"You don't know what you're doing. Please…I'll give you anything..." The proud Rufus Scrimgeour, his yellow eyes bulging with terror, was pleading for his life.
"Oh, silly Minister." A woman's voice cackled, sickly sweet. Her figure was obscured by the shadows cast by the new moon. "Ickle baby doesn't want to play? Does he think the big bad Death Eaters are going to kill him?"
A realization crossed the Minister's bruised and battered face.
"Crucio!"
A blood curdling scream.
Awake.
Hermione's eyes flew open, her mouth agape in a silent scream, her body drenched in cold sweat. Her bones seemed to burn beneath her very skin and there was a resounding ringing in her ears that pounded her head like a sledgehammer. The hard, stone floors of Azkaban did nothing to ease her pain.
The dreams, visions, whatever they were, were getting more painful and more frequent. She was scared to sleep, but it was the only thing that took her away, kept her…sane.
Hermione gasped and pressed herself closer to the stones as a dementor glided past, leaving a rush of icy, melancholy air in its wake. She would've cried but it seemed there were no tears left. A pitiful hiccup was all she managed before curling up in the fetal position and closing her eyes once more.
None of this would've happened if she'd just kept her mouth shut. She'd gotten that great job at the ministry, in the Goblin Liaison Office. It wasn't exactly house elves, but she'd taken what she could get. It was the perfect job to be an in for the Order. But…then, she started seeing…things that shouldn't be there. Hallucinations, visions, something… She'd tried to warn them (the Ministry), of what she'd…seen (or not seen), and they'd thrown it back in her face. Apparently, Azkaban was no longer a place for murderers, vagrants, criminals. Instead it was now a place for those who spoke out against the ministry. Treason they'd called it, an insane, disgusting display of disloyalty.
No trial of course, the whole thing swept invariably under the rug. Can't yell fire in a crowded room.
It was her fifth day in Azkaban, at least it might be. Any sense of time had flown well out the window after her first night. The agonizing cries, the screams. It was enough to make anyone go insane.
There were more of them coming. Hermione felt it and braced herself, her own breath catching in her parched throat. But the icy, disparaging wind did not come, and she breathed a sigh of relief, staring warily through the bars of her tiny cell. And then, she saw it, a shining, silver beacon of hope…a Patronus. A whirlwind of questions popped into her mind. Who did it belong to? Why was it there? Did it mean rescue?
At first, she thought it might've been a trick of the light. But then, she remembered there was no light in Azkaban. Her heart raced as her eyes eagerly followed the silvery, ethereal being as it soared through the damp, dusty corridor, and came to rest…right in front of her cell.
It was a phoenix. She felt an inexplicably glorious sense of relief, as she knew that its presence could only mean one thing: she was saved.
"Remus, Kingsley, Nympadora come…I have found Miss Granger." A calm, kindly voice echoed from down the hall.
"Oi, Professor. Not to be rude, but please don't call me Nympha—" Tonks was interrupted by several voices hissing at her to be quiet.
Hermione nearly smiled, but, as that was the last coherent thought before unconsciousness took her, she did not get the chance.
When Hermione finally came round, she did not open her eyes, hoping to squeeze the last bit of happiness from the very pleasant dream she'd had. It had been a good one…she'd been rescued. Dumbledore had been there, and Remus and Tonks too. She noticed she was shivering, and the air around her was bitter cold. She did not want to see how many dementors towered over her cell, knowing that her happy dream had probably attracted them like flies to honey. Opening her eyes rather cautiously, she expected to see the grey cobblestone of the prison, only to find that instead, her eyes came to rest on the soft, grey cotton of a t-shirt.
"Hello, Hermione." A low, gravelly voice sounded from somewhere above her head. She looked up to identify it and found a pair of piercing grey eyes staring kindly back at her. The face in which they belonged was very handsome, albeit lined with several scars and few new cuts. His hair was chocolate brown, though liberally streaked with gray. It hung roguishly around his chin, whipping haphazardly around his face because of the wind. Slightly disoriented, Hermione didn't seem to notice how odd it was that there was wind inside the prison
It was Remus. Her stomach gave a pleasurable squirm of relief and something else she was too tired to place. Hermione also realized, rather embarrassingly so, that her arms were wound rather tightly around his torso. She immediately loosened her grip, flushing.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Remus. Hermione was about to ask why, but found that she was unable to speak. She opened her mouth again somewhat stupidly, half expecting words to tumble out by themselves. To her chagrin, they did not.
"Wotcher, Hermione!" A cheery voice cried from somewhere on her right. She turned to see a beaming Tonks, her hair a shocking shade of cerulean, waving back at her. Only, Tonks was perched atop what looked like a skeletal horse, its blank white eyes shining in the dark.
Thestral.
They were riding Thestrals. Horrorstruck, Hermione looked down to confirm her suspicions. Sure enough, great, bat-like leathery wings were stretched out on either side of her, like the wings of an airplane. So that meant…she looked down to see an immensely dark, fierce looking ocean rolling beneath her.
She let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper, burying her head into Remus's chest, her hands gripping his sides like a vice.
"And, I would have advised you not to look down, but I can see it's a bit late for that." Remus said, chuckling. "Not to worry though, love. We'll be at headquarters soon enough. Molly will have a field day, I expect…"
Hermione only half-heard him. She winced as familiar pins-and-needles sensations began to travel up her spine. She tried to make a sound to warn Remus, or anyone for that matter, but the lump building in her throat left her mute. Remus however, noticed her stiffness and she felt his hand brace her back protectively.
"Hermione, what's wro—" Remus trailed off abruptly as Hermione's neck snapped back unceremoniously, her eyes rolling back into her head, becoming a cloudy, milky white. She shook violently, her mouth contorted in pain. She felt a stinging slash like a knife through her brain, ripping a hole in her mind, allowing new images to trickle through.
Each one hit her like a kick to the side. Her whole body burned, and she could hear shouting around her, unsure of whether or not it was coming from her own mouth or the others. Hermione felt herself desperately trying to cling to Remus, who was acutely aware that she was about to fall to her death. Remus, his eyes wide with shock, crushed her to his chest, trying frantically to contain her seizing form.
Someone shouted again. It might've been Tonks. But Hermione became blithely unaware, as unconsciousness took her for the second time that night.
/
She awoke with a start, rising to rub the sleep from her eyes, finding herself in a large, lumpy (yet comfortable) bed. Her head ached and her limbs were sore, but the softness of the bed definitely helped.
"Oh, Hermione dear, you're awake," said Mrs. Weasley, clearly ecstatic. Hermione had no idea how the woman had appeared in front of her so fast, but she nodded, all the same.
"Look at this room, we can hardly get around. Ron and Harry brought you all of these," Molly motioned towards various pots of enormous, odd-smelling flowers that decorated nearly every surface of the room. "And Fred and George sent you these, I believe…" Hermione saw her point to several tiny mountains of sweets that had been squeezed in the spaces where no flowers could fit.
Mrs. Weasley gave her the biggest smile she'd ever seen. "Oh, everyone will be so pleased that you're awake. I'll just go get your lunch, dear. Harry and Ron of course will want to see you." She left the room in a hurry, leaving Hermione thankfully alone.
The thought of having to hold a conversation, act completely normal and answer what were sure to be questions she would want to avoid made her nauseated. She eyed the door hopefully, wishing she could escape. But her growling stomach and Mrs. Weasley's promise of returning forced her to stay.
And return she did, with a tray of what looked like a four course meal…composed almost entirely of various forms of chocolate. Her eyes widened as Mrs. Weasley laid the tray on her lap.
"Yes, dear, I know it seems like quite a lot, but it's the doctor's orders I'm afraid. Oh, you poor dear. All of those…those…" said Molly fretfully, fluffing pillows fretfully. Hermione's stomach lurched at the thought, but before Molly could continue, the door flew open, revealing two tall, gangly boys.
"Aw, Mum. Let her alone…" Ron panted, clearly out of breath. Apparently he and Harry and raced up the stairs as soon as Mrs. Weasley had told them the news. Molly sniffed disapprovingly before taking that as her cue to leave. She cast a last withering stare at Ron, a warm smile at Harry, and an anxious, motherly glance at Hermione before shutting the door behind her.
"Finally, jeez. The woman is mad." Ron shook his head, suddenly very aware of all the food on Hermione's tray. "…you going to eat any of that?" Hermione, stunned, shook her head and pushed her tray towards him. Ron didn't waste any time delving into a giant slice of chocolate cake.
Harry, who'd been oddly silent, stared at him, clearly appalled. "Ron…you do know that you're disgusting, right?"
Ron's eyes widened his mouth full of cake, before replying stupidly. "Harrydondodatlooklikemymum." He swallowed before muttering something about being hungry and then fell silent.
Hermione had hoped they might become so distracted they would forget about her, but that was not the case. Harry grasped her hand worriedly and it took all of Hermione's self-control not to flinch. She knew she was being stupid, but for some reason, the last thing she wanted to do right now is talk or touch or do anything. She just wanted to be left alone.
"How are you?" Harry asked, his dark green eyes searching her face. Hermione shrugged and looked away, pulling her hand from his own. A flash of hurt crossed his features, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
"Mum said you could've died…" Ron added. "We've never seen everyone in the Order so upset. We thought Lupin was going to snap. He wasn't a fun bloke to be around, that's for sure."
Hermione's stomach flopped, and she could feel a flush across her cheeks. Ron continued, clearly not noticing her reaction. "Dumbledore was furious, and I thought Mum was going to kill someone if they didn't get you soon…"
Harry interjected bitterly. "It's all that fucking Ministry's fault, I can't believe Scrimgeour did that…the bastard."
"Git," Ron added furiously. "What'd they even want you for anyway? Hermione's like…an employer's wet dream. Dad's said the whole Ministry's gone to the dogs. That's why Harry and I are training with Dumbledore instead… Why the hell would they throw you in Azkaban?"
Hermione looked positively overwhelmed, but the two were so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't seem to notice.
"Tonks, she said you'd gone all funny on the fly home, nearly fell off your thestral. Lupin caught you just in time. He and Shacklebolt wouldn't say anything though...guess Dumbledore wants to keep it quiet until they know..."
"But you'll tell us, won't you, 'mione?" Ron asked eagerly, finally looking up at her.
Hermione didn't respond. She glanced between Harry and Ron, clearly panicked. "I-I-"She wasn't able to finish. Her eyes were welling up with tears and she was shaking.
"Her-Hermione?" Ron and Harry looked at her, terrified, clearly at a loss of what to do. The sound of deep, body-wracking sobs filled the room. Hermione didn't look up, hiding her face miserably in her hands.
"RONALD BILLIUS WEASLEY WHAT IN MERLIN'S BEARD DID YOU SAY TO THAT GIRL?!" Mrs. Weasley burst through the door, an expression of pure fury gracing her normally kind features.
The boys looked absolutely horrified.
"OUT! BOTH OF YOU, OUT NOW!" Molly grabbed both of them by the ear and dragged them forcibly from the room. She stopped at the doorway before turning to Hermione. "You just rest, dear. Dinner will be ready in a few hours and you can see everyone then," she added sweetly. She slammed the door behind her, leaving Hermione alone, again, much to her relief.
Sniffling, Hermione fell into a fitful sleep.
Dinner that night was a dismal affair, at least in Hermione's opinion. Everyone else was positively jubilant. Fred and George couldn't stop hugging her (which not only made her nervous and uncomfortable, it also made it difficult to breathe) and Ron, Ginny, and Tonks kept trying to ask her questions. It was at this moment she was quite thankful for Molly's overprotective nature—Mrs. Weasley answered questions curtly before promptly changing the subject. Remus, she noted was conspicuously absent.
Hermione barely spoke the entire meal. It irked her how everyone was so eager to talk about her that they didn't seem to notice how quiet she remained. Once everyone had moved to the sitting room, they continued to ask her questions. Unable to take it any longer, she got up abruptly and left the room. Molly looked at her pitifully as she went, which only increased Hermione's discomfort.
She headed for the library; it was a place she knew would be vacant. Once there, she shut the door (a bit louder than necessary) and slid to the floor with a heavy sigh. Her heart was pounding and she was shaking again. Being around all those people…they were so happy and normal…her thoughts were interrupted at the sound of a raspy voice.
"Are you all right, Hermione?" Remus asked. There was a book open on his lap, and what looked like the last bit of a cigarette between his fingers. Hermione's breath hitched in her throat and she glanced about nervously, her fingers grazing the doorknob as if she was debating whether or not to leave.
"No, don't leave on my account," he said gently, closing the book in his lap with a soft thud. Flicking ash from his cigarette, he took a final drag before extinguishing it on an ashtray that Hermione had never noticed before. "I'll leave you alone, if you'd like."
Hermione stood, dumbstruck. To her, it looked like his eyes were smoldering just like the cigarette he'd held mere seconds before. Finally she shook her head, moving away from the door and heading listlessly towards the rows and rows of bookshelves that filled the room.
She knew what she wanted to research; she just had to find the right book. Her eyes followed Remus from across the room. He hadn't even mentioned what had happened to her, and for that she was grateful, but it also made her strangely curious. Remus was the first one that hadn't tried to make her talk; who hadn't asked her what had transpired in Azkaban or...afterwards. He just sat there, occasionally glancing up from his book to take a drag off of another cigarette he'd lit and glimpse unobtrusively in her direction.
Being around all the books calmed her. Finally, her eyes came to rest on a dusty volume four shelves above her, well above her reach. It was called, The Sight: A Seer's Peril by Cassandra Trelawney. Hermione stood on her tiptoes, groping blindly for the book, but to no avail; it was too high up for her slight frame.
She was so concentrated on her plight that she didn't seem to notice Remus step quietly towards her until he was right behind her, his arm snaking over her shoulder to grab the book that was out of her grasp. Hermione gasped as she felt the soft wool of his sweater brush against her cheek.
"I think this is what you're looking for." Remus murmured, the heat of his breath causing gooseflesh to form on the back of her pale, slim neck. She stiffened noticeably, but turned to face him, gazing curiously into his eyes. He smelled like cigarettes and something she finally identified as sandalwood. It was strong, but not at all unpleasant.
She finally nodded after what seemed like an eternity. He smiled warmly, something that sent a shiver shooting up her spine. For a second she thought it might be…a...vision…thing and she braced herself, white-knuckling the bookshelf behind her with intense determination. Remus appeared not to notice and returned to his chair by the fireplace as quickly as he had first appeared.
Hermione breathed a quiet sigh of relief, before curling up in the nearest sofa and beginning to read.
Finally, a few hours later, after the two had sat in companionable silence, Hermione finally shut her book with an audible snap. It shook Remus, who'd grown accustom to the quiet. He stared at her with mild interest.
She looked small, her skin ghostly pale in the light of the waxing moon. "Remus," she whispered her voice hoarse from lack of use. "What do you know about seers?"
Remus said nothing for a moment, eyeing her quizzically. "Not much. I was never any good with that sort of thing, you know. Divination…always thought it was a load of rubbish, personally."
The irony of the statement was not lost on her. She squirmed a little under his watchful gaze
"Do—do you think that there are—are real seers out there?"
Remus grinned. "Well, if there are, you can be sure that Sybill Trelawney isn't one of them. However—may I?—" At this point, Remus reached for the book that she'd laid on her lap, his fingertips just barely grazing her leg. She stiffened, noting the brief, puzzled look gracing Remus's features before it disappeared as if he hadn't seen anything at all. He opened the book, flipping through the pages lazily. "But her ancestor, Cassandra, was one of the most celebrated seers in all of Wizarding History. She predicted the fall of the Roman Empire, the assassination of Julius Caesar. Nearly all of her prophesies came true."
Hermione nodded. The book hadn't really been very helpful. A lot of flowery language, tea leaves. Predictions wrought with paranoia. It'd said nothing about the actual predicting—the dreams, the visions. The pain.
"Remus…do you know what happened to her?" That. That had been another thing she couldn't find.
"Yes." He offered quietly. "She predicted her own death and was murdered eight days later."
Hermione felt her stomach drop down to her toes. Would she end up like that? Seeing other's deaths, before finally her own? The sheer horror of the thought made her skin crawl. Scrimgeour, yes, she'd seen what happened to him. They still hadn't been able to find any trace of him. He disappeared after that day—after she'd seen him…being…
Oh, it was just too horrible.
"I'm—I'm sorry. I have to…" Hermione shook her head and got up out of the chair. Remus got up as well, moving forward as if trying to catch her. But she didn't look back, her hand already on the doorknob. He didn't stop her. And soon the only sound her heard was the door clicking back into place.
She was gone.
/
"Jesus." Remus spoke to the empty room, breathing out as if he'd been holding it the entire time. The book had clattered to the floor when he stood, and now, he reached down and picked it up, examining it closely, and tracing the gold leaf on the cover with his fingertips.
"What are you hiding?" He murmured to himself before tossing the book onto the couch. It hit the cushion with a rustle of pages and lay there, taunting him.
Only time would tell.
Days passed and Remus saw nothing of Hermione. No one at Grimmauld Place really did. There were traces of her, left in plain sight that could be noticed if you knew what to look for. An extra plate in the sink, a pile of books left in the library, a hairbrush on the bathroom counter.
But most of the time, it was as if she didn't even live there.
An emergency meeting was finally called. Remus had expected one—though he'd expected one a lot sooner.
The children (they couldn't really be called that, as they were past coming of age, but force of habit led Remus to refer to them as such) were noticeably absent. Hermione was too, but he hadn't thought that she'd be there anyway. If the subject was a certain person, it could almost always be said that they were never present.
Molly had placed the usual soundproofing charms on the kitchen, tailored now to combat nearly all Weasley Wizard Wheezes products. The amount of spell work required to do so was extensive, and much to Molly's (and most everyone else's) annoyance, took nearly an hour to accomplish.
By the time the meeting was underway, it was well past eleven o'clock. Mundungus was snoring rather profusely, and Tonks was asleep as well, resting her chin in her hand as if she'd decided to fall asleep as an afterthought. He was glad. She was always trying to engage him in some sort of conversation, and he liked to discourage her affections when possible. Why anyone would have affections for him were beyond his understanding.
Kingsley and Arthur were conversing in hushed voices. McGonagall was absent, as was Moody. Dumbledore had not arrived yet, though, as he was the one who had called the meeting, Remus expected he would be there.
The only one left to talk to was Snape, and although Remus tried his best to be friendly, he didn't have the patience to do so at the moment.
He found, much to his own frustration, that his thoughts wandered to Hermione. She was like a damned ghost. Pale, thin, a wisp of the former girl that she was. No longer bossy, talkative, charismatic, she was simply fading away into the walls. She was drowning and nobody seemed to want to pull her out of it.
And what had happened on the thestral—he certainly had no idea what to make of that. The expression on that delicate face of hers had been pure terror. The way she'd clung to him (later that night when he'd shed his shirt, there'd been little marks where her fingernails had dug into his skin). He winced, thinking how her body had convulsed and stiffened.
It'd been one of the most terrifying things he'd ever witnessed. She would've fallen to her death if he hadn't caught her. When they'd brought her into the house, Molly and Albus had promptly chased everyone from the room, exchanging worried glances and hushed words.
No one told them anything, and Remus remembered he'd been particularly on edge, snapping, regrettably, at poor Harry and Ron as they'd come thundering down the stairs to find out what had happened.
But everyone had been worried, he reasoned to himself. It hadn't just been him.
His inner monologue was interrupted with a sharp crack that filled the room, and the whirl of spangled robes.
Dumbledore.
After a few chaotic moments in which everyone woke up, moved chairs, exchange pleasantries, they were finally able to all sit quietly and attentively.
Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, stroking his long beard, his lined forehead crinkling with worry. Finally, after a few moments of silence (marked by several phlegmy coughs from Mundungus), he spoke.
"It appears…" He began quietly. "That our…dear…Rufus Scrimgeour…is dead."
Several gasps could be heard from around the table, and the hurried sound of chattering began in earnest. Dumbledore began to speak again, and the group quieted. "His body, it seems, was discovered on the front steps of the Ministry in broad daylight."
Nobody was really that upset about Scrimgeour's death. It was the mere boldness of the death eaters that made the whole thing rather…disturbing. Remus knew that this marked the beginning of what was only going to get worse.
"But what does this have to do with Hermione?" Tonks said rather impatiently. "It's why you called the meeting, innit?" Remus cracked his knuckles under the table, stone-faced.
Albus admonished her gently with a pointed look. "Our own Miss Granger predicted the exact conditions of his death. Five days before he had even disappeared."
Mundungus spoke, removing the cigar that had permanent residence between his lips. "Oy. You mean to say that she's one of them—seer thingys?"
Several people at the table sniffed disapprovingly in his direction.
Albus appeared not to notice. "At the moment, it is a strange but very likely possibility. Regardless of this, we can be sure that the death eaters, and perhaps even Voldemort…" There was a large commotion that followed the utterance of this name. This time, it was Dumbledore who sniffed disapprovingly, before continuing forcefully, "Voldemort has been alerted to this fact. There are many spies in the Ministry—I'm sure Nympha—I'm sorry, Tonks, Kingsely, and Arthur can attest to that. What we need to establish now is—"
Remus finally spoke. "She needs protection."
Albus nodded. "That is precisely why I called this meeting. Addition fortifications need to be established. Apparating too and from Grimmauld Place will now be forbidden. Minerva and I have been working on an untraceable portkey system that will be used from now on." Many a groan followed this announcement.
"It will be of the utmost importance that Miss Granger does not, under any circumstances, leave Grimmauld Place, or the Burrow, as it were, unattended. Several of you are to be going on a mission of utmost importance. We need to find out exactly how much that they know about Miss Granger. A legitimate Seer has not been seen in many a century. If the Dark Lord manages to—acquire Ms. Granger's services…I dread that our greatest fears might come to pass."
The next hour or so was filled with talks of logistics. Everyone, except Remus, it seemed, had been given a specific assignment. He wasn't surprised. The full moon was only a few days away, but right now he felt particularly annoyed by not being included. He was useless.
Sometime, around midnight, the meeting finally came to a close.
Remus was one of the last to move, but before he could leave the kitchen, a hand on his shoulder drew him back into the room.
"Remus, my dear boy…there is something that I need to speak with you about." It was Dumbledore, that same worried expression still marking his aged face.
Remus nodded and sat back down. "What is it?"
"Severus and I—were unable to procure the necessary ingredients for the Wolfsbane potion. As you well know, the Ministry has recently banned the making of it. And it appears that our suppliers were unable to come through." He spoke sincerely, and Remus even detected a bit of pity in his voice. It wasn't comforting. It was infuriating.
He knew what a transformation without Wolfsbane entailed. It was excruciatingly painful. His symptoms beforehand would be much worse: heightened aggression, bloodlust. The idea of going through it all made him feel queasy. He hadn't had to go without Wolfsbane since his days at school, and then, then he'd had Sirius with him. But he wouldn't complain. It was very unlike Remus to ever complain.
"I understand," Remus answered quietly.
"Molly and I have arranged to move everyone to the Burrow—temporarily—during your transformation. I'm—I'm terribly sorry."
Remus said nothing in return, turning his back on the old man, and walking out of the kitchen, his hands clenched tightly into fists. You wouldn't know it from looking at him, but he was scared shitless. Climbing the stairs like a man heading for the gallows, his whole body feeling like lead. Already, he was so tired.
/
The full moon was only two days away. Hermione managed, despite being followed at all times, to avoid contact with nearly everyone in the house, especially him it seemed. And it bothered him more than he would have liked to admit. Indian summer had hit, and the house was unbearably muggy. Coupled with his symptoms, it was nearly impossible for him to rest. He spent many nights tossing and turning, jumping at every sound picked up by his enhanced hearing.
This night, of course, was particularly horrible. It was sometime past one o'clock and the house was silent, and Remus was face down on his bed. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the wolf inside his brain, clawing, always fucking clawing at him. His heightened senses were driving him mad. Flush with sweat and fever, he heard every breath, every creak, and every movement in this decrepit, bloody old house.
And finally, after what seemed like eternity and he had managed to doze off for a few minutes, there were the dreams—violent and bloody, full of the darkest parts of him that he spent most of his waking hours trying to bury. When he woke from them, he shouted, thrashing and flailing about.
Just as he was finally starting to drift off, he heard a crash downstairs. The tinkling, bell-like sound of broken glass, and then he smelt it: the copper-sweet smell of blood coming from downstairs. His mind instantly flashed to her. He grasped his wand and sprinted down the stairs at an inhuman speed, his movements deft and practiced. While the kitchen was dark, he could see a shadowed form huddled near the counter. He stepped closer, snarling, "Who's there?" His voice cut like a knife through the blackness. There was silence for a moment, just the sound of ragged breath, before he heard her voice, small, timid:
"Remus?"
He paused at the realization. God, it was her. He let his wand fall to his side, and with a wave of his hand, the candles in the room lit themselves, and the kitchen was soon bathed in the flickering glow of the flames.
Hermione was gripping the countertop with one hand, holding the other in front of her. She was shivering, despite the heat. She seemed so small…helpless. For a while, they stared at each other—he didn't move towards her. She didn't run away. It was then that he remembered the scent of blood. It was especially pungent now, and it swirled through his senses like a cloud. He traced the source: a cut on her wrist.
"I was making tea—and dropped the pot. I'm so—I'm so clumsy," she answered nervously, biting her lip. Sure enough, by her feet, the remnants of the broken teapot lay upon the ground.
"It's all right," he murmured quietly. "Let me see." Stepped closer now, he took her small wrist between his fingers, trying not to notice the smoothness of her skin, the way his large palms dwarfed her own. Remus shook his head, as if to say, you don't have to say anything.
The cut wasn't deep, but there certainly was a lot of blood still, and something deep inside him howled with pleasure at the idea. Taunted him. Made him notice the pulse pounding in her neck like a drum, and the pale, glowing whiteness of her legs, barely covered by the thin, cotton fabric of her night gown.
You could have her now. All of her. Take it. Who would stop you?
No. She's a child. It wouldn't be right.
Not a child anymore. She wants you, Remus. You know she does. You can smell it on her.
I can't. I won't. She trusts me.
"Remus…" Her voice broke through the war going on in his head. "Your hands are shaking."
Looking down, he saw she was right. "Sorry…" Concentrating, he pressed the tip of his wand to the cut, which sealed itself shut like a zipper being pulled.
"Better?" He asked, offering her a soft smile. She nodded, gently pulling her hand away, flexing the fingers testily. Remus sighed, feeling his shoulders straighten and unclench now that the siren song of her blood had been washed clean away.
/
"Do you still want that tea?"
She nodded.
When he'd come down the stairs like that, he'd scared her half to death. There'd been menace…anger in his voice she'd never heard before. It'd sent chills up her spine. His hands had shook, and she'd noticed the way his chest heaved as his breathing came harshly out of his mouth. But then her wrist was fixed, and suddenly he was back to the Remus she knew—composed, gentle, kind.
Now she was sitting at the kitchen table, her legs drawn up under her while he made her tea. In the middle of the night. She watched him while he made it, examining him intently. He wore a long sleeve shirt and pants, despite the heat. She didn't think she'd ever seen him show any skin…always in sweaters and jeans and robes…no matter the occasion.
He was so guarded, like her, so private.
He brought her the tea a few moments later, as well as a sandwich that she hadn't noticed him making.
"Eat this," he whispered, pushing the plate in her direction. Her stomach flopped, already set to reject the food. "You're too thin, Hermione…"
Despite her stomach's protests, she did as he asked, taking large bites and washing it down with gulps of scalding tea. She didn't want to taste it. She wouldn't be able to finish it if she had to taste it.
Remus laughed. "Jesus…slow down. It's not going to run off the plate, you know."
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she pushed the empty plate away, taking slow sips her tea. He pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one. The smell of the smoke wasn't unpleasant—it smelled like mint and cloves. It was almost soothing, like incense.
"You smoke too much," she said suddenly, candidly. "That stuff will kill you..."
Remus smiled weakly. "If anything's going to kill me…it won't be this."
The weight behind his words finally hit her. "Oh…I'm—I…," she trailed off, realizing that the full moon was tomorrow. No wonder he was so edgy, nervous.
"Molly's moving everyone to the Burrow tomorrow." Remus said offhandedly. Hermione nodded. She'd heard about that. For some reason though, she didn't want to leave. At the Burrow…at the Burrow she wouldn't be able to hide from Ron and Harry.
She'd have to try to be normal. And she didn't think she was ready for normalcy.
"I wish I could stay."
Remus stiffened, his gaze sharp as he said harshly, "Hermione. You can't under any circumstances stay here. Promise—promise me that you won't set foot in this house until Molly tells you to." He was so serious, so stern, and his eyes flashed with something foreign. She nodded. "I promise."
"Good. I'll hold you to that."
It was nearly dawn by the time either of them made it up to bed.
/
In a few hours the moon would fully rise. The house was completely empty save for him now as he sat in one of the old armchairs by the fireplace (which wasn't really lit, but for the embers still glowing resiliently despite the lack of flame. Remus stared into the grate, hand clutched around the neck of a rather large bottle. If he couldn't have Wolfsbane, getting pissed was really the only other option. He and Sirius always used to do it. Back when Wolfsbane hadn't even been available, it'd become a ritual of theirs—they'd drink. And Remus would mope. And Sirius would make an utter fool out of himself. And it was all right, because it really did help. Or at least, it was nice to pretend it did. But Sirius had never really know how truly horrible it was. He'd asked about it, only once.
"Oy, Moony." Sirius had started, his speech heavily slurred from the bottle of alcohol they'd just ingested.
"Hmm," he'd responded, eyes stinging, throat burning. Barely conscious.
"Does it hurt much? I mean, don't you ever just get used to it?"
Remus somehow managed to hear the words, despite his inebriated state, "No-no…it—it hurts every time."
Now, Remus raised the bottle with one hand. "Here's to you, Padfoot," he whispered to no one, bringing the bottle to his lips and downing the whole lot, and then he waited. He waited in the dark for the first pricklings to come. Like the tips of a thousand blades being plunged into him. Skin crawling out of itself, bones and muscles and sinew snapping, reforming.
And with a howl to wake the dead. He succumbed.
/
It was early when Hermione awoke at the Burrow. She hadn't slept well. She'd been tossing and turning all night thinking about Remus…it was difficult not to when she'd seen the light of the full moon streaming through her window. Plus, she'd heard Mrs. Weasley talking to Mr. Weasley about it a few nights ago…about how he didn't have the Wolfsbane. He must've been in agony. But she knew if she just lay there thinking about it, she'd drive herself nuts. So finally, a little after five, she crawled out of bed, slipping past Ginny's snoring form and heading down the stairs.
Someone would at least be up, she expected. But to her surprise, the Burrow's kitchen, which was normally bustling with activity, even in the wee hours of the morning, was empty. Shrugging, she set about to brew some tea. Oddly enough, there was a tea strainer sitting on the crowded table. Funny..she'd never seen Mrs. Weasley use one of those before…
She picked the piece of metal up nimbly between her fingers, and flinched as she felt the sudden rush of a hook pulling up behind her navel. The room swirled around her, and the ground dropped below her feet. It was a portkey.
When the rush stopped and the room readjusted itself, Hermione blinked dumbly, realizing she'd found herself back in the musty living room of Grimmauld Place. But the place…it was a right mess. Books were scattered across the floor, their pages strewn haphazardly about like birds fluttering in the wind. Cushions were no longer attached to their respective couches, and the stuffing blew around the room like snow.
But the worst part was the blood. It seemed to cover everything: the walls, the floor, the furniture. Hermione clasped her hand over her mouth, shuddering. She stopped suddenly, craning her neck as she heard the sound of labored, shallow breathing. Turning to one of the couches, she saw him sprawled out across the sofa, clad in nothing but a pair of thin, blue pajama pants.
His eyes were shut and he shook violently. She saw he was covered in a thick sheen of sweat and partially bandaged. Someone…someone had already come to take care of him. There was a bowl of foul-smelling green liquid on the next to several bloody rags.
In seeing him like this…she'd completely forgotten her promise. Hesitantly, she moved closer, to look at him. He seemed so pained. So hurt…Oh. And his chest and his arms…covered…covered in cragged bite marks and scratches, and cuts, a few still weeping droplets of blood.
So this, this was what he covered up. This, and the scars…they littered nearly every part of him, his shoulders, his abdomen, his chest. She couldn't tell where corded muscle ended and roped scar tissue began. It wasn't—it wasn't ugly. No...it was as if she didn't know how to even say it, like It was a map—a map of him drawn out for the world to see.
Her fingers itched to touch him. If she could just…The tip of her finger, tentative, had barely brushed against the skin above his navel when suddenly hand reached out, grasping her wrist and her forearm in a vice grip and yanking her forward.
With a yelp, she tried to pull away, but he was so strong. In the cage of his arms, she beat against his chest, trying to wake him as she saw his eyes remained closed.
Until he gripped her tighter, and his eyes opened wide, piercing her with his predatory gaze.
And she saw that they weren't Remus's eyes at all. No familiar gray full of light and warmth. Instead, they were liquid amber, a deep, dark gold, with pupils the darkest she'd ever seen. And in them, there was nothing she recognized, only hunger, just desire.
Wherever Remus was, it wasn't here, no. This, this was something else entirely, something primal.
This was the wolf.
/
He was dreaming. Everything was fuzzy, soft-edged and shadowed. Even in his head the sweet, iron bite of blood was still swimming in his senses. There weren't any shapes, really. Just colors. Crimson and black and flashes of golden brown. Unknown to him, he was thrashing in his sleep, limbs rigid and taut even in unconsciousness.
"Fuck," he gasped as he woke, the crash back into awareness as harsh as a slap to the face. He hands clenched the soft linen sheets, but his eyes were still wrenched shut like he was afraid to open them. There was another scent in the room, achingly familiar, a subtle mix of soap and something flowery.
"Hermione," he croaked, his throat dry and his voice raspy. "What happened?"
It wasn't really a question when he finally opened his eyes and saw the carnage in the room. Light poured in, a brassy glow into the room that illuminated everything. There were deep, ragged scratches on the floor, rips in the curtains. He clutched at his forehead, wincing as he felt a bump across his forehead, bound tightly in white cotton. His whole body ached and burned, like he could still feel sting of bones cracking and rearranging themselves. Singing flesh like hot steel. It was the worst transformation he'd remembered experiencing in a long time. It had been so long without the wolfsbane.
When he finally looked up from the couch, from his scratched hands, he saw Hermione's face, and the long now-faded cut running down her cheek. It looked mostly healed, the pinkish, whitish glare of freshly mended skin. But it was there. She was looking at him, so concerned. He didn't say anything at first, a hot, sick feeling blooming in his chest.
"No."
He had to fight the urge to lash out and push her away; she was leaning so fucking close. Instead, he awkwardly extricated himself from the sheets and leapt off the bed with surprising agility. But a rush of dizziness floored him, and he shot out a hand to brace himself against the wall.
"No."
It came out a snarl, he couldn't help it. The wall made a feeble, cracking noise under his fist as he smashed it against the wood.
"Hermione...I didn't...I..."
"I was rather hoping you wouldn't remember," she spoke softly; her voice laced with what Remus realized was the bitter bite of guilt. She looked up, met his eyes, and he saw that she was crying—she was crying actual tears, for him, for a monster? He had attacked her, nearly killed her for Christ sake and she was looking at him like she'd kicked his puppy.
She reaching for his hand again, trying to pull him back toward the damaged couch. He flinched and yanked his hand back, noticing how she winced when she moved as she sat there, perched on the armrest looking so damn hopeful. He felt that familiar sick feeling wash over him like being doused with a bucket of freezing water.
"I'm fine," she said quickly, shifting herself into a more seated position, holding out her hands, as if displaying all ten fingers might reassure him. "Fine, completely fine, you'd barely gotten hold of me. Most of it was from the splinters."
Lie.
Remus remembered. He remembered every second of it, the wolf in him as it howled with pleasure at the girl in his arms, how his teeth had scraped against her shoulder, aching to bite down. The way his fingers dug into her flesh, the noises she'd made, all of this despite how the man trapped inside screamed and screamed in protest.
She was babbling now. She always babbled when she was nervous.
"It was my own fault. You told me to stay away, you warned me, and everybody else did as well, and I didn't listen to them either. But it doesn't matter, because I'm fine." Her usual eloquence was gone.
She was pleading with him. "Please, just lie back down."
Remus scoffed and shook his head vehemently. He could see what she was doing, trying to soothe him, soothe him like the wild animal he'd always known he was.
"Please, please, you're still weak, and they had to hit you pretty hard to..." she trailed off, and he could see it in her eyes, how she searched for the best euphemism to explain what had transpired, "…diffuse you."
The conciliatory brush of her hand on his shoulder did nothing to soothe him. In fact, he shirked a little at the contact, taking a noticeable step back to widen the space between them. The way he moved, it was as if he was trying to ensure that even the breath from their mouths didn't touch. The fact that she was standing there defending him, saying it was her own fault, that she had simply gotten in his way. As if that somehow made it excusable.
He stared, dumbfounded, before saying, curtly, "I don't need to rest. I'm used to it, thanks." His tone was cool, though with his clenched fists and deliberately stone-faced, it was obvious he was fighting to maintain a façade of calm. His gray eyes alit fleetingly on her face, matching the gaze of a pair of honey-brown eyes for just a fraction of a second before looking away, determined.
"You should get off that leg, Hermione," he said, sounding strained. His hand fell to the doorknob, clutching it firmly. He was just about to yank it open when a loud BANG and a cracking sound split through the tension in the room like razor wire. The door burst open, and Remus stumbled backwards, shooting a hand out forward, ready to brace the fall of shaky young witch before him.
"OUT OF BED? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MINDS?"
"Molly," Remus started.
"You—you should be resting!" With one hand positioned sternly on her hip, the other branding a wand, Mrs. Weasley looking very much like she was going tie him back to the bed—forcefully. Her expression was fierce, eyes blazing
"I have someone to see."
"Dumbledore can wait while you recover!"
Remus stiffened. "Molly, seeing as how I am neither Ron, Harry, Hermione, nor any of your other children, I would say I am more than outside your parental jurisdiction,"
"Remus!"
"Please excuse me," he said, brushing past Mrs. Weasley to go out into the hallway. There was another loud CRACK as he apparated from the front porch steps.
/
"Remus, I assure you that the headmaster wants nothing more than your speedy recovery. You can see him when you are well—there's no reason to ye—" McGonagall spoke with her usual sterness.
"Just tell me the password, please, Minerva…" Remus, still lightheaded from apparating in his condition, was pinching the bridge of his nose with a forefinger and thumb as if fighting off a large headache.
"I don't think that—"
She was interrupted by the grind of the stone Gargoyle sliding out of the way. Remus said nothing else as he started hurriedly up the stairs. He was out of breath as he pushed open the door, which was ajar, to Dumbledore's office.
"Ahh, Remus. I can't say I wasn't expecting you. A pleasure nonetheless." The Headmaster's voice was infuriatingly calm, as if Remus had simply stopped by for tea and conversation.
"Dumbledore—I told you this would happen. It was only a matter of time…I warned you—"
"Warned me of what? That you would make a mistake, as men before you have done, and shall, I assure you, continue to do so long after this one has been forgotten." He clasped his hands together, his blue eyes gleaming underneath silver spectacles. "Now why don't you have a seat?"
"I don't want to sit."
"I must insist, in your condition, that you—"
"It was her, Albus," he interrupted desperately.
"I am quite aware of what has happened, Remus, and as I understand it, no permanent damage was done."
Sitting in that chair across from Dumbledore, looking at the old wizard from across the wooden desk, Remus felt oddly as though he'd been transported back to his teenage years. He felt just as uncomfortable as he did then. There was a long, pregnant pause before Remus finally spoke again.
"I'm done, Albus. I've fooled myself long enough into thinking I could do this."
"My goodness, you, like Harry certainly share a flair for dramatics."
"I hurt her!"
"And Ms. Granger, I'm sure, has already forgiven you completely," said Albus, sounding slightly more stern than he had at the conversation's beginning, as if he was growing weary of the subject.
"I'm done. I've decided—I've decided to leave."
"It is my wish that you will remain with the Order, as you have. I refuse your resignation," said Albus briskly.
"Screw your refusal!" said Remus, bitterly. "I thought I was different—you told me that I was—we both believed…but we were wrong."
"And where will you go? You've said it yourself, the climate in this world is hardly friend to wizards in your condition." asked Dumbledore, frowning slightly.
"We both know the answer to that," murmured Remus.
"Remus," Dumbledore was eying him intently. "I believe I made my stance on this perfectly clear when you were eighteen. That is the last place you should be, and if you choose to go there, you stand to lose a lot more than you seem to believe that you have…"
"I've made up my mind."
Dumbledore was looking at him with what Remus recognized sickeningly as something akin to pity and disappointment.
"She stands a much better chance if you remain to protect her."
"I guess you and I see differently…" Remus said curtly, pushing himself out of the chair and leaving the room in a swirl of tattered robes.
The sun was just beginning to set, smudges of yellow and brassy orange mixed with shadow as he stepped into the clearing. There was sharp sound of a twig snapping, breaking the hushed, stilted silence of dusk, and a figure, obscured completely underneath a tattered black traveling cloak, stilled noticeably.
Remus pushed back the hood of his cloak, whirling on his foot toward the source of the disruption.
"Ahh, Remus. I'd recognize your scent anywhere. It's been so long…" A voice, raspy and low, came from between the trees. A second later, a figure slowly extricated itself from the shadows—a tall, long-limbed man in pair of ripped muggle jeans and a threadbare sweater (torn at the neck by what looked like claw marks). "And here I thought you said the next time we met, you would rip my throat out."
The man's eyes were a cornflower yellow, marked by deep, black pupils, and he smiled complacently, revealing a mouthful of flashing white teeth. He had a scar, white and shiny with age that pulled at the side of his mouth, giving him a permanently warped grin
"Hello, Alec."
"Welcome home, brother."
/
"Where is he?"
"Where is who?" Molly replied pleasantly. Hermione was seated at the kitchen table. It was two days after the attack and, while the brace remained around her leg as a precaution, she was back to her usual habits. The house hadn't changed much in her two days of invalidity, save for one key thing.
"You know who."
Molly didn't bat an eye, returning to stirring something in the frying pan. "I'm sorry, dear. You'll have to be more specific."
Hermione narrowed her eyes. She loved Molly like a mother, but hated how she insisted on still treating her like a child. She was eighteen, for heaven's sake, and mature for her age. She hated how the adults around her insisted on playing the same games they had when she was thirteen. "Remus," she said firmly, her teeth gritting in irritation.
"I'm not sure," Molly said breezily. "So many people moving all the time, I can hardly keep track of everyone in the house. He's probably just keeping to himself for a bit. Nothing to worry about."
Hermione studied the bouncing mass of Mrs. Weasley's waves, her moving back. She was lying. She could hear it in her voice. He wasn't in the house. He had left. Because of her. Without a word, the young woman rose from the table and sulked off as best she could in her current condition, one footstep silent, the other a firm shwa-thump.
Molly glanced over her shoulder. "Where are you going? Supper will be ready soon."
"I want to ask Albus something."
/
It hadn't been hard, really. A few carefully worded conversations with a few of the older Order members, a bit of research, and she had discovered a handful of fringe werewolf "packs." It was hard to say which, if any, were still in existence, but it was the most logical place for Remus to have gone. He lacked the means to escape into mainstream society - between being a known member of the Order in a world full of Death Eaters and his "furry little problem" he wouldn't have been able to stay in a flat more than a few weeks before someone found him out. No, he wouldn't go near uninfected people again, not after what had happened with her - it was the whole reason he had left in the person. He would go to the only people he could seek refuge with. He would go to the other werewolves.
Hermione had never been one for breaking rules, especially sneaking out, but found it remarkably easy to do when you knew all of the protective charms on the house. She held Harry's invisibility cloak (she had "borrowed" it while he snored) tightly around her body, Disapparating to the last known stomping grounds of the first pack on her list of three. It had taken just under two weeks of research to find it, but it felt like an eternity. She hoped he was there.
The crack of her arrival disturbed a few sleeping birds and she quickly pressed herself to the nearest tree, waiting for the echoes to die, listening for the sounds of someone approaching. All was silent, though Hermione got the most unsettling sensation of being watched. She took a few hesitant steps, peering at her feet to ensure she was completely covered. A little rustle behind her made the breath catch in her throat, and she whipped her head to face it. The inky black enveloped her, but she didn't dare light her wand for fear of giving her position away. She wasn't afraid of Remus, but his new companions - if he was here at all, of course - weren't known as the gentlest souls.
Silence fell again and she listened to her breathing, the sound of her heart thumping in her chest. She adjusted the cloak again, making sure she had a firm grip on her wand, a dozen hexes ready to fly off her tongue, before she at last found the courage to say his name: "Remus?"
Her voice cut through the night, clear and sharp. She stayed still, listening and watching with wide eyes. Nothing. She gnawed uncertainly at her lower lip, before carefully reaching up, lowering the hood and allowing the shoulders - far too big for her frame - to droop down to near her elbows, making half of herself visible. Like it would help. "Remus?" she tried again, gooseflesh rising on her arms and neck. She got the sudden overwhelming feeling that this had, perhaps, been a bad idea.
/
Hermione was right—she was anything but alone. A pair of silvery blue eyes was peering out between the leafy branches of one of the trees. There was moment of perfect stillness as the eyes merely followed the figure pressing itself against the trunk below. Then there was the sound of something cutting through the air, and the crunch of leaves under nimble feet.
"Gotcha."
"Poor little lost lamb," the voice purred. It was a woman, tall and skinny, clad only in a thin dress despite the cold. Her long hair was dishwater blond, hanging over her eyes. The woman reached out with thin fingers, the nails long and smudged with dirt to brush across Hermione's cheek.
"You smell delicious…."
"Shoshanna!" another voice, harsh and edged with a snarl, broke the strained silence. There was suddenly another figure there, quick as a flash, yanking the woman's wrist away from Hermione's head and pinning her arm to the tree. There was the cracking sound of something sharp scratching into the wood.
"Fuck you, Remus," the woman hissed. "Found her first…"
Remus's eyes connected with Hermione's, briefly, and there was a flash of recognition, anger, before he looked away. When he spoke, his voice was level but firm, but he showed no indication that he really saw Hermione at all.
"Don't touch her," he said, almost sounding bored.
"She shouldn't be here anyway…"
"Alec would be angry. Very angry. We should get back. I smell rain."
"We can't just let her go!"
"A body is the last thing we need. She'll be noticed. Look at her, she's practically a child, a student. You know whose protection she's probably under."
"I'm not scared of an old man."
Remus gripped the woman tightly by the arms and tossed her to the ground like a rag doll, and she growled.
"You should be." He turned to Hermione, his eyes flashing gold as he stepped close. "Go."
/
She should have been afraid, but something told her that this wasn't how she was going to die. She was learning to go with her instincts. With each passing day the gift of the Sight strengthened in her, and more often than not her premonitions, her inclinations beyond the hard and tangible visions, were accurate. Still, the feeling of the woman's dirty nails on her cheeks made her shudder. It made her breath hitch in her chest.
He was there - some part of her had known he would come - before she had a chance to demand to be released, to ask where Remus was. His eyes, nice eyes, she had always thought, met with hers, and for a moment there was a delightful connection. A little surge of girlish pleasure welled up in her. She had found him. She would take him home and they would forget any of it had ever happened. But the recognition quickly turned to anger, and Hermione realized it wasn't going to be as simple as she had hoped.
She watched the ensuing scuffle with the practiced calm of one who had seen battles before. Being the best friend of Harry Potter had been difficult at best on more than one occasion. At twelve years old, she had faced three headed dogs and savage chess sets. She had ridden threstrals, battled Death Eaters. She had been petrified by a basilisk, and had made it out of Azkaban with her sanity intact. A couple of unturned werewolves were hardly something to get in a tizzy about.
She looked up at Remus as he stepped towards her, his eyes firm. She wasn't a child anymore. "No," she replied calmly. "Not unless you're coming with me." It wasn't a request. It was a statement, a verbal stamping of her foot. As far as Hermione was concerned, there was only one option, and that was it. She was staying there as long as he was, werewolves or no. It was stupid - she knew that - but somehow she just couldn't quite bring herself to see sense. She was the reason he was here in the first place and, damnit, she was going to bring him back home, where he belonged.
Her gaze flickered to the woman, taking stock of her position - just because she wasn't afraid didn't mean she lacked a healthy respect - before looking back to Remus, meeting his eyes. She wasn't joking. She wasn't being some silly little girl. She knew perfectly well what she was doing, and she wanted him to know it. "Remus, please," she said, gaze softening ever so slightly. "Come home."
Hermione was half tempted to grab him as he leaned in close, slip her arms around his waist and simply Disapparate with him, hope that being back in the house would make him see sense. But, honestly, she was entirely too shocked by his behavior, his words, to do much of anything beyond gape. She was formulating a plan when she heard the cracks, the voices.
Fuck.
Before she could twist to tell the others to lower their wands, to try to keep what little calm remained in the situation, he was gone. Instantly a growl of frustration came from her throat and she kicked the nearest tree trunk, the thud resounding through the immediate area. Harry's cloak, which she had still been holding up simply for lack of having thought to drop it, slithered over her body and pooled at her feet, rendering her completely visible. "Why did you follow me?!" she demanded, tears pricking hot at her eyes. What had just happened? The image of Remus in his tattered clothes seemed burned onto her retinas, and she found herself shaking. She would take a basilisk any day of the week in favor of whatever the hell had just happened.
"Because you were about to get yourself killed. For being so clever, you can be a dumbass sometimes," Tonks bit back, marching over towards her, taking her forearm. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
Hermione sullenly wrenched the limb away. "I wanted to bring him home. It's my fault he's here. I thought..."
"Well, you thought wrong," Tonks snapped. "You're just lucky we came."
Hermione's brow knit. "I had it sorted," she grumbled, eyes dark.
"They were about to rip your throat out!"
Kinsley stepped forward, putting a hand on the girls' shoulders. "It doesn't matter," he said, his voice a rich rumble. "It's over now. You're coming home, Hermione. Everyone is worried sick."
Hermione sighed, mildly mollified, and gave a little nod. She would come without a fight. There was nothing here worth fighting for anymore.
/
"What were you THINKING?!" Molly howled, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You marched right into the middle of the most dangerous pack we know of! Without telling anyone!"
Hermione sat in the living room, her head bowed, hands folded in her lap. To be perfectly honest, she wasn't really listening. She was mentally retracing the hardened contours of Remus' face, dwelling on the yellow hue of his eyes. Harry and Ron flanked her on either side, equal measures of comforting and defensive and angry with her themselves. They minded less that she had gone and more that she hadn't brought them along for the ride. Ron reached for her hand in an attempt to be reassuring. She pulled it away.
"I'm sorry," Hermione said at an appropriate point when silence fell. "I thought-"
"Oh yes, thought! I can see you thought very carefully!" Molly waiting for Hermione to glance up, catching the gaze of the young witch. Her face softened a bit and she strode across the room, placing her hand to the girl's cheek. "We all miss him, Hermione, but he's not coming back."
The words stung and Hermione's immediate reaction was to ignore them. No. He was coming back. She would make sure of it. Outwardly, she gave a chastened nod, and accepted the arms of both Harry and Ron as the two gave her comforting half-hugs.
/
It had been serendipity as far as she was concerned. A vision of Remus and the blond, along with two other men Hermione didn't recognize, darting through the woods. Familiar woods. She knew them - she had been there as a child. It had come to her while she was dreaming. To be perfectly honest, she wasn't certain it hadn't been a dream, but it was all she had to work with. The pack would have moved after the intrusion.
It was weeks before the watch on her was relaxed enough for Hermione to even consider going to find him again. In the meantime, she discreetly read up on werewolf culture, and on the behavior of wolf packs. This time, she would be ready.
Spring was coming, but it was still cold as Hermione traipsed through the woods in nothing but a knit dress. Her bare feet curled against the cold ground, careful where she placed each step to avoid sharp sticks or anything with thorns or barbs. A dead rabbit, a peace offering, swung from one hand by the ears, her head down, submissive. She wasn't sure how much, if any effect, her planning would have, but she could only hope that meeting more on their level would make her less of an enemy. Maybe it would at least give her time to talk to him, to make him see sense. She located the area from her vision - she wasn't certain if the event she had seen had already happened, was about to happen, or still wouldn't happen for a while - and settled herself beneath a larger oak. She didn't call out this time. With any luck, Remus would be able to recognize her by smell.
/
He'd been with the pack for over a month, but to him, it felt like longer. The days seemed to bleed together, especially after spending his first full moon with them—something Alec had seemed to view gleefully as his true initiation. If he was honest, it had been the easiest transformation he'd remembered having in so long. It had been a relief, to be able to run and fight and bite and scratch someone other than himself—to not be caged.
But waking up had still been jarring, feeling the hard ground under his back, the smell of moist earth in his lungs, and the piercing sound of birds circling overhead. It had been almost…euphoric, feeling the burn and ache in his limbs against the cool air.
He could keep up with them now, his body growing used to the intensity of the forest. He no longer tired when he ran, and the bottoms of his feet had become hard and callused.
They had moved, after the run-in with the Order, to a forest heavily shrouded under ancient oak trees. They had found caves in the side of a cliff, warm and dry, by the side of a river. Remus was there now, stretched on a flat boulder, having spent the afternoon drying off under the spring sun after bathing. Alec was dozing on the rock above him, a hand lazily splayed on his stomach.
Shoshana was still splashing around in the water below, another young woman laughing with her in delight as they tussled playfully. This woman was smaller, her skin cream white and freckled. She had dark hair, cut short and curling around her ears. She was smiling, pink lips stretched wide around tiny, white teeth. She jumped out of the water, clambering up the rockface to curl up against Alec's side.
Alec grinned lazily, and Remus watched the pair reproachfully, scowling as Alec began nuzzling the crook of her neck.
"Your face will stick like that, Remus," said the girl, sticking out her tongue
Remus snorted and looked away, feeling a pang of what felt like longing in the pit of his stomach. The scent of flowers was heavy in his nose and he bristled with annoyance at the memories it came with. A cascade of water droplets splashed onto his cheek, shaking him out of his trance. Shoshana had come out of the water, and was reaching out to stroke his face with her hand.
He growled, springing off the rock to a spot several feet away.
"Don't," he said harshly. He turned away from the group, stalking off into the brush without glancing back to see the young woman's hurt expression.
/
He had been running aimlessly, darting over fallen logs and boulders, letting his mind wander. When he finally stopped, it dawned on him that he had stopped her for a reason, that same spicy smell filling his lungs.
Moving lightly through the undergrowth, he stepped carefully, making no noise as he searched the area, having no trouble seeing in the dusky twilight. When he saw her, sitting stiffly at the base of the tree, something in him felt like it had suddenly coiled, knotted up tight.
"It was a mistake to come here again," he said, stepping out from behind a thorny hedge. Even though there was the prick of anger, fury bubbling hot under his skin that she had dared to come her again, he took in her submissive pose appreciatively.
He felt a small pang of pleasure, like a flame licking at the back of his throat, seeing her there in just a thin dress, her hair wild and her feet bare. He can't say that he had never thought…
But still, she was reckless. A fool.
"Someone's been studying…" he murmured, eying the animal at her feet. "You're making it difficult for me, you know. If you've been followed again…"
/
She lifted her eyes, not her head, at the crackle of his approach. She breathed a light sigh of relief when it was, in fact, Remus, and lowered her gaze again, nudging the rabbit towards him with the back of one hand. The freshly killed creature disgusted her, to be perfectly honest, but she thought that Remus might appreciate it.
"I wasn't," she replied. "I wasn't expecting them to pay such close attention the first time. I didn't make the same mistake again." It was true. She'd gone to intense pains to avoid being tracked, from walking a full mile from the house before Apparating and then disapparating several more times before reaching her final destination - another mile from where she was then. And that didn't even begin to account for the various charms she had left to throw anyone who cared to follow off her trail. Hermione went back over the things she had read, careful to keep her slight frame small, bowed, her arms at her sides to expose her torso in a subliminal sign of deference. She wasn't sure if she needed to do it with Remus or not, but she supposed it was better to err on the side of caution. It probably couldn't hurt one way or the other.
She looked back up at him, eyes sliding over his figure. He was transforming. It had only been a few weeks, but even now he looked completely different from her memory. If she'd seen him on the street, hadn't been expecting him, she wasn't sure she would have recognized him. The edge of feral that had always clung to him had finally bloomed, making him something new, raw, and free. As much as she didn't want to admit it, it became him in some ways. Her heart rate increased and she shifted slightly, lowering her eyes again.
Merlin. What had she done?
"I brought that," she gave the smallest nod in the direction of the rabbit. "For you. In case you were hungry. The book said..." she trailed off. Discussing books was not the correct thing to do in the current situation. She took a deep breath, looking at him again, finally daring to break her completely submissive behavior, meeting his eyes, impatience and desperation mingling there, along with something else, something unnamed. "Remus, please. Come home. Please. We miss you - I miss you. Please. You don't belong out here. Please."
Hermione wasn't one to beg, but she was skirting that territory with her soft pleas for him to return with her. Her fire had worn thin where he was concerned in the weeks that separated them. She didn't want to fight, she just wanted him home, with her, where he belonged. Besides. She'd tried the firm technique before, and it had only served to make him angry. Hermione wasn't typically one to bend to the wills of others, but she was clever, and manipulative enough to know when to quell her instincts to get what she wanted.
/
Remus couldn't help but laugh—of course she'd read it in a book. He tossed his head back as he chuckled. After what happened, she probably went out and read every book there was on the subject. He could see it in his mind, Hermione hunched over a huge pile of old, dusty, books, nose pressed to the page. She would have memorized every rule, every gesture, wanting to master the etiquette.
But there were things that just couldn't be taught in books.
"Thanks, but I've already eaten," he said contemptuously, ignoring the offering completely as he closed the space between them. She was tense, and shaking; he knew she was purposely looking away from him, just like those silly books had told her to do.
"I know what you're trying to do, and it won't work," he said, his voice low and gravelly as he approached her. One hand braced against the trunk of the tree, he let the other hover near her waist before curling his palm around the bone of her hip, pressing down just hard enough to be mildly painful, He would have never dared to act like this before, to just touch and take as he wished.
He could hear the rapid thrum of her heart in his ears as the blood pulsed hot beneath her skin.
"This," he smiled toothily, "is exactly where I belong. You have no idea what's it like. You think you know—because you read it in a goddamn book, but it…it's different. It's so much better…"