A/N: "Thank you all for the reviews and support! Thanks again and enjoy!"—E

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oOoOoOo

Rain fell upon London cold and grey, and Remus awoke slowly, dreams fading into the mist. November had arrived, and even under the heavy blankets a harsh dampness could be felt in the air. His eyes closed, Remus listened to the sound of the rain. The day was stretched out before him, the hours and the minutes lined up, and part of him just wanted to stay there for eternity.

He'd been living at Grimmauld Place for almost two weeks now, spending most of his time in one of the small bedrooms on the third floor. It had been Regulus' old room, Harry explained, though Remus saw little of the previous owner' influence upon the space. Really, the whole house was greatly changed since he'd last been here. Harry not only had his parents' fortune but that of Sirius and the most noble house of Black in his bank account, and the renovation had spared no expense—just the quality of the bedding proved that. It was a strange sort of bubble, thought Remus. He'd never had much money, especially during his late teens into early twenties, and yet, in comparison, Harry, Ron, and Hermione lived in unapologetic luxury.

Remus forced himself to get up, his knees protesting as he walked to the small bathroom. Thankfully, the house was large enough he didn't have to share it with anyone else. Remus splashed water on his face, took a dose of Henry O'Hara's Habit Cure, which helped numb the biting desire already upon his nerves, and returned to his room to get dressed for the day.

He was about to head downstairs for breakfast, when a quick glance at the clock upon the mantel told him it was earlier than he'd thought. Remus paused at the door. He normally waited until the others had left for work in the morning, but they'd still be home at this hour. The idea of company, of voices and people around him, was unappealing. But, no, they wanted him here, to be healed and helped. It wouldn't do to hide from his hosts and their charity.

The stairs creaked as Remus moved down to the main floor of Grimmauld Place, but the voices in the kitchen, already so awake and energized, didn't hear him approach. Stepping into the shadows, he stood by the door and listened in.

"You like it—?"

"I really do! I'm just surprised—"

"Yeah, why didn't you cook like this that year we were on the run—?"

Laughter answered, the sound of a pan moving across a stovetop, cutlery on china.

"That kitchen in the tent was a joke, besides, we didn't have a muggle shop around the corner. Anyway, my Aunt Petunia had me cooking breakfast every morning by the time I was about seven. I couldn't help learning the basics."

From the crack in the door, Remus could see the trio in the kitchen. Harry stood by the stove, watching something in one of the pans, as Hermione and Ron ate at the table. Remus' eyes lingered on Hermione. She was dressed for the day in a robe of soft green, simple and professional. A large book was open on the table in front of her. Even as she ate, talking and laughing with the others, he could see her eyes skimming its pages.

"I'll leave some for Remus," said Harry, and Remus' ears pricked at the sound of his own name.

Hermione nodded. "Be sure to do a warming spell. Kreacher said he hasn't been getting up until ten most days."

"Right."

"It does make me a little worried," Ron leaned back in his chair, "leaving him alone during the day like this."

"But he hasn't left yet." Harry poured himself a cup of tea. "I think if Remus was going to bolt he would have done it by now."

"And his drinking?"

"Well, we emptied the bar and got him those alcoholism potions," Hermione turned a page in her book, "besides, Kreacher's been minding him during the day—"

The door banged into the wall when Remus walked in, and they all jumped at the sound. Moving to the coffeepot, Remus was pleased to see that they had the good sense to look embarrassed at his sudden appearance.

"Good morning, Remus," said Hermione, a forced cheerfulness to her voice. "Did you sleep alright?"

Remus ignored her, grabbing one of the coffee mugs off the shelf instead.

"We were, uh, about to head out for the day," Harry looked at the others. "I have some leftover bacon and eggs. I could make a little more toast if you want—"

"No, thank you."

His voice hadn't woken up yet, and the words came out harsh and cold. Again they glanced amongst themselves, and again Remus ignored them.

"Canons game Saturday!" said Ron, the conversation shift forced and awkward. "Should we try to go?"

"Saturday?" Hermione looked up at him. "We have your mother's dinner that night."

"Game starts at noon. Unless it really goes over we should have plenty of time."

"Hmmm," Hermione's eyes moved back to her book, "perhaps. But I'd like to get a little work done if I can."

"Oh."

Remus was scooping the last of the eggs off the stove onto his plate, but he was instantly aware of the drop in Ron's voice at her words. But a moment later, Ron was laughing it off. "After seven years I shouldn't be surprised you want to study. But it's the weekend. Do you really need to work so hard?"

"I told you," Hermione sighed, closing her book. "These first few months are going to be a lot. I have so much to learn."

"Still, overworking can't be healthy. I mean, well—Remus, you agree, right?"

Remus sighed and set down his mug. Yes, this is why he normally stayed upstairs. Turning around, he faced the trio. Hermione was looking up at him, her brown eyes on his, awaiting his answer and, judging by her body language, dreading it. How strange it was that he, the unstable alcoholic they were all so worried about, was the only one who understood what she was really doing. After all, half-a-lifetime ago she'd told him directly. "I'm an unspeakable within the Department of Mysteries, working specifically on time and time manipulation…" taking a sip of his coffee, Remus held upon the silence until Hermione laughed and turned back to Ron.

"Don't put Remus on the spot. Besides, shouldn't you two be going?"

"Oh, right." Ron jumped up, grabbing his robe from the back of the chair. "Are we still meeting Dean for dinner?"

"Seven-thirty," Hermione nodded, "muggle pub down the street from the Leaky."

Ron kissed her goodbye and then he and Harry made their way to the parlor. Remus could hear the sound of the roaring hearth as they floo'd away. The silence returned, and tension filled the room alongside it.

Hermione stood, cleaning up the last of their breakfast mess. "We used to go to work at the same time, but the Ministry Lobby became a bit of a madhouse when all three of us arrived together. After all these months it's still so strange to be treated this way."

"Yes," Remus took another sip of his coffee, watching her. "It must be a terrible burden for you to bear."

Hermione paused her cleaning. Then she smiled feebly and tried once more.

"What are your plans for today?"

"I have no plans," he answered. "Unless, of course, you know something I don't."

Hermione looked up in confusion. Remus knew he was being vague and cryptic, the innuendo for his benefit only, but he honestly didn't care. He dumped the last of his coffee down the drain and left the room.

oOo

Her brain hurt. It wasn't merely a headache, but a constant pain that seeped deep into her skull, and the more she thought about the assignment before her the harder it became to do so. Hermione worked with a muggle pen, calculator, textbooks and rolls of parchment at her side, but the theoretical math problem was enormously complicated. It had taken her most of the morning just to organize how to solve it—now it was the matter of showing her work.

Hermione was working with Benzotti that afternoon. Full name Bremante Benzotti, the wizard was small, ancient, and wrinkled, and he made Albus Dumbledore look like a young man. His skin was so thin Hermione was almost afraid to shake his hand when they first met, and his wispy white hair was so scarce, she feared a good breeze would take it away. Yet he seemed lit from within, a strength and light pulsating, and his mind was sharp, every memory quick within reach.

Most of the time Hermione worked with Guillaume, however, a few days earlier, her boss had gone missing. "Oh, he does this," said Benzotti when he found her in Guillaume's empty office. "He is often pursuing his own fields of study and disappears for a while. Come, we'll go to my offices instead." But Benzotti's offices weren't in the Ministry of Magic, rather a magnificent villa just south of Mancha in the heart of the Italian Renaissance during the 14th Century.

Hermione's eyes were on the parchment in front of her as she worked, but the view outside her window was of rolling hills and fields of golden wheat, the sun warm and the sky blue. She still found it somewhat strange to be almost 600 years from home, but when time is your art it is also your canvas. After all, Benzotti had a good point—why study in dreary London at the end of the 20th Century, when a simple twist of the turner could lead you here?

And as Hermione worked, her tutor was under a nearby loggia having a discussion with another man Hermione didn't know. While there were only four people studying within her current time at the Ministry, other clock-jockeys seemed to come and go here, the oddness of such travelers commonplace.

"Let's not forget that many muggles tried to create the Philosophers Stone, and while they didn't find their gold and immortality there were other benefits." Benzotti's bright and cheerful voice carried into the room on the warm breeze. "You must humor me, Nick—after all, isn't failure fuel for progress? Through this failure, muggles were able to develop their systems of Chemistry and stumbled across advances from porcelain to gunpowder. As for true immortality? Well, surely you've discovered its drawbacks—"

But, no, Hermione couldn't listen anymore. Unlimited time meant unlimited distraction, and Benzotti had traveled so far and met so many people throughout history, that just a handful of his stories could fill a normal man's lifetime. Right now, the parchment and the problem called to her.

She would be allowed to travel on her own soon, and have greater freedoms to research what she wanted, but first she needed to prove she understood just how it all worked. This process made sense—many of her friends were in apprenticeships for their fields—but still, Hermione hadn't realized just how much work it really was joining this department. For all the romantic attachments to this, the Italian Villa, the stories told by Benzotti, the time-turner sparkling around her neck, they did expect her to have a practical approach in this industry. And that meant studying and learning volumes upon volumes. But this is what she wanted, wasn't it? To understand how magic truly worked? To understand how the strings of the Universe were tied together?

"How is it coming along, my dear?" Hermione looked up as Benzotti walked in. He was smiling, his hair teased from the wind and his skin brightened from the sunshine, almost as if he had absorbed it. He pulled her parchment closer. "This assignment is quite a challenging one."

That was an understatement. On Guillaume's instruction, she was also taking an advanced class on game theory at Cal-tech twice a week. That was a walk in the park compared to this.

"Hmmm," Benzotti inspected her work, frowning, "perhaps you are overthinking your approach? Time is far from simple, but it's often direct."

"I've tried direct." Hermione leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes. "I've tried complicated. I've tried everything in between—"

"Well, just keep trying." Benzotti smiled and handed the parchment back, patting her shoulder. "Take all the time you need—after all, time is the one thing we have at our disposal."

This was true to a point. For Hermione, it was starting to feel like her third year again. As the Italian sun stretched closer to the horizon, she knew she could just go back a few turns, pick a different room in the Villa to study so she didn't see an earlier version herself, and repeat the sun-lit hours again. However, her internal clock refused to adjust, and the exhaustion of a day's hard work fell heavy upon her shoulders.

Still, Hermione forced herself to work for at least a few more hours, and thankfully she eventually came across a different angle she hadn't considered before. Coming to a good stopping point for the day, Hermione closed everything up and found Benzotti napping under an ancient olive tree. They turned forward to the present time, carefully organized so she could beat the rush hour at the floo-portals, and Hermione left for home.

Green flames spun around her. Hermione kept her eyes closed, but she could still see the glow behind her lids and feel the warmth upon her face. Her feet touched solid ground, and Hermione opened her eyes and stepped into the front parlor at Grimmauld Place, her bag in hand. The first thing Hermione saw was Remus. He was sitting in one of Sirius' wingback chairs, a book in his hand and equal surprise upon his face. They locked eyes for a moment, and then his surprise shifted to something else and he looked back to his book.

"Hey," she said, shaking the soot from her robes. "How was your day?"

He didn't reply, and Hermione stood, awkwardly watching him for a moment. Remus had crept into Hermione's mind all day. He'd been living at Grimmauld Place almost two weeks now, and even though his frame had started to fill out and he'd shaved and cut his ragged hair, Hermione still struggled to find familiarity in the man. She understood he was in pain. She understood that darkness, that despair, she had touched upon it herself, and yet…

Then he looked up at her. "Did you need something?"

There was such a strange darkness and anger in his eyes, an expression laced with something beyond mere depression, something that, unless she was going crazy, was directed specifically at her. It almost felt like someone had modified her memory or something. What had she done? Why was there this shadow across their friendship?

No. Hermione stood straighter. She adjusting her briefcase and flipped her hair over her shoulder. She was exhausted, her head ached from so much work, but this, whatever he was going through, was not her fault. And so she ignored him and moved to the hall, leaving Remus alone once again.

oOoOoOo

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A/N: "Definitely a fun chapter to write! A lot of this parallels Chapter 5 in Part I. In that chapter, Hermione is in a new place and Remus is starting a new job. Here it's reversed, and then that tension between them is repeated too. I also hope you liked my little easter egg with Benzotti and the guy he was talking to—I'm curious if you figured out who that was!"—E