres?"
Hermione giggled. "I don't know. I like to think it's the Runes."
Remy nodded. "Reasonable theory, reasonable theory…"
The ice was successfully broken, and they babbled amicably about different things – books being a large topic. Remy read, mostly, a lot of fiction, so they stuck to that. It was comfortable. Remy was almost irritated with Professor Babbling when she ordered silence in the classroom and commenced the lesson.
They made a formidable team in the translation they were doing that day; Hermione had memorized the entire Runic alphabet, but Remy was better at making out the meaning of an entire section before they had finished deciphering it. They were done before anybody else and received top marks from Professor Babbling at the end of the lesson.
…...
It was Defense Against that Harry was eager to get to. His discussion about the dementors affecting his playing made him keen to get started on his Patronus lessons with Professor Lupin. Harry reminded the man after class, to which the professor provided a time and place; eight o'clock on Thursday evening, History of Magic classroom.
Perfect.
"Still looks ill, doesn't he?" said Ron as they walked down the corridor, heading to dinner. "What d'you reckon's the matter with him?"
There was a loud and impatient "tuh" from behind them. It was Hermione, who had been sitting at the feet of a suit of armor, repacking her bag, which was so full of books it wouldn't close. The very bane of Harry's existence was sitting on the floor next to her with her satchel in her lap, handing Hermione the occasional tome. Harry narrowed his eyes at her.
"What're you tutting at us for?" Ron demanded irritably.
"Nothing," Hermione said loftily, standing and hefting her heavy bag over her shoulder. Remy stood with her, dusting off the back of her skirt and leaning up against the wall with her arms crossed coolly.
"Yes, you were," said Ron. "I said I wonder what's wrong with Lupin, and you -"
"Well, isn't it obvious?" said Hermione, with a look of maddening superiority.
"If you don't want to tell us, don't," snapped Ron.
"Fine," said Hermione haughtily, and she marched off.
"She doesn't know," said Ron, staring resentfully after Hermione. "She's just trying to get us to talk to her again."
"I somehow doubt that," said Remy, pushing herself off of the wall next to the suit of armor. "Maybe she really did have something important to say." She looked at them with an expression of deep reproach. "Hermione's way more patient than I am – if I were her, I would have thrown both of you off of the astronomy tower by now."
And she turned on her heel and followed after Hermione, who she was, apparently, now friends with.
He didn't think he'd met anyone quite like Remy De Luca.