Welcome Back, Hermione

Chapter three: Coming To Grips, Or How To Paint Your Wife's Nails

Disclaimer: No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Satisfied?

A/N: Coppercurls is a tribute to Tamora Pierce, who uses it as a nickname in her Circle of Magic fics. Though technically, I disagree with her a bit on morals. I mean, Alanna sleeps with everyone! I was actually a bit surprised when she didn't sleep with Duke Roger before she killed him. But still, I do love that nickname. And now, after this obscenely long author's note…

He watched her as she slept. Her long brown hair had had five inches shorn off unceremoniously after that Potions incident, but most of the bouncy, exuberant curls had grown back, so that her chestnut hair was as beautiful as ever. He admired how the light bounced off it and gave red gleams. Coppercurls, he called her, and she liked it too.

He liked it too, because she liked it, and because calling her a nickname seemed to center the fact that she was really and truly all his. His Coppercurls.

Only now she wasn't, and he wondered if she'd at least let him call her Coppercurls.

Probably not, judging by her reaction today.

He shook his head and tried not to think about it, avoidance blatantly sealing off the passageways to that particular memory lane.

Her skin was as still as milky as ever, but had lost some of its golden hue for being indoors so long. He didn't mind. If he had his way, she would get it all back, and she would look as alive as she had before, filled with life and happiness and just being because she wanted to.

If he had his way.

The blankets were drawn up about her, slightly crumpled, and she had curled up into a little ball. It was amazing how tiny it was, he thought, as he smoothed them about her and sat back down. He recognized the sign of her uneasiness and insecurity, and wondered exactly what it was that Potter had told her. He hoped the raven-haired man hadn't been too harsh. Potter could get carried away sometimes, and in the heat of his anger, he was sometimes rather unfair, placing the whole of the blame on the person who carried the brunt of his anger, and he could be very scary at those times. Even if he did apologize later. And Hermione could be surprisingly vulnerable to speeches from her friends. Even if she was stronger than he was.

Impulsively, he reached out and smoothed her hair back, her beautiful red-gold-brown hair that was plastered to her forehead with sweat and smiled, a real, genuine smile, just because.

Just because she looked so beautiful in her sleep.

Just because he loved her.

Just because while she was sleeping, he could pretend that nothing had ever happened and that she still loved him.

Just because.

Her eyes flew open, startled and wide like a deer's, and he jerked back before—anything could happen. Gods, if she hit him again he thought he really would break down and become some kind of sappy Hufflepuff.

She looked at him and saw him jerking back, and she felt a pang of guilt for being so cruel to him a few hours ago.

"I-I'm sorry," she whispered.

He stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief.

"I really am. It's just—"

"Yeah, I know," he said, relief filling his voice. "Shh. It's all right."

And for that one moment, as she smiled blindingly up at him, it was.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Remus Lupin, professor, werewolf, godfather, uncle, father, and husband, was currently engaged in painting his wife's toenails. Yes, he was painting her toenails. The nail polish was a vibrant shade of pink, to go with her hair, which was spiky-layered, shoulder-length, pink, and kept her heart-shaped little face pixie rather than pretty.

Remus didn't mind. He loved his wife exactly the way she was, though sometimes she delighted in Metamorphing her body into various shapes. A succubus was one; a Veela was another. She also delighted into transforming into the oddest of people and jumping out at him.

Right now, she was herself, beaming down at him as he carefully layered her toenails. One stripe across, three stripes down. It was one of his more unusual talents, one which he had learned from his mother, who had said that every woman loves a man who can do 'girl' things.

He wasn't so sure about that, but Tonks did, so he was grateful. More or less.

"Father!" a whirlwind of activity—in other words, Teddy—burst through the door. A Metamorphagus himself, Teddy took after his father in looks. Sort of. His hair was the same sandy brown-grey, his eyes the same chocolate brown. His face, however, was his mother's heart. Right now, his hair was a vibrant electric blue with excitement, and his eyes shone silver.

"Yes?" he looked up after carefully finishing the last stroke and screwing the top of the bottle closed. Nail polish was the devil to get off floors.

"Aunt Mione's awake!"

All thoughts of nail polish flew out of his head at the mention of his star student and more-or-less-adopted niece. "Really?" he beamed as his wife also flew up, heedless of her toenails. Before she could ruin ten minutes' careful work, he whispered a drying spell. Tonks was a wonderful woman, but she tended to forget about things like that and was also dead-clumsy.

Five minutes later, they were Flooing to St. Mungo's, along with the five-year-old Teddy.

Harry met them at the door to her room, his green eyes worried. "Remus, Tonks. Um—she's not quite herself."

Remus raised a pale eyebrow wearily. It was drawing close to the full moon again.

"She's lost her memory ten years back. She—um—thinks she's sixteen. I think I persuaded her that she just lost her memory, but she's being rather suspicious of me. Seems to think I'm a look-alike who works for Voldemort or something."

Tonks chuckled, and Remus's lips quirked. Just like Hermione to be annoyingly smart at times.

"I think I've pretty much convinced her that I'm not lying, but she's still rather unstable. So—er—be careful. And stuff. She hit Draco—"

"What?" demanded Tonks, her pink hair becoming tinged with red due to her indignation. Draco had always been a favorite cousin of hers, despite the fact that when he was a child, he had been a spoiled brat. 'But a charming spoiled brat,' she had always said, and now she was fonder of him than ever. And fiercely protective. She knew more than most about his childhood, and had always been aware of the fact that most of his sneering bravado had been just that—bravado.

"Tonks," said Harry calmly. "Look at it from her point of view. When she was sixteen, she hated Draco, remember? For all she knew, he was about to hex her."

Tonks was still scowling, so Harry hastened to add, "Don't yell at her; I've already done that. I think she's suitably sorry; at any rate, she sort of made up with Draco, though she still hates and distrusts him."

With that last word of caution, he stepped aside, and Remus and Tonks entered.

She was propped up half sitting, half lying down, on the white hospital beds, her red-brown curls spread out like a fan, distinct against the white background of her pillow. Her face was paler than he had remembered, but still quite pretty. Remus wondered if she'd looked into a mirror recently. Her body was that of a twenty-six year old woman, not a sixteen-year-old girl; collarbones were prominent, and she was no longer flat. Her freckles were gone with age, and her face was wearier, but more relaxed, more serene.

She had learned that books do not solve everything, and that she doesn't always need to run everything, which had made her company much more enjoyable. Not that she hadn't always been delightful.

Her body was the same, but her face, albeit a few wrinkles, was that of the classic Hermione—still bossy, still firmly trusting in her beloved books, still worried, still the over-achiever. Remus sighed. They had a long way to go.

She looked at them questioningly, and Remus remembered that, besides her personality change, she had also lost ten years' worth of memory. He stepped forward and smiled. "Remus," he said. "And Tonks. We got married nine years ago. You were one of our bridesmaids."

She cocked her head at them, her own face rather heart-shaped, like his wife's, and peered up. "You do look sort of like Remus," she said. "If a little older. And yes, that's Tonks's pink hair. Though I don't remember it's being quite so spiky."

Tonks smiled. "I changed it after Teddy yanked a handful of it out because it was so long."

"Teddy?"

"Of course, you would have forgotten, wouldn't you? Teddy's our five-year-old son. You were his godmother."

"I was?" she breathed, her eyes wide.

"Yes, of course, and Harry was the godfather. I've explained to him about your memory loss, but please try to act as if you remember a little. He loves you very much."

She looked, and lo and behold, around the corner peeked a little head, still blazing electric blue.

"Aunt Mione!" he yelled, and shot into her lap like a little rocket.

She giggled as his hair tickled her nose, and held him tight as she began to understand and come to grips with all that she had forgotten.