Disclaimer: Not only do I not own Harry Potter (or Co.), but I'm emotionally vulnerable at the moment, which makes me doubly not-liable.
(For those of us who don't handle change (leaving/goodbyes/emotions) well.)
All the Pretty Ways We Shatter
She gets snappish and bitter and angry when she's scared. Or nostalgic. Or sentimental.
Or when she has to say goodbye and doesn't know how.
He knows this now, but it still surprised him that first time, when they were standing in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place with Sirius and Charlie Weasley, waiting for a call to battle that they knew was coming and Harry and Ron were elsewhere and she was nervous and after seven minutes of his concern (though, as Sirius later pointed out, his anxious "coddling" was directed entirely at her, and that couldn't have been terribly fun), she began fuming and her ire was directed solely at him.
She's been angry with him several times since that first incident. He's almost accustomed to it now; he knows how she reacts.
Still, he never quite gets used to one of his ex-students telling him to Fuck off, Remus; she can take care of herself!
He knows she can take care of herself; there are only a few people, to his understanding, that are more capable of taking care of themselves than she is, and both of them practically defeat Dark wizards for a living. Still, he's always been the type that worries, especially when there's the potential for someone to get hurt (nevercomebacknogoodbyesdie). Even ages ago, before darkness turned all their dreams sour (when four brothers still existed united against TheRestofTheWorld), he approached every full moon as a potential end, offering pre-emptive goodbyes and apologies and thanks.
They fondly mocked him about it then, but he's never really kicked the habit, and she doesn't thank him for it.
Sirius thinks it's hysterical, and goads her every opportunity he gets. Every raid, every potential skirmish, every battle or call for help or pre-emptive strike, he fusses over her like a mother hen, cackling maniacally in laughter when she explodes and tells him, in no uncertain terms, exactly what he can do with all his focused fussing. He knows precisely which buttons to push with her, and push them he does, because it's the only time she ever swears, and he never fails to giggle delightedly at the unexpected, shocking picture she paints with curses and threats falling from her lips (it makes it easier for him to face his fears). Their encounters generally end with him attempting to embrace her tightly and getting himself either hexed across the room or tossed a rude hand gesture (or any combination thereof).
Fred and George (who tend to agree with Sirius about most things anyway) also find it laughable, and poke, prod, and prompt her practically into conniptions every chance they get, entertained by the creativity and variety of her cursing (she has an extensive vocabulary, and the twins are easily amused). They keep a journal of all her best efforts and bring them up, at obscure times when she's sane and calm and blushes heavily at the reminders of her fits.
Harry just smiles fondly and informs her, as he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, that she's brilliant and wonderful and just like the sister he always wanted and he doesn't know what he'd do without her (that makes her particularly angry, and Harry knows it, too, so he generally winks and grins and affectionately yanks on one of her curls and departs, making a run for it before she starts yelling).
Ron usually shakes his head and rolls his eyes and grabs her in a quick hug, arms tight around her smaller ones so that she can't hex him or hit him or shove him off, before setting her back down and slouching against the wall, hands in his pockets, silently absorbing her onslaught with the air of one who has experienced it several times before and easily ignores it.
Ginny just huffs and spills her feelings anyway, informing her that she loves her and she's her best friend and she's obviously been spending way too much time around Snape, who swoops in every now and then to relay information and gather knowledge from the shelves of the enormous library, and always uses her as a research assistant.
She's always near Charlie before they're called out for action, he notices; has been ever since the redhead returned from Romania to take his elder brother's place, saying, with a grin, that Bill had Fleur to think about now, while all he's got are giant lizards who try to eat him half the time, anyway. He thinks that it's mainly because Charlie is optimistic and rather quiet and always has a spare chuckle or grin or quip. He doesn't badger her with what-ifs and they've never been close enough to form the type of bond that allows for familiarity and affection and would leave gaping, aching holes in her heart if something happened to him.
…Because he knows that's why she gets so angry; why she acts the way she does. Why when the rest of them are making amends and saying farewell and coming to peace, she doesn't bother with what she calls needless goodbyes.
She can't bring herself to admit (because that's what the goodbyes are: little admissions) to the possibility of those farewells being needed one day (perhaps far sooner than they'd like).
She feels more deeply, more acutely, than she lets on, but if she lets it show (lets herself feel and wallow and remember and ache, lets herself realize what could happen), she'd never be able to do everything she needs to (focussprintdefendprotectsurvive) because her kind, caring heart would steal all her strength as it bled itself out worrying about the rest of them.
She's prickly so that nothing can reach her. Offense is the best defense, and all that. Or rather, it's not (he knows it's not), but it's the only answer she has to protect herself with, and he knows, creature of passion that she is; of curiosity and yearning and needing-to-know and eternal wonder (he still sees her as she was in third year: bright eyes, eager mind, constant questions), that she hateshateshates not having the answers (it makes her feel vulnerable, and that's the one thing she despises more than failure).
So mostly he ignores her raging when she flies into a snit at his easy display of emotions, and says goodbyes enough for the two of them. He takes in her sharp barbs and crabby retorts just as easily as he did her delighted suggestions and ready answers and But Professor, what about…?s, and snickers quietly when he hears Sirius cackling as she grumpily tells Fred just where she's going to stick his wand if he tries to cast one more Cheering Charm over her.
And he smiles grimly, stands just a little straighter, breathes just a little easier (just a little more battle-ready) when the call comes and she moves closer, just for a moment, to silently, gently squeeze his hand before they Apparate away and leave nothing but an empty kitchen and a stagnant silence and a handful of well-steeped what-ifs behind.
I'm moving across the country tomorrow. On my own. To a place I've spent a mere two days in.
I don't handle emotions well on a normal basis (understatement), so under stress I tend to become a wee bit more prickly than usual (just shy of "shrewish"). It might even be said (is an established fact) that I snap at anyone (anything) that makes me feel sentimental and nostalgic and weepy. And I figured, I can't be the only person to react to tears this way.
So now I'm not. (Hush, you; fictional characters still count.)