A helpful reviewer pointed out my lack of reference to Hermione's mudblood scar which, in a strange fit of tiredness, I actually forgot about. Forgive me. I will now create a plot point to explain this away, haha. Also, I made a cover for the story! Unfortunately, the resolution is not fab upon upload, but I'm happy with how it turned out. Let me know whether you like it!
CHAPTER SEVEN – THE LINE BEGINS TO BLUR
The window was dirty. That was the first thing she noticed. An older woman, probably in her forties, looked at her. She was wearing the more modern clothes that Hermione was familiar with, the loose tops she missed dearly. Hermione frowned.
The woman was frowning at her, her eyes confused. Hermione thought maybe she was lost.
"Are–"
The woman had also opened her mouth to speak, and so Hermione shut hers. It seemed her acquaintance had the same idea – she looked a little embarrassed to have interrupted Hermione. Hermione gave her a smile, which the woman returned.
She thought it might be easier if she opened the window, so that they could interact better. Hermione grabbed onto the bottom ledge of the window, attempting to push it up. It wouldn't budge, and Hermione huffed in frustration. She looked behind her, but the room was empty.
Why was the woman also in an empty room? Why was she also looking frustrated?
Determined now, Hermione brought up her left arm to try sliding the window open – she couldn't see a latch anywhere so she thought she may as well try.
But upon doing so, the woman's arm also came up, as if to stop her. Her arm was thin but strong, and a mark was etched into the skin of her forearm as if newly created.
Mudblood.
Hermione looked up, horrified. The woman before her mirrored her expression, and it was then that Hermione discerned – this was a mirror, not a window. She was looking at herself.
Snatching her hand back as if burnt, Hermione breathed heavily.
Why was she so… so old? The similarities, now that she took note, were obvious. The same hair colour – a dark brown – although it was tamer than her own hair at twenty, which was the age she'd thought she was... her brown eyes were big in her face, wide set, and her neat nose seemed a little longer with age. There were faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, and a few around her mouth. She looked good, for a forty-something. But she wasn't one.
Hermione glanced down at her hands, perplexed. The same nails, closely cut. But they seemed more calloused, more aged. How could this be happening?
Looking back up, she jumped in surprise. Behind her were Harry, and Ron. Her friends! Oh, she missed them dearly! She smiled, her reflection following suit.
She looked a little younger, when she smiled. But Harry and Ron, they still looked younger still. They looked the same as when she'd left them to go out for some food, the same as back in 1999…
They were smiling, though, as if still friends.
How was any of this possible?
Ron's arm came up, and at the barest touch of his hand on her shoulder, Hermione–
Woke up.
Shivers overtook her. What a horrid dream. Her mind was playing awful tricks on her.
She felt sweat at her hairline, and rubbed it away haphazardly. Her chest stung with every breath, and Hermione looked around blearily, wide awake from her dream but still feeling remnants of its confusion.
The sun was peeking through the window of the shack. Hermione was on her side, her legs exposed to the cool sunlight. She shivered again.
She was naked. Teeth chattering, Hermione sat herself up, leaning on her right hand to stop the room spinning upon making herself upright.
"You move a lot in your sleep."
The voice made her jump despite its low volume. Hermione felt too worn out to be self-conscious about her nudity, instead choosing the easy option of covering up the most exposing bits and turning around slowly.
Remus sat, a cloak over his lap. He looked exhausted, the dark circles beneath his eyes making him look decades older despite his youthful, muscled body. His chest was scarred all over, Hermione's own gifts glaring at her in accusation. He was smiling pleasantly, though, and only frowned when she shifted her left arm to push more comfortably against her chest in an inelegant attempt to cover her nipples.
He can see everything else, what's the point? A little voice murmured at the back of her mind, but she cast it aside. She'd try to retain some of her dignity, at least.
"Your scar… I've never got a good look at it before. Only glimpses." Remus said softly, his eyes imploring. Hermione looked away, trying not to fidget.
"It says– …"
"I know what it says, Remus," Hermione said quietly, looking back at her ex-professor. "I've known for a while."
Remus looked pained, like she'd just kicked him in the balls without remorse. Winded, was a good way to describe him.
"But why?" He stressed, and the metre or so between them suddenly seemed a lot closer at the deeply concerned look on his face.
"Because it's a part of who I am, and it's what someone chooses to see me as."
"I'm sorry," Remus said, moving a little closer but keeping a hand on the cloak so it wouldn't fall out of place, "I'm sorry someone did that to you."
Hermione didn't say anything, simply looked at him. What was there to say, anymore? Bellatrix Lestrange had branded her in the best way she knew how: with blood and pain. There was something sadistic about carving a slur into someone's arm as you were torturing them for information. The memories were bad enough, but now she had a daily reminder of it. She kept it hidden, of course, from others. Long-sleeved tops, roomy robes, and a glamour charm all saw to it that Hermione only remembered the damned thing in the mornings when her pyjamas would slide up in the night. A charm would always wear off, and Hermione would often wake up to the sight of the ghastly handwriting, red and ominous. If it wasn't on her body, Hermione might have once called the spiky script beautiful, unique.
But it was on her body, and she hated it.
"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked after a minute, feeling the etched 'mudblood' press against her breasts, the feel of it imprinting itself onto her ribcage, burning through to her heart.
"Better," Remus replied, sensing her sadness, "At least, considering what we've been through the past few days."
She had not forgotten, and she would not forget anytime soon. The hair on Voldemort's head, thick and a dark brown like her own, had left its mark upon her mind. He was closer to human than he was to inhuman, and it frightened her. She had always assumed that Voldemort's evil came from a place of inhuman rage, inhuman lust for power, inhuman abilities. She hadn't wanted to think that he was human once, like her. That he'd been a student, or even a child. His visage had always helped her in avoiding these facts, but the Voldemort of this time wasn't as far gone yet.
Hermione knew, suddenly, why Dumbledore looked so tired in her time, though he tried to hide it. To see the complete disintegration of a human being would leave anyone too weary to hope for that person's redemption.
She shared his tiredness now. She had such a long road ahead of her.
At that thought her dream floated, sinister, through her head.
Her life had been far too busy, far too stressful, far too eventful, to warrant her future much thought. But it seemed, at the sight of a different Voldemort (although in many ways, very much the same), her brain wanted her to remember that she would age here. This was her life; this was her time now, and she would be waiting years for the birth of her friends, and decades before they would become the people she missed so much.
It was for the best, she thought as she gazed upon Remus's spent face, concentrating too hard on doing up the button of his jeans, that she make friends where she could. After all, everything had already happened, hadn't it?
When Remus offered her his arm as they emerged from the end of the tunnel under the willow, Hermione gave him the warmest smile she could muster, taking it gingerly.
The walk back up to the castle seemed quicker than usual, and instead of going their separate ways, Hermione and Remus made their way into the Great Hall together. Breakfast, for the first time in a long time, smelt as heavenly to her as it was sure to taste.
She sat down at the Gryffindor table, ignoring the pleasantly surprised looks of the Marauders.
Friends, she could do.
Boxing Day had passed by in a blur of food and conversation. She'd spent the majority of the day with Remus, sharing in his exhaustion and relishing in the energy of his friends. Lily, who spent the day with her family enjoying a second Christmas, would look over every now and then in the common room and smile. Whenever James noticed, he would blush a deep red, his hands fluttering about in indecision. His friends took pity on him and didn't point it out, though they shared amused looks.
It was getting closer and closer to ten in the evening, though, and Hermione didn't want to have to walk down to her quarters. She felt like her butt was engraved into the couch, having already sat there for hours talking, and eventually playing a game of Exploding Snap with James after much pestering. The way in which the boys could talk about everything but also nothing at all never ceased to amaze her.
The warm arm resting behind her on the couch, courtesy of Remus, was also difficult to depart from.
The events of the days previous were catching up to those involved, however, and the three of them were yawning frequently enough to have Sirius and Peter poking fun at first, and eventually whining like children.
"But it's the holidays!" Sirius complained as James suggested he might go up to bed, "Live a little!"
James rolled his eyes, and sent Sirius a witty rejoinder about living and almost dying a little several times in the past few days enough to leave him well satisfied. He shot Remus and Hermione a sly look, the latter waving a hand at him in admonishment, causing the others to chuckle.
"What's one more night?" Remus asked her quietly around ten, his mouth close enough to her ear for his exhales to be felt. The look on her face must have been indecisive enough for him to guess at the reason for her delayed departure from the common room. The backs of his fingers were running lightly across her shoulder. Hermione was thankful she was still wearing multiple layers, afraid of the goosebumps he would have felt if his hand had been touching bare skin.
She edged away, suddenly realising just how close he was to her person.
"I better get going," She announced to the group, ignoring the frown on Remus's face.
The night flew by, her dreams quickly forgotten upon waking. She stared at the worded scar that marred the flesh of her forearm for a long moment, the pillow strangely scratchy against her cheek, before shooting up out of bed. She got ready on autopilot, scrubbing away the grime of sleep sweat and preparing herself for another day.
Remus was… a problem.
She meant that in the best possible way, of course. His piercing eyes, his gentle hands, his deep but soft voice… Hermione found herself thinking of him at the most inopportune times – as she scooped her scrambled eggs onto her plate in the morning, as she was marking a third year essay, as Nettle and her practised duelling one another, as she glimpsed him at the Gryffindor table during dinner, when she was changing to get into bed, as she lay in bed, her hand travelling down over her stomach…
It had been so long since she'd felt comfortable enough to do such a thing, longer still since she'd felt she had any time to herself to do it. She felt vague, far away stirrings of guilt in her belly in the aftermath, but her limbs were too limp and her eyelids too heavy to feel them more fully.
First and foremost, despite how she thought of him and despite what she indulged in some nights, Hermione was his professor. Like he had been to her, many years ago (or from now? That still confused her). That meant she had to put a stop to the unreadable looks on his face (readable, but she refused to identify the emotions they held), the subtle touches, the way he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere all at once; the same mussed hair present in a sixth year, a slightly bluer green shade of eyes in a fourth year, the way he spoke sometimes reflected in another seventh year. It was the holidays, so she dreaded what other parts of him she might glimpse in other students upon their full return in January. She had to put a stop to it.
It follows, however, that these things have a way of falling by the wayside when faced with actual problems.
"Four children dead." McGonagall said to her on the morning of the 28th, sombre and hard-faced. "Near the Cokeworth area. The muggles are saying it's a house fire, but–"
Hermione put down her fork, the bacon swinging off it to land sticky onto the staff table in the Great Hall. The echoes of laughter just then from the Gryffindors suddenly seemed grating and intrusive.
"A warning." Hermione stated, her stomach like lead sinking to the bottom of a swimming pool, "He's angry."
"I assume so," Minerva said, looking for all the world as if she wanted to go right back to bed and sleep the news away. The blankness of her expression, ironically, told Hermione everything she could possibly want to know.
Minerva was scared. Hermione supposed Voldemort had not been such a prevalent threat before the events of Christmas Eve. He'd always been an absent figure, someone to blame for the ever-increasing terrors and wrongdoings of the wizarding world, but not entirely real.
He was very real now. At least, for everybody else.
Hermione had, for all her previous musings, always known he was all too real. It was just that she hadn't accounted for the changes of time.
"Excuse me, Minerva." Hermione stood up, her chair scraping harshly against the stone floor as it moved backwards. She ignored the sharp looks from the skeletal student body and fled the hall, her denim-blue robes billowing behind given her determined stride.
"Hermione!" Remus called, and she heard hurried footsteps behind her, "Hermione!"
She ignored him.
The wind was icy as she exited the Entrance Hall. She cast a warming charm over herself quickly, walking through the thin covering of snow on the ground. In the distance, she saw the giant silhouette of Hagrid, chopping wood near his cabin. She should get to know him, probably. Although he couldn't keep a secret to save his life, and her life was nothing but secrets these days.
She reached the gates quickly enough, her heart still pumping aggressively with purpose. As she passed the wards, she felt the tingle of her magic recognise its familiar freedom. She turned on the spot, glimpsing a running figure about a hundred metres away. Before she could make out the familiar face, she was gone with a pop.
Hermione appeared in an alleyway, an alleyway she had visited only once before.
She knew her clothing choices – decidedly wizard – would be glaringly obvious. But London was not yet fully awake, only the faint stirrings of life obvious in this particular suburban area. She removed her warming charm, England not nearly as cold as the Scotland she'd just departed.
Within minutes, she found the street. Another minute, and she was outside. She grazed her hand over the tree, her fingers sinking into the indents in the bark. It was large, just like she remembered. A little more gnarled, as if the winter had been unkind to it. She supposed it had. The whole neighbourhood looked a little worse for wear. It wasn't snowing, or even raining, but everything seemed to be dulled down, like a semi-transparent sheet of grey had fallen over the houses.
As her left hand rested gently on the tree, she glimpsed figures in the house nearest to it.
Her mother stood near the couch, looking down at something. A smile was fighting to break free on her face, and her hands rested on her hips. She didn't look angry, though. She looked amused. Suddenly, her head swung back, and Hermione heard a laugh faintly through the closed window. It must have been open the last time she was here.
Her father sat up quickly, grabbing her mother and swinging her. They were both off work – the New Year's period meant that no dentist's practice would be trading – and they seemed to be enjoying their time off. Relaxing, playing. Dancing.
Her father was now behind Ruth, his nose tickling her neck. Their hands settled on her abdomen, and the soft smile playing on her mother's face accompanied her slight blush.
Hermione looked away.
It was enough to know they were alive, and happy. She didn't need to see anything more.
Apparating back to the castle was, of course, a quick affair. She had probably not been gone for more than fifteen minutes total, and yet she felt like she'd been awake for hours. Her robes weighed her down. She cast another warming charm as the wind howled and trudged back up to the castle, morose.
It was better, honestly, to think of them as different people. Those people back in London, they weren't her parents. Her parents were older, lived in Australia, and didn't remember her.
Well, at least they all had one thing in common.
Sighing, Hermione returned to her quarters. Her previous thoughts of a day spent explaining to Remus that nothing could happen between them seemed entirely too presumptuous. Remus was just being affectionate. They were pack, in the loosest definition of the word. She was dominant over him, and he was probably trying to make their full moons easier. The last one had not been violent, the both of them too tired to act on any aggressive tendencies. But that didn't mean the same for the rest of their full moons together. In a way, Hermione would be thankful when the school year ended and she could find a job elsewhere. Or maybe she'd be dead. Either way, she wouldn't have to worry about hurting Remus anymore.
The teachers held a New Year's party in the staff room, of all places. Normally, Slughorn explained (he was awfully chatty with her after Christmas, Merlin knows why), they had drinks down at Hogsmeade, but with the recent attacks it was best to keep the school as protected as possible. Besides, wasn't it better when they didn't have to worry about the long, cold, sobering walk back up to the castle? Slughorn's logic seemed reasonable, and it was then that Hermione concluded she'd had too much firewhiskey.
Hermione made her excuses around eleven, talking about full moons and tiredness and the drink affecting her too much. Besides, she didn't want to end up kissing Slughorn, who had not left her side all night. No, she told Emilia with a sloppy smile, she'd kiss her books in the New Year and then turn in.
Ignoring the boos from other more inebriated professors and the twinkling eyes of Dumbledore, Hermione left the raucous staff room (who knew her former teachers were all so fond of Ogden's?) in high spirits. They weren't dashed, surprisingly, upon rounding the corner of the third floor? Fourth? She'd lost count, but she'd recognise the statue of Wanda the Wild and know to turn left towards her rooms. That's what mattered.
Regardless, bumping into Remus did not dampen her mood. Firewhiskey tended to do that.
"Hermione," He said, faux shocked. She could see right through him – despite having to fib for almost all his life, Remus Lupin was a terrible liar. She supposed he'd used the map to find her. A voice was screaming in her head that this was an important point, but she waved it away impatiently.
"That's me." Hermione replied a beat too late, "Remus." She said, trying to focus on his face. He was all swirly. "That's you."
"Yes." Hermione detected amusement in his tone and scoffed, annoyed.
"Well, what do you want?" She said shortly, trying to examine her fingernails like she didn't care why he wanted her. Considering she almost smacked herself in the face trying to bring up her arm, Hermione wasn't sure she'd pulled off the look.
"Are you alright, Professor?" His four eyes were looking at her with concern.
"Yes," Hermione said, an answer to both questions, "I'm your professor, Remus."
"Well, technically you're a professor's assistant," Remus countered, and Hermione's mouth fell open in indignation.
"I may as well be a professor, for all the teaching that I do!" Hermione exclaimed shrilly, forgetting that she was trying to project an aura of calm and gesturing wildly.
"Yes," Remus agreed, and he was close now, too close, "I suppose you should."
"Stop moving," Hermione grumbled, taking his face into both her hands. His cheeks were warm. She held him still, but he was still shaking about, "How are you moving?"
Remus's lips turned up in a smile, and crinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes.
"I'm not moving at all," He said softly, and all of his eyes flickered between hers too quickly. She couldn't keep track of them, the rapid movement making her dizzier than she was already.
"Yes, you are." Hermione said petulantly. An exaggerated frown was on her face. The drink, the drink was doing this to her. "You're always moving. Skulking about, looking at me, smiling at me."
He grinned.
"Yes! That!" Hermione said, removing her right hand from his face to point accusingly at him, eyes narrowed, "Always doing that!"
"I'm sorry," He said, not at all sincere. He was still smiling, after all. Those eye crinkles glared at her.
"No, you're not." Hermione groused. "But that's okay, 'cause I forgive you."
"Good." whispered Remus. Wait, how did he get so close? Why wasn't he looking at her? Why was he looking down, but his face still level.
Her head hurt with all these swirling thoughts.
"Anyway," Hermione said loudly, patting his cheek sloppily and taking a step back. "Have you seen Wanda around?"
"Who?" Remus asked, frowning. He looked a bit put out, but Hermione didn't really take notice.
"Wanda. Y'know, only performed wandless magic and lived in a forest for ages?"
"You mean Wanda the Wild?"
"Yes, I mean Wanda the Wild," Hermione confirmed dryly, giving him a look. He laughed.
"She's down one. You're on the fourth floor."
"Damn," Hermione muttered, reaching out a hand for the nearby bannister. "Alright, down I go."
"Do you need any help?" Remus offered, and Hermione saw him extend an arm.
"See you tomorrow, Remus!" Hermione called loudly, and proceeded to carefully step down the stairs.
They say how you spend New Year's is how you spend the rest of the next year. If Hermione was going to spend all of 1978 drunk and then horridly hungover, she wanted a do-over.
Stupid Slughorn, Hermione griped to herself as she held a hand over her eyes in bed, plying me with drink so I would laugh at his stupid stories.
As the cool water hit her face in the shower, Hermione's thoughts became a little more coherent.
What was I thinking? Merlin, imagine if I'd gone spouting off about Harry and Ron. What would I have done then? Silly, silly girl.
"Alright, Professor?" Sirius called out to her as she passed between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables down the centre of the hall. She scowled, ignoring his snickers. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Remus grinning, too, and scowled again for good measure. Stupid Marauders.
Thankfully, she was hardly the worst looking at the staff table during breakfast.
"Last night was a mistake," She heard Sinistra mumble to herself, "A big, big mistake."
It would've been hilarious in the future. Now, with no one to grin at in a shared joke, she just felt a little miserable.
"Cheer up, Hermione," Nettle nudged her, spearing an oozing egg, "It's 1978. A new beginning, and all that."
Hermione grunted, not willing to point out she knew a lot of what would happen that year, even if she couldn't currently remember specifics.
"So glad you accepted my invitation last night, Hermione," Slughorn said too cheerfully just as she was about to get up from the table, her food well and truly devoured. She looked past Nettle to the Potions master – he'd somehow managed to switch seats with Kettleburn, and his smug smile said it all.
"Your invitation?" Hermione repeated dumbly.
"My invitation to one of my fabulous get togethers! After hearing about your stunt at Christmas from Filius, I daresay I have some people I'd like you to meet. Expect my owl." He told her, and Hermione's horrified face must have not registered with him for he beamed at her before departing himself, speaking of currently simmering potions that needed checking up on.
Hermione retreated to her rooms for the day once more, ignoring the sly looks of James and Peter as she passed by the Gryffindor seventh years again. She couldn't be certain, but she might have glimpsed Lily smacking James upside the head just as she passed through the doors into the Entrance Hall.
The next day brought troubling news. Hermione was beginning to seriously dislike 1978, considering the way it had started.
TIME TRAVEL MADE POSSIBLE, MINISTRY RELUCTANT TO DISCLOSE DETAILS
Sources close to the writer confirm that the ministry has developed magic that enables the caster to travel back in time. How long they can travel is undetermined as of yet, but sources say the Department of Mysteries is being extremely careful about how it is handling this new magic.
"Obviously, this kind of thing in the hands of the wrong person could be catastrophic," My source explained, "And with the way things are at the moment, no one is too enthusiastic to lose something this important to… any unknown entities."
They are, of course, referring to the continuing rise of You-Know-Who, a wizard so disastrous that not even this defiant newspaper is willing to publish his name.
Hermione put down the Prophet, not bothering to read the rest. Was anyone even remotely intelligent in the seventies? Talk of not wanting to point Voldemort in the direction of time turners but then publishing a whole article on their creation?
As always, Hermione considered the Daily Prophet complete and utter tripe.
Carefully, Hermione refused to comment on the article, feigning mild interest when anyone spoke of it. It thankfully passed into obscurity without much fuss. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.
The students were due to return to the castle on the eighth, and Hermione felt like her break had been entirely too short. Of course, she had spent a good few days hospitalised, and avoiding Remus was really a very good time waster… she had nothing and no one to blame but herself.
In avoiding Remus, however, she had been spending an awful lot of time in her rooms. In doing so, Hermione had managed to work her way through all her books loaned from the library. It was time for some new material.
Which is how she'd found herself cornered.
"What brings a girl like you to a place like this?" drawled Sirius, casually plopping himself down next to her in the library. His newly taken chair was awfully close to hers, and Hermione moved her own chair away without taking her eyes off the page.
"Ignoring someone is very rude, you know." Sirius commented, and Hermione rolled her eyes before looking up at him. A dark eyebrow was raised, and a hint of a grin rested on his face.
"What do you want, Sirius?" Hermione sighed, shutting her book in frustration and giving him her full attention. Best to get him out of her hair as soon as possible. As much as she might have fond feelings for the boy, their personalities were too different for her to be able to stand him for more than an hour, at most. Hermione sincerely hoped she wouldn't have to endure him for longer than that, ever. Although, she thought with a pang, if it meant he wouldn't fall through the veil, she could be negotiated with.
"Straight to the point, I like it!" He exclaimed, earning them both an angry glare from Madam Pince. Sirius held up his hands in surrender, chuckling when the librarian eyed them suspiciously and then turned away.
"You're ruining my good reputation with Madam Pince, so this better be good." said Hermione, turning more fully toward him. Their knees were touching, and Hermione wanted to kick his legs away, but she was going to be nice if her life depended on it – Sirius disliking her was not ideal, she had learned. Best to stay on his good side. He was, in a lot of ways, like his crazy cousin.
Bet he'd love to hear that, Hermione thought to herself, holding back a snort.
"I need help." He proclaimed. It was Hermione's dark eyebrow that rose this time.
"Oh?"
"Don't look at me like that," Sirius rolled his eyes, looking a little contrite after the action. At her lack of reprimand, however, he ploughed on. "Look, you're the best dueller six ways to Sunday. Or so James and Lily tell me."
"Remus?" Hermione interrupted, a little hurt at the absence of his name. Sirius rolled his eyes again, not looking at all contrite this time.
"Remus has been telling me you're an amazing professor since day one, I don't need him rubbing this in my face."
"And what exactly is 'this'?" Hermione prodded, ignoring the funny feeling in her chest, especially as it travelled up her neck and into her cheeks.
"I need you to teach me how to duel properly. And I don't mean formal duelling!" He added quickly as Hermione opened her mouth to respond, frown etched into her brow. "I mean real-life, hard-core duelling where you're not sure you're going to come out the other side alive."
"Sirius," Hermione started, her tone reminiscent of a warning – the only way she could describe it, "Why do you want to learn how to duel like this?" Although Hermione agreed the students could use all the help they could get, she wasn't sure one on one tutelage of Sirius was possible from her perspective. She'd be spending more than an hour with him every week on a regular basis. It almost made her white with dread.
Sirius had a determined look on his face.
"Truth is; I want to be an Auror. Can't do that if I'm shit at surviving, can I?" Sirius said. Hermione gave him a short glare at the language, but otherwise let it go. She couldn't really fault him. Hermione found her care for such things had become very lacking since her arrival in this time. She tried, though, to hold onto old Hermione-isms. Just to maintain her sanity.
"Besides," Sirius said, a playful glint in his eyes, "I can make it worth your while." And a warm hand rested on her knee.
Hermione looked down, gobsmacked. She simply stared at the appendage, shocked.
Before she snapped out of it, and glared at him fiercely.
"I'm a teacher, Sirius, as you just previously mentioned," Hermione reminded him, dismayed by the still gleeful look in his eyes, "I'd like you to remove your hand."
Sirius gave a bark of laughter, his hand sliding off of her knee in the process.
"Your face!" He crowed, and they received another sharp glower from Pince, "I knew there was a way to get to you, and I've found it! Wait 'til James hears about this!"
Hermione added her own scowl to Pince's, and proceeded to shove Sirius off of his seat. He flailed comically before staring up at her in awe.
"You know," He said upon righting himself, winking at her. "It's a shame we didn't become friends earlier."
There was a pause, where Hermione was sure Sirius expected her to roll her eyes or say something demeaning, but she couldn't help it – instead, Hermione gave him a remorseful look and replied, full of sadness.
"Yeah, Sirius," she said, and his face sobered into a faded facsimile of a grin, "It is."
He cleared his throat after a moment, awkward as he sat back down. It was too hard to leave on such a heavy note, and Hermione seized the opportunity to ask a question that had been burning at the back of her mind for weeks.
"How're things with you and Remus?" she asked, "Has he forgiven you yet?"
Sirius brightened, beaming.
"Yes, thank Merlin! That boy can hold grudges forever."
"I don't know…" Hermione trailed off uncertainly, thinking of the mild-mannered Remus of the nineties. She'd never really seen him fired up, like Sirius had when he mentioned Remus hating Umbridge. Apart from that, he was always the epitome of calm, someone that emotions just bounced off of.
"Believe me," Sirius said intensely, giving her a wide-eyed look, "Remus has a temper to rival that of my mother, he just doesn't have as many triggers. You'll find out soon enough," Sirius ended mysteriously. "So!" He changed tack brightly, "When are we having these duelling lessons?"
When she looked back on it, Hermione really ought to have punched Sirius before he said such a thing. Because it seemed, in a weird twist of fate and misunderstandings, she was at the bad end of Remus's anger as soon as term began. She hadn't seen him at all in the lead up since her talk with Sirius – duelling lessons once a week for a few hours in the Room of Requirement on a Tuesday night (spoiling her Tuesdays, but Sirius refused to meet on Fridays) – and had felt grateful at the time to escape his intuitive scrutiny.
Classes returned with little fuss – although Slughorn's invite arrived in the morning post, citing the 21st as the date to be booked in – and her duelling lessons didn't start until the second week, but it was on the twelfth that Hermione was left totally and utterly confused.
Remus had always been an active participant in class; at least, after everyone had warmed up to her a bit. So the fact that he was staring resolutely ahead and not participating at all was irregular. The fact he was doing this only during Hermione's portion of the class was highly suspicious.
In a rare act of laziness, however, Hermione didn't really have the energy to deal with Remus that Thursday. Emilia and her had taught until after dinner, and she was exhausted from that, so exhausted that she just up and left without giving homework, keen to get into bed and berate herself for ever thinking the Christmas break had been a little boring.
When Remus didn't bump into her, or find her, or talk to her throughout the whole next week, however – even when she'd deliberately stayed behind during the Ravenclaw versus Slytherin match in the hopes he would seek her out – she figured something was wrong. It wasn't as if she was hard to find – in fact, Hermione had abandoned all her usual avoidance tactics by the third day of this nonsense, her curiosity getting the better of her. Just what was his problem?
"Professor," Lily Evans asked hesitantly during the second week of term, thwarting any of Hermione's efforts to catch Remus's eye and ask him to stay back after class.
"Yes, Miss Evans?" Hermione said, avoiding those green eyes and sorting absentmindedly through some papers on the desk in the Defence classroom. Mary seemed to be hanging back with her friend, standing awkward a few metres behind her.
"I was… well, that is, we were wondering – and you don't have to agree, I would understand if you didn't want to; of course, you're busy, so you'll probably say no, but–"
"Lily," Hermione interrupted softly, looking somewhere around Lily's left cheek, "Get to the point."
"Right," Lily agreed with determination, "I want to start a duelling club."
That left Hermione surprised, although she couldn't fathom why.
"You do?" Hermione asked, perching herself on the edge of the desk facing the two girls. It made sense. Lily had just faced Voldemort, anyone would want to improve their chances of survival after that. "Alright. Do you need me to sign an approval slip?"
Lily and Mary looked at her as if she'd lost her own head.
"We want you to lead it, Professor." Mary said, coming forward. Hermione looked at her. It was much easier to look at Mary, whose eyes were a beautiful hazel.
"Oh." Hermione said faintly, bringing a hand up to tug at her hair. She'd worn in out in a rare display of feminine care, and had been tugging at it all day for something to do with her hands.
The thought of not having to teach Sirius alone made her perk up, all of a sudden enthused. And, she realised, she needed to reinstate some sort of authority with the students. She was getting by fine with the younger years, but the fifth years and up – especially the Slytherins – saw her more as an equal than a professor… which meant some of them weren't listening to her in class, or handing in their essays on time.
"Well, yes." Hermione answered jerkily, brightening up as the girls stood taller in satisfaction, sharing excited looks, "I would love to. It'll have to be Tuesday evenings, though, I'm afraid."
The two Gryffindors shared another look, although this one was a little nervous.
"Well, the thing is, Professor, that Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs have Astronomy on Tuesday nights." Lily explained, adjusting her book bag on her shoulder.
"The only other day available with my timetable is Friday, girls." Hermione said, frowning in thought, "And somehow I don't think the students will want to be in duelling club on a Friday."
"We sort of knew this, already," Mary admitted, looking a little sheepish, "And so we composed a list. We got the prefects to hang up these up in every common room, thanks to Lily. Here's everyone who'd be willing to join a duelling club held on Friday nights."
Lily passed her sheets of paper – Hermione only just realised she was holding some, having tried to only look around her ears or her cheeks or her hairline to avoid the green eyes.
Hermione took the papers, looking down at them in wonder.
A page for each house of almost every student fifth years and up.
"Are you sure you told them Friday?" Hermione asked, shuffling through the sheets, eyes wide. "Are you absolutely sure?"
"I mean, it's expected not everyone will turn up every week. People just expressed interest and, well, I think the lists speak for themselves." Lily said.
"Well, I'm sufficiently shocked… but if Friday works, then I'll be there. I suppose we'll have to have it somewhere big…" Hermione didn't fancy telling everyone about the Room of Requirement, lest everyone start using it and she be left out in the cold when she actually needed it, "I suppose we might be able to temporarily remove the tables from the Great Hall." Thoughts of fourth year and the Yule Ball hit her. Yes, that would have to do.
"And you, Professor?" Mary asked as Lily took back the lists and put them in her bag, "Wouldn't you rather be doing something else on a Friday night?"
Hermione should've been angry at the insinuation that she should have better things to do than teach duelling on such a night, but she heard it for what it was – an honest inquiry.
"No," Hermione answered, smiling, "Duelling club will be… fun." She hesitated to use the word, but she didn't want to let them know that having an excuse not to be alone with Sirius Black was worth anything.
By lunch time the next day, the news was out. Hermione conferred with McGonagall about the organisation needed to rearrange the house tables by the following Friday. Apparently, the house elves would be more than willing to help them. Hermione couldn't help feel a little offended on their behalf at the thought, but didn't particularly want to get on the bad side of the elves in this timeline; not when they delivered her favourite sweets to her rooms the day after the full moon. Sometimes you had to concede.
After that, Hermione spent her day teaching and, to her vexation, thinking about Slughorn's party, which was the next day. Why he was having it on a Hogsmeade weekend, Hermione didn't bother to figure out – Slughorn worked in mysterious ways, mostly focused on making connections with as many well-connected people as he could.
As much as she wanted to, Hermione couldn't really rescind her appearance at the party – she had agreed, after all, even if she had been intoxicated at the time and couldn't remember anything the next day – but that didn't mean she was looking forward to the event. And, as much as she loathed to spend her money on anything unnecessary, Hermione accepted that she would have to buy dress robes for the occasion. And so she would go to Hogsmeade that afternoon in search of something, and hope not to run into any surly Gryffindors along the way.
She might have to put a bit more effort into her face, as well, considering the full moon was only days away – were the interim periods between each full moon getting quicker, or was she going crazy? – and she would likely look terrible. No use adding fuel to the rumour flames. Hermione was sure there was probably a smart third year out there who knew her secret. After all, Hermione had figured it out at that age. Although, she took care not to assign any werewolf essays around the full moon. She wasn't Professor Snape.
Although no snow was falling, it was still cold. January didn't mean better weather in Scotland, not even close. So Hermione donned a woollen cloak after her last lesson of the day – first year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws – and made the trip to the wizarding village.
Gladrags was, thankfully, busy enough to be open on an early Friday evening. Hermione entered, grateful to be out of the cold. She went straight to the second-hand section, perusing through the robes for something that looked decent enough, and didn't smell.
After at least ten minutes of searching – the racks were stacked full – it seemed fruitless. The robes were either too fancy, or too casual. She was a professor, and therefore had a certain image to maintain. She would err on the side of fancy if it came to it, preferring to look overdressed than underdressed; you could still impress if you were overdressed, it just drew attention. Despite the fact she didn't want attention, it was better that than be the laughing stock of the whole school.
With a longing glance at the aforementioned section, Hermione turned her back on it and went to the sale racks, the next tier up in robes.
It was busy enough that, thankfully, the cashier didn't have time to personally assist her. This sat just fine with Hermione, who always ended up arguing with the assistants over something and offending them, receiving cold looks the rest of her visits to these kind of shops. Alone was better in this instance.
Sighing, Hermione selected a few of the cheaper robes – none of the styles particularly appealed to her, the seventies an era of fashion that she felt rather embarrassed of – and proceeded to the changing room.
The first was a deep red; it was the colour that had drawn her. However, whilst the colour was magnificent, the plunging neckline that she hadn't noticed before was too inappropriate. She considered, though, that it would be the kind of dress she would've chosen in the future – an adult now, she'd wanted everyone to know it. After the war, where clothes were considered valuable if they were practical, Hermione had bought a few dress robes that contradicted her usual style – conservative, but still flattering.
The second dress didn't suit her – the violet colour was garish, and the shape of the dress made her look frumpy. Hermione had put on a few pounds in her months at Hogwarts. This was understandable, and she wasn't critical of herself – but the dress just did not suit her curvier body shape.
The third dress didn't even fit, and so Hermione mournfully placed it back on its hanger after her failed attempt.
The fourth dress was the winner. It surprised her. Floor-length (it was winter, she wasn't crazy) and silver it seemed to make her pale skin glow. It was an unusual velvet-type material, something that reminded her of the nineties. It was why she'd picked it from the racks, in a fit of sentimentality for the awkward fashion of her time. Weirdly enough, it worked. The neckline was a flattering v-cut, a little revealing but nothing disastrous. It was a halter, as was fashionable, and flared out slightly at the waist. Simple, elegant, flattering. She would've preferred something a little less attention seeking, but for the decent price it would have to do. She could probably use it with some black robes for the seventh years' graduation ceremony, too. At that thought, she quickly remembered shoes, grabbing a pair of clunky black heels in a popular style as she exited the change room.
Getting into the dress the next night, she suddenly doubted her choice.
She'd make-upped her face enough for it to lose its wan tone, applying some blush over the concealed dark circles and faint scratches. Light eyeliner and mascara with some classic shimmery eye shadow and she had even herself fooled – she didn't look ridiculously tired, just her usual tired. That was good enough. Her hair was up in a loose curl atop her head, with soft tendrils falling down the sides. Sticking charms were wonders.
But the dress, with the high heels and the simple silver pendant, seemed too glam.
I guess that's the point, Hermione surmised upon looking at herself in the mirror, it's the seventies.
Still, she felt awkward and clunky like she didn't know where to put her limbs, like they didn't know how to sit properly.
Sighing, Hermione tucked her wand into a thigh holster – a bit excessive, but she wasn't one to go out much without it these days – before letting her dress fall smoothly back down her legs.
Feeling somewhat naked – she didn't have a cloak or coat as the castle was very warm, and there was no need for a purse of any kind – Hermione left her quarters and made her way down to the dungeons.
She, of course, had no date. Professors didn't have dates, and besides who could she ask? Sirius? Hermione scoffed at the idea, amused, as she entered Slughorn's office at just after eight o'clock.
The office was, as with most of them, separate from the classroom. The Defence office, shared by herself and Emilia, was relocated to behind the classroom for this year. Slughorn, though still in the dungeons, had enlarged his office to fit all the guests inside – and there were many. The walls were draped with colourful cloth, as if Slughorn had wanted to display he was not biased toward any house. The colours were muted in that seventies way, however, so that they could blend well together. There was a great big chandelier in the middle of the room, crystal and sparkling. It seemed that was the main attraction, for it dwarfed the food and punch table it hovered over. Fairies seemed to be flitting about the outside of the room, sticking to the fabric hangings as if they held sweets inside them. The room's lighting was dim, matching the jazz and blues Hermione could hear coming from the furthest corner, at which a very short woman sat at a grand piano surrounded by a band. There were tables and chairs to sit at with a group all around, with a small clear area dedicated to a dance floor, where a few couples were milling about, too awkward to dance. Hermione covered her mouth with her hand, holding back a laugh.
"Hermione Huxley!" Slughorn boomed, causing everyone nearest to the door to look her way. Fighting the fire blooming in her cheeks, Hermione smiled as politely as she could.
"Horace," she greeted, kissing his chubby cheek to avoid a close hug, "This is… something you've got here." The beauty of talking to Slughorn was that you didn't have to do much of it. Simply start him off on something and he could do all the talking for you.
"Yes, yes, took me hours to do up, but I do enjoy it! Oh, I'm glad you've made it – there are so many people I'd like you to meet, come over here, this is Tilly Toke, I'm sure you've heard of her?"
Hermione went to say that yes, she did in fact know of Tilly as she was on the Chocolate Frog Cards of her childhood, when Slughorn interrupted her.
"Received an Order of Merlin for saving a beach of muggles from a dragon! Magnificent stuff. Hermione here helped out our own Miss Evans this Christmas…"
Hermione tuned out, simply nodding along with a wide smile. Tilly and her shared an amused look at Slughorn's enthusiasm, and Hermione decided she rather liked Tilly in that moment, especially when she went on to explain away her accomplishments when Slughorn went to get them a few drinks. It would take a while – he was stopping at almost everyone on the way there.
"My whole family was part of it, of course, I wasn't the only one. Can you imagine, battling a dragon myself? Next think you know they'll be putting me on a Chocolate Frog Card!" Tilly was shaking her head in disgust, and Hermione bit her lip to keep back her laugh this time.
A familiar face walked past, and Hermione grabbed her arm before she could leave. Her date joined them as well, looking a little intimidated at the selection of women he was surrounded by. If Hermione remembered correctly, it was Theodore Kray, a sixth year Slytherin who didn't subscribe to the 'purebloods are superior' doctrine.
"Amelia! Please, do join us." Hermione stared her down, willing to disagree. Amelia's red hair was curled fabulously, framing her tanned face well. Her gold gown, a little more revealing than Hermione's, made her feel a little better about her own attire.
"Professor, of course." Amelia replied with a knowing grin. She was in sixth year, a Hufflepuff. Hermione, of course, remembered her in the future as well. Amelia Bones was hard to forget.
"Ah, Miss Bones! Fabulous! I'll leave you three to it for now, but I've more people to introduce to you yet, Hermione!" Slughorn said upon returning, gifting them with the sparkling berry punch and moving on to others, his voice easily heard over the chatter and music for its enthusiasm.
"As much as I do love these get togethers," Tilly said, gazing around, "They are a little stifling at times."
"Definitely," Amelia agreed, taking a sip of her punch, "Professor Slughorn means well, but I always end up arriving right on time and then leaving early. I'll be glad to be remiss of these when I graduate."
"Did I hear correctly – your last name is Bones?" Tilly asked, looking extremely interested in Amelia, "I love what your parents are doing in the Ministry, especially–"
Hermione spent a good amount of time with the group, talking to Theodore when Amelia and Tilly got into an especially zealous discussion about happenings at the Ministry. Theodore was quiet, but not because he was shy. He simply didn't like to talk too much, preferring to say more with less words. Hermione, seemingly constantly surrounded by people who liked to hear themselves talking, appreciated his company very much.
It was maybe an hour into Slughorn's party, all the guests apparently accounted for, before Hermione decided she was going to mingle a little more despite the pleasant company. Maybe that way she could avoid the next party invitation with minimal guilt.
The band were playing more familiar numbers now, a mix of dance numbers scarily similar to ABBA and more upbeat rock hits; surprisingly, a mix of both muggle and wizarding bands.
"Hello, darling," A voice purred in her ear, a matching hand coming to rest at her waist and squeezing with familiarity. Hermione shoved him off with a sharp elbow, hearing his grunt of pain. She smiled in victory.
"Oh, Sirius, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise that was you." Hermione said, acting innocent. Sirius's glare showed that he wasn't buying it, which was Hermione's intention all along.
"You've got pointy elbows." He muttered darkly, reaching around her to grab at some nibblies, quickly stuffing them into his mouth unattractively. Hermione screwed up her face in disgust.
"I can't say I'm surprised you've been invited, Noble House of Black and all," Hermione commented in an offhand manner, feeling a weird sort of relish at Sirius's dark look. He drank deeply from his newly procured punch, wiping at his mouth when he was done.
"Luckily that's all I share with them, a blasted name," Sirius said lowly, looking miserable.
"You're awfully dramatic, Sirius," Hermione observed, looking about the room mildly. She refused to admit she might be looking for someone in particular. "Your family aren't all bad eggs. What about Andromeda?"
"How do you know Andy?" Sirius asked, frowning.
"Oh, just heard about her is all. Caused quite the ruckus, marrying a Muggle-born. And Andy?"
"She hates it." Sirius grinned, mischievous, "It's become habit by now."
Hermione nodded.
"Well, Sirius, as lovely as this has been, I need to talk to people more on my skill level. Good night." Walking away, she heard the barking laughter of the dark-haired prankster and smiled.
Weaving in and out of the crowd, trying not to spill anything on her new dress, Hermione managed to reach the far corner of the room near the band, where a few unfamiliar faces were hanging about. Deciding to spread herself a little thinly – after all, a common face was a forgotten face – Hermione approached them. They were interesting enough; they had to be, to be invited; but they definitely weren't the sort of people Hermione would think to invite to a party.
Laughing a little forcefully at a terrible joke, Hermione picked up a cheese tart as a food platter floated past and took a sip of her fizzy punch. As it moved out of view, she saw him.
He was walking straight towards her in robes of a charcoal shade, his face calm but incredibly cool, like he was on the brink of flinging into the complete opposite – hot-headed and angry.
"Mr Lupin," Hermione greeted, trying to hide her nerves with a bright smile, "How nice of you to join us. Have you met–" Hermione turned to introduce the wizard next to her, a man who specialised in goblin negotiations, when Remus interrupted her.
"Oh, Mr Lupin now, is it?" He asked her, the picture of calm. His eyes, steady on her, were the only indicators of his intended tone.
"My friends," Hermione addressed the three wizards, who looked entirely uninterested by her drama, "Please excuse me."
Putting a gentle hand on Remus's upper back and leading him away, Hermione took a deep breath. They reached one of the stone pillars toward the outskirts of the room, hiding them partly from view. It was still a busy party, though, and Hermione found herself closer to Remus than she wanted just so he could hear her.
"What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" Remus exclaimed, quietening down only at a few interested stares sent their way. Hermione glared at the nosy students, who hurriedly looked away, "Sirius is what's the matter." He seethed, looking mutinous.
Hermione frowned.
"I thought you'd forgiven him?" Hermione asked, genuinely stumped. Remus's chest was heaving, as if he was taking deep breaths to calm himself. Well, they definitely weren't working.
"I have forgiven him. But he's been all over you, and–" He cut himself off, too worked up to go on.
"Remus," Hermione said, affronted, "What are you talking about? I spoke to Sirius for five minutes, if that. And besides, who are–"
"He held you," Remus hissed, "Like this." And he grabbed her roughly, squeezing her waist exactly as Sirius had. Hermione glared at him.
"And I did this." She said, pushing away his hand with a strength unknown to her. "I would appreciate it if you didn't make assumptions about what other men can and can't do to me, Remus."
"What about the library?" He insisted doggedly. "His hand was on your knee."
Hermione didn't think she could roll her eyes harder.
Men.
"Sirius is an idiot. He was asking me for a favour and subsequently tried to have me on for a laugh. Remus," Hermione continued, a little softer at his name as she frowned at him in concern, "What's the real issue here?"
Remus stared at her, and then suddenly deflated. Suddenly, his imposing figure transformed to look lost and incredibly, incredibly tired.
"I haven't been sleeping. I– I can smell everything, and you're–" True to form, Remus couldn't finish his sentence.
Hermione heaved a great sigh, ignoring the way Remus's eyes flicked to her chest. It was close to the full moon; she would forgive him.
Hermione put her right hand on his shoulder, her thumb brushing the base of his neck. He swallowed thickly, staring at her acutely.
"Remus, you've got to stop fighting what you are." Hermione said, realising this was a conversation she shouldn't be having at Slughorn's party, but seeing no other way to have it safely and quickly. "Part of the reason why you're feeling these symptoms so intensely is because you're pushing them away for most of the month."
"It's what I always do," Remus countered, "And it's never been this bad."
Hermione pursed her lips.
"Trust me," Hermione insisted, squeezing his shoulder. He looked stricken. "It's probably because I'm around, and your full moons are different. Please, just… just let yourself be, for one month."
They stared at each other, the chatter and music in the background going by unnoticed, before Remus slowly nodded, looking down at his feet.
"As much as I hate to encourage this sort of behaviour, Sirius and I are not together in any sense of the word," Hermione confirmed, politely ignoring Remus's relieved expression. This possessive behaviour was deeply unflattering. Hermione didn't remember Remus being this way with anyone, not even a best friend who had been lost to him for twelve years only to return and prioritise his godson. "And even if we were, I can spend time with anyone I want. I'm your professor before I am your pack member, and it's important you remember that."
Remus's face hardened, impassive, before he gave a short nod.
"Where's your date?" That ought to get him a little more enthusiastic. He smiled mildly instead, looking off to her left. She followed his gaze.
"Flirting." Remus observed, and Hermione saw he was looking at Lily, red hair vibrant and artfully done in a bee hive style. Her white dress had elaborately detailed bell sleeves, the whole garment flowing to the floor in soft, layered chiffon. Hermione was impressed.
James was enamoured.
"You and Lily came together?" Hermione asked, intrigued. She realised Remus hadn't moved away from her despite their conversation returning to normal volume. She wasn't sure she could move back herself, the warmth of his breath tingling her cheek as she looked on.
"She invites me because all my other friends are invited by Slughorn himself."
"Peter?" Hermione asked, looking to Remus in surprise. His face was awfully close, his lips looking soft and–
No.
She turned back to the future Mrs Potter, feeling warm.
"Peter hates Slughorn, so no. But my other idiot friends, yes."
"Well," Hermione began, a fire deep in her belly at the thought of Slughorn not seeing Remus as worthy for his pathetic gatherings, "I can assure you, being handpicked by Slughorn means nothing. He sees us as only pawns on his way to notoriety." She took a distracted sip of her abandoned punch, suddenly extremely thirsty.
"I'm not sure about that." replied Remus, and Hermione turned her head to see him staring at her, absorbed. Hermione blushed, and took a step back to get some air. In fact, that sounded like a good idea.
"I'm just going to get some air. I'll see you later, Remus."
Leaving Slughorn's party early would have repercussions for the future, Hermione was sure. She dreaded the next party already; the relaxed atmosphere, the ease with which one might find themselves leaning in for a kiss…
Back in her quarters, scrubbed clean of makeup and hair unstuck from her head, Hermione lay in bed, staring at her newly exposed forearm with distaste. Sighing, she turned to blow out her bedside candle, cloaking the room in darkness. It was barely eleven, but Hermione was out like a softly worded Nox.
Her tiredness did not abate over the next few days, drawing a few worried looks from Nettle on Monday.
"If you can't stay awake, please don't teach," Emilia pleaded, sweeping her raven hair out of her eyes, brown and concerned.
"I'll be fine." Hermione reassured her through a yawn, and powered through the classes until after dinner that evening, collapsing onto her bed and straight into sleep just after kicking off her boots.
Waking up on Tuesday morning was an incredible feat. Her limbs had felt heavy, pulled down by invisible weights. She'd had to forgo a shower, too pressed for time to take one – it was important she eat, and so breakfast had taken precedence over cleanliness. She'd simply cast a hasty Scourgify knowing it would have to do, and changed.
Tuesdays were her favourite working days, as she finished early and had the rest of the afternoon to do what she wanted (although she was often resigned to a lot of marking). So it was a shame that it was a full moon, for her free period was cut short and she was waiting at the Entrance Hall doors at four o'clock. The sun would set in half an hour.
Remus joined her, as was usual, and they silently made their way to the Whomping Willow, as was also usual.
"McGonagall told me she cast a few warming charms on the Shack, considering the last time we woke up there." Hermione remembered awkward bodily reactions, and cleared her throat, "So it shouldn't be so bad."
Remus nodded grimly, taking off his scarf and cloak as they entered the top-most room of the decrepit building, its peeling wallpaper exposing dark wood underneath. The roof seemed to be dripping water in the corner, and it looked like it was sagging. Hermione suspected that the only thing that kept it upright was magic.
As Hermione carefully undid her bra and shimmied out of her knickers, she started at the touch of a hot hand on her right shoulder, quite close to the nape of her neck.
"Remus," Hermione breathed, turning around. This was much closer than he'd ever been right before the full moon. The sky looked dark grey, the sun keen to be lost behind the horizon. It would set fully, soon, and the moon would rise, engulfing them.
Remus looked a mess. He was paler than even she was, and the claw marks on his chest were a deep red under the smattering of hair there. If Hermione didn't know any better, she'd say they were newly done, only a day or two old. His hand on the side of her neck squeezed it painfully, although Hermione knew that wasn't Remus's intention as he used her to stay standing, hunching over and clutching a hand to his sternum with a loud groan.
"Remus? Remus, look at me." He groaned again, Hermione's frantic hands on his face tilting it up toward her. His body remained bent over, the pain too great to lengthen his muscles into standing. His eyes were pained, the mossy green looking less and less with every moment, his pupils widening.
Asking what was wrong was futile, but the sudden onset of the transformation symptoms, and so early at that, left her wondering. Her own symptoms were the usual – unease, restlessness, tiredness… she wasn't feeling any pain yet, although the unease was increasing ever so slightly with every breath.
"Just keep looking at me," Hermione urged him, voice low as she brought his forehead to hers, crouching to his level in the process. Nudity was the last thing on her mind, this moment completely devoid of sexuality.
Hermione bit her lip at the first wave of pain, trying to keep it together a little longer for Remus, although it would make things worse for her in the end. It was what she'd been trying to tell Remus during their first transformation together, after all – fighting it off was pointless as you couldn't will away the werewolf, no matter how desperate you might be to do just that. Letting it in was always the best course of action.
"Breathe through it," Hermione murmured, moving her thumbs back and forth across his cheekbones. He was panting heavily, breathless. "Just breathe."
Hermione took her own advice as another wave of pain came over her, this time remaining a steady assurance in the background. She was helpless to let out a groan of pain, her bent limbs shaking with the effort to keep herself at Remus's level.
They fell to the floor together, and Hermione's hand moved to grasp his, her knuckles white with how hard she was clenching.
Her bones were making the ominous sounds they always did and then Hermione blacked out; Remus's wide, bloodshot eyes the last things she saw.
The day was dark with dawn when Hermione woke, bleary eyed and famished.
Her back was warm and comfortable, and the floor beneath her was as well. However, her entire left side was cold, and she wished she had a blanket to pull over herself.
Sitting up, Hermione saw the rest of the room was as it had looked before the transformation. Considering she felt no new pains in her body, they must have been relatively tame last night. Maybe the Marauders had joined them later, after dinner. They couldn't be there for the transition from man into wolf, but they could be there throughout the night, leaving early the next morning so as not to draw suspicion.
Looking over her shoulder, Hermione gazed upon Remus, who lay next to her. His eyes were closed, and he looked peaceful. She knew, however, that upon waking he would be very sore, like her, and very tired. Especially, Hermione frowned, given last night. His exacerbated symptoms would be something she'd have to research. She knew werewolves experienced different levels of pain at different stages on the full moon, but she'd never heard the Remus of her future mention feeling it before the sun truly set – in fact, he'd seemed to be able to hold it for a fair few hours under the cloudy night sky that one evening in her third year.
Maybe I should stop comparing them.
Turning around more fully, Hermione faced him, ignoring her bare torso in light of Remus's closed eyes. Normally he woke earlier than her, or at least at the same time. Not to mention every Hospital Wing visit had him awake hours before.
"Remus?" Hermione croaked, and subsequently cleared her throat to rid herself of the scratchy feeling that resided there. Hermione shook his shoulder gently. "Remus?"
He groaned, long and low, bringing up an arm to block the muted sun that shone in his eyes. Sensitivity to light was common, both before and after the transformation.
"Hermione? What–?" He looked around, eyes half-lidded, a little confused at their surrounds. Abruptly his expression cleared. "Oh."
"Come on," Hermione said quietly, helping him sit up, "Let's get dressed. Breakfast has probably already started."
They dressed slowly but quietly, Hermione's own mind racing with thoughts of prolonged transformations and increased symptoms.
Breakfast had indeed started when Hermione entered the Great Hall, Remus set to follow a few minutes after. It felt, weirdly enough, like they'd just come back from a tryst in a broom closet, guilty of something.
Hermione pushed those traitorous thoughts aside.
Although she had fifth years in the morning, she had a free period after and no classes after dinner. It was a light day, everything considered.
"You missed our appointment last night, Huxley," Sirius commented as she went to leave dinner that night, thinking she might snag some werewolf tomes from the library for a bit of before bed reading. She had to pass by his group at the Gryffindor table to leave the Great Hall, and been subsequently called out.
"Sirius," Hermione warned, and he smirked. "Haven't you heard, anyway?" She continued, her tone now light, "Our appointments are cancelled. Duelling club is on Friday night every week for the rest of term."
"Friday?" Sirius asked, swearing under his breath, "I better let Marlene know. See you later, Professor." And he shot up, making his way over to the Ravenclaw table.
Hermione smiled at the three boys left behind, although James's gaze was directed somewhere down the Gryffindor table. Hermione didn't have to guess about who he might be looking at. Remus and Peter both returned her smile, although the former looked a little worse for wear. She'd have to speak to him on Thursday about it. Her eyes flicked to Peter. She didn't really want to linger with him around, despite his friendly countenance in classes.
"Duelling club?" Hermione heard Peter ask as she walked away, "I'd hate to be on the wrong end of Huxley's wand."
Thursdays were always tiring, jam-packed as they were, and despite picking up books on werewolves the night before, she'd been too tired to focus on them properly. Her talk with Remus would have to wait until she knew a bit more.
Despite her talk of it on Wednesday, it wasn't until she finished up with the first years (her last lesson of the week) that Hermione remembered she'd have to lead the Duelling club after dinner.
"What do duelling clubs usually do?" Hermione asked Nettle as they were packing up from their lesson on disarming spells. Cushions littered the room.
"Ah, yes," Emilia said, smiling as she waved her wand and levitated a cushion into the large boxes they were packing them away into, "I'd heard about that."
All of a sudden, Hermione felt a little guilty. The Defence position was, after all, technically Nettle's. And yet the students had asked her, the assistant, to lead the club.
"I could use your help, you know," Hermione suggested casually, also levitating a pillow into a box, "The two of us work well together, and sometimes I find it hard to control the Slytherins." Which was a bit of an understatement. She and Mulciber tended to exchange sneers, and her ability to remain neutral when it came to Travers and Lestrange after what James had heard was wavering. A lot of the Slytherins were respectful, but it was hard to ignore those that wouldn't hesitate to hurt her if they saw the cursed scar on her left forearm.
"Really?" Emilia asked, raising her eyebrows. A small smile formed on her face, "I mean, I know the children didn't ask me, but–"
"Honestly," Hermione assured her, as she placed the last cushion into the box, "You'd be a great help. Besides, there's probably a law somewhere that says there needs to be more than one adult to supervise over twenty kids."
Emilia laughed and, after shoving the boxes to the side of the classroom, they both made their way to dinner. The roast lamb went down a treat with mint jelly, and Hermione felt full and satisfied as she hung around the Great Hall. Dumbledore gave her a polite nod as he left for what she presumed would be his office, and she returned it.
"I'm thinking you should discuss the differences between regular duelling and what you've experienced first," Emilia suggested as the house elves popped into existence and began vanishing away the tables – where they were sending them, Hermione had no idea, "After all, Lily Evans asked you, right? After the events of Christmas, I'm sure her intentions were to learn more about facing Death Eaters than they were to learn about official duels."
"Right," Hermione said, nodding. "I'm thinking we start with disarming spells and go from there. I don't want people getting ahead of themselves. Once we've got their body movements right, we can work on spell variety and the possibility of non-verbals."
"I think you're on the right track. Don't worry about it so much," Emilia added at Hermione's nervous face.
"I feel like I'm not going to live up to the expectation," Hermione said as the students chatted eagerly, shooting her excited looks.
The turn out was admirable. Hermione suspected people would drop off in the coming weeks, prioritising other school work over a voluntary club – but the rumours about Christmas were still running rampant, and a curious student body would not be stopped until they got some sort of answer. Hermione rather felt like a spectacle.
"I'd like to thank our Head Girl, Lily Evans, for organising this." Hermione said, giving Lily a smile. There was a smattering of applause, the murmurs of the crowd still evident. Hermione would guess about a hundred students were milling about the Great Hall.
"This is a duelling club, but not your normal duelling club." Hermione thought of Lockhart and frowned, "We're not going to be conducting any formal duelling. Miss Evans and… others–" Hermione saw Sirius perk up, nudging James as if to let him know she meant him, "–stipulated that they were interested in learning about combat they might actually partake in after they graduate. That is to say, combat an Auror might face, or someone particularly unlucky."
"So we're going to start off first with how you should be orienting yourselves. Then, as the weeks progress, we'll move onto divvying up your spells and the best ways to quickly incapacitate someone before moving on to the next person. If you've got any particular requests, please let me know at the end of today's meeting and I'll see whether I can incorporate it into the schedule," Which she would have to write up, now that she properly thought about. More work to do. "Any questions before we begin?"
The room was silent, before a particularly brave Gryffindor fifth year raised her hand.
"Is it true?" She asked, her straight blonde hair shining in the firelight, "That you fought You-Know-Who at Christmas?"
There was chatter around the room, soft murmurs of discussion at the bold question.
"If any of you have come here to have rumours be either confirmed or denied, you should leave." Hermione announced, fighting the waver in her voice. She'd never been very good at speaking to such a large group. Where was Harry when you needed him?
"That being said, my hope with this club is that by the end of term, any one of you might be able to face off Voldemort–" Many flinches, some glares, and a gasp or two, "–and escape with your life. Now, disarming spells."
The meeting went on smoothly enough, Emilia and Hermione splitting the room in two and having the students face one another. Cushions were all over the floor, and they focused on how to position yourself to minimise your target, and to be flexible enough to dodge when required. Her seventh years were way ahead of the younger two year groups, having practised this in class. The most accomplished ones she set about the room, helping out the younger students.
The meeting was only an hour, and it flew by. Before she knew it, Hermione was bidding everyone goodnight and thanking them for coming, putting away the cushions and requesting the elves return the house tables to their normal spots.
"Thanks, Professor. This was great," Amelia Bones said as she left, her robes a little rumpled given the hits she'd taken. Hermione nodded in acknowledgement, shooting her a small smile.
"I was hoping for something we didn't learn in class," Sirius griped, stopped at the doorway into the Entrance Hall. Lily and James were talking a few metres away, and Hermione hid a smile. Remus was hovering by his black-haired friend, and Peter had already left to go back up to the common room. "I can't believe I cancelled on Marlene for this."
"Sirius," Hermione sighed, as if she was a disappointed mother, "We've got to get the other years up to scratch. Don't worry, next lesson you and I can have a go at one another." His answering grin was evidence enough of the fact that that was exactly what he'd been hoping for when he baited her like that. Hermione grumbled under her breath, annoyed at herself for falling for it.
"What are you doing this weekend?" Hermione directed her question to Remus, ignored Sirius's faux offended expression, a dramatic hand on his chest.
"Not much," Remus answered, smiling at Sirius's aghast "Moony!".
"There's something I'd like to research with you, if you don't mind." Why not have Remus join her? Maybe that way she would have more of a goal to her reading instead of 'bad werewolf symptoms'. Besides, the air still felt a little stilted after Slughorn's party and, after having come to the conclusion that she would like to have some sort of connections in the wizarding world, even if a lot of them would be ripped away from her or her away from them, Hermione figured studying together would be a good start. "Library just after lunch?" She suggested, hopeful. Remus nodded, and they both ignored Sirius's huffing.
"One friend leaves me for a girl, another for a professor. Peter and I better get married or something." He muttered, not really angry but wanting them to think he was.
Hermione found herself smiling long after bidding them and Professor Nettle goodnight. It was good to feel useful again, she thought as she pulled the covers back on her double bed – even if she knew that all she was doing was fulfilling the timeline. Despite the morose voice at the back of her end saying otherwise, it really felt like she was making a difference.
Hermione blew out her bedside candle, warm and snug in bed.
February was looking promising.
How are these chapters getting longer and longer? Help me.
Also, for anyone interested I made a Remione playlist on 8tracks AGES ago. Here's how you listen: Go to 8tracks, then add /violentoversight/this-splintered-mast onto the url
Check it out! I might make another one but specifically for this story, so watch this space. Thanks for reading, and I would love to hear what you think. Until next time!
