A/N: Mature references begin with this double-chapter.
For Peque Saltamontes
SEVENTEEN
Pathetic, really, the way he follows, half a block's distance behind her, as she steps carefully in heels made for a different sort of woman, in a dress that does not protect from the chilled November air. Remus knows that her choices that evening are purposeful; she is speaking to him with each pointed refusal to turn around; she is shouting her anger with each pub window that she lingers near, searching through thick glass for the right sort of patrons.
He cannot think of a better way to punish him than this muted roar of defiance.
All of his earlier attempts to apologize, to call on her attention, to beg a few minutes had been rebuffed, with silent relish, and even when he attempted to draw on their years of acquaintance, of the shared familiarity those years had given them, she had merely shut her parents' door. It was only when his temper finally escaped him that he finally evoked a response. He'd called her a child, and with that word her eyes had narrowed, and an hour later found her on the cold street and him following behind.
She disappears into a seedy corner doorway, a single letter from the pub sign with bulbs enough to be lit. He slinks in after her and slouches to the back. Her dark eyes, so tempered to kindness, flash with something foreign when he gives way to her avoidance.
She orders a drink, the short squat glass filled with a colorless liquid that she swiftly knocks back. A second is sent her way, a smiling blond in its wake. The man asks her a question and when she laughs, the sound is a strange one. It falls falsely and yet the man takes no notice.
Remus watches as, after an hour more of chat and drink, the man whispers in her ear and Hermione nods, her expression resolute.
He follows again, obedient to his self-made promise to remain at a distance. But she challenges him- she does not wait for the Muggle's flat. It's her arms that pull the blond into a side alley; it's her fingers that caress through his trousers. Remus should leave; he should turn and vanish back to his home, block his ears and blind his eyes- but he remains, the cold air thick with the sounds of faint sighs and rustling clothes.
The man satisfies himself in her hands, and when he moves to return the favor, Hermione leaves.
Remus waits for her to make her way to another alley, to return home and a door that closes too loudly for nonchalance. His breath catches as she passes him, her eyes a scorching glance of reproof, and draws the back of her hand purposely across her mouth. His fists clench, his chest thick with a buzzing fire that has no tinder, no fuel beyond his own muscle and bone.
He follows still, as she returns to her parents' house and its magicked rose trees, and he begins to understand. The lights follow her ascent within the house, the switches flipping on and off as she trails up the staircase and down a hall, the final light coming to the corner bedroom. He watches as her outline rests near the curtained window, the faint lines of her hands on the cloth.
She is watching, too, and Remus- he begins to understand.
She's drawn a line, and he must choose whether to cross and follow her over it.
EIGHTEEN
The agency sends its sixth message, the owl carrying it angry enough to nip at her fingers and draw blood even after she offers it a treat in thanks. The letters are cordial enough, she supposes, but the latest letter contains phrases like 'breach of contract' and 'damages.' Hermione balls up the parchment and aims for the dust bin, just missing its edge.
A howler is used on the tenth attempt, along with a formal Ministry summons regarding magical misconduct. It's this final threat, of a public remand and equally public hearing regarding her use of latent magic- her damned blue flames!- that finally pushes her into writing a response. She is equal parts wrathful and terrified; it has been two months since she last saw him, following her in the dark. It has been three months since he tricked her.
She can't forgive him, and yet she wants nothing more than to see his tired, curious eyes.
Had it affected him, then, when she'd allow the odd stranger to kiss her in the moonlight? Had it revolted him, or enraged him? Had he been tempted to violence, or merely driven to sickened pity?
Hermione doesn't know when she regressed to sixth year antics, but there's a cruelty in her heart that wants only to draw his blood and watch it drip, slowly and thickly, until it bubbles about her ankles and paints her toes. He is forever calm and undisturbed, and she hates the thought that his interest- his pique of concern- is some latent paternalistic care. She is no child, and surely, now, he must realize it.
When she arrives at his townhouse, her hair tightly bound and her lips drawn in desperate defiance, she can't name the emotion that hits her when she finds the rooms empty. A note waits her in the kitchen, the script familiar and dear. She reads it twice, and then, with a care she allows only because she is alone, she folds it and tucks it near her breast.
The sandpaper is rough against her fingers, and the years of misuse and malcontent disappear from the floorboards; her muscles ache, and in that feeling, she draws back something of herself.
