Chapter 91: Monday, April 5, 1982

"I felt at one and the same time quite close, within reach of my hand, and an infinite distance away."

-Francois Muriac

The stars were barely visible against the dark indigo of the sky. Wispy, silver clouds streaked across the night, blurring the twinkling light that shone through. The wind kicked up, sending a slight chill down Remus' spine. He gathered his cloak around him—the threadbare fabric useless against the early spring air. Remus adjusted his knapsack on his back, tightening the straps on his shoulders.

He didn't have much to bring with him. A few pairs of his best trousers and a handful of tee shirts that he knew Hermione was rather partial to. The journals she had left behind, a sack of wizarding money, and the remaining phials of calming draught.

Three days.

I know.

I want to run.

I know that, too.

You better find her.

I will.

Remus sighed and pulled the blade from his pocket, his hands shaking in anticipation as he carefully wrapped his sleeve around the fully silver dagger. He felt uncomfortable, like there were ants under his skin—something trying to crawl and tear its way out through his flesh. He felt hot and cold at the same time, a sheen of sweat on the back of his neck accompanied by full body shivers. It was too close to the moon for so much stress, and he could practically feel Moony pacing circles in his mind. Daring him to fuck this all up.

He gripped the handle, hissing as his sleeve slipped and the silver singed the crevice between his thumb and forefinger. He swore out loud as a blister instantly bubbled up on his skin. Drawing in a deep breath for courage, he pressed the blade to his hand and drug it across his palm, searing his skin as it sliced open his flesh. The blood began to pool and he reached up to grab the thin chain around his neck, shaking the stone out from under his shirt. As he wrapped his hand around it, he began to speak.

"Ego offerreanima mea: dedi sanguinem meum."

The air shifted around him, the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably, the hair on his arms standing on end at the sensation. His mind was blank, so intently focused on the steps he needed to perform this monumental task that he didn't dare think. He pressed forward.

"Magicae obscurum et invocavi, sanguine anime. Quero voluntatem redire sanguinis detrimento nullam scientiam."

The long grass of the Yorkshire ground rustled, licking his ankles. Cool bursts of air swirled up his legs, wrapping him in a strange cocoon of electric-static air.

"Per sanguinem enim petere praesidium quod mihi en itineribus et crescent. Per ipsam animam meam ego rogabu ut mini in peregrinatione mea sitas. Ego offerre anima mea: dedi sanguinem meum!"

The air twisted fiercely around him, a tornado of buzzing magic. He felt a pressure building on all sides, the air shallow in his lungs. His heart began to beat at a thunderous rate, pounding wildly in his chest and Moony was snarling in his head.

What is this? What the fuck have you done?

It's the only way to get to her.

You're killing us, you dickhead!

We aren't going to die.

You ignorant cunt! We're going to die! You're going to kill us!

"Ego offerre anima mea! Dedi sanguinem meum!"

Remus' voice rang out, loud but unsteady, as he gasped for air. His legs buckled and he staggered forward, falling to his knees in the grass. He could feel the stone glowing hot in his hand, a magnetic pull keeping him from unwrapping his fingers from the amulet.

In a rush of galvanic wind that sizzled through his hair, he felt the warmth begin to fade. His eyesight blurred against the maelstrom, bright pops of light scattering across his field of vision, forcing his eyes closed.

Moony howled in his head, screeching against the walls of his mind, fury and terror breaking his voice into pieces as Remus struggled to breathe.

This was how he would die.

He felt a bubble of laughter force its way up his constricting throat. Of course this was how he would die—bloodied and strangled by some sort of strange magic he didn't understand, while trying desperately to grasp onto the tiniest bit of happiness he'd hoped to be able to have again. Moony was right. He was absolutely fucking pathetic. A complete pillock.

And then suddenly, like somebody had flipped a switch, he could breathe again.

Remus took deep, gulping breaths of cool air and his body lurched, falling onto his hands. He felt nauseous and disoriented, the world spinning around him as if he had just consumed a bottle of Firewhisky. He slowly regained his bearings, his racing heart calming to a steady pitter-patter, the buzzing quieting to a low and peaceful hum.

Everything looked the same—more or less. The grass was still long, the trees still in the early stages of budding for spring, the seemingly deserted cabin to his left. He pulled himself to his feet and took a deep breath through his nose. The air smelled different. The heavy scent of wet earth from the rain was still present, but there was just something he couldn't place. He moved toward the cabin and reached out a tentative hand, gripping the handle and pushing the door open.

He coughed when a plume of dust swirled in the air.

The cabin looked mostly the same. The couch was the same broken, shabby piece of furniture that had been there before. The table was bigger than it had been, newer. There was a mug left on the counter and he could smell the spoiled milk in the tea, ancient from what he could tell. Every surface was thick with a layer of dust. Cobwebs hung heavy in the corners of the ceiling, and the windows were filthy and streaked with grime.

The cabin was definitely still his, and definitely not lived in.

So, I'm dead here.

Or not living in squalor for once.

We both know it's far more likely that I'm not alive in this time.

Probably topped yourself off.

Remus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His head was pounding and he needed to lay down. He would deal with his arrival, and whether or not his older self was alive, in the morning. He needed to rest.

Twenty-two days, now.

Remus' brows furrowed. Well, that was something pleasant at least. He would get an extra few weeks before he had to turn. Hopefully, he wouldn't pay for it later, but judging by the angry growl of Moony in his head, he was sure he would.

He pulled out a filth-covered chair from the table and sat down, wincing at the groan of the wood under his weight. Had his life amounted to nothing? He pressed his elbows into his knees and cradled his head in his hands. Moony was probably right. If he had died in this time, he had probably gone and topped himself off. Merlin knew he wouldn't have done anything important enough to be killed in battle, and judging by the empty bottle of Firewhisky on the counter, he still took to drowning his problems instead of facing them.

He sighed heavily and scrubbed at his face.

He needed to find Hermione, but now that he was here he didn't know where to start. He shrugged out of the manky old knapsack on his back and pulled it open, rummaging through it for the journal she had left behind. He knew it front to back now, had read it cover to cover so many times he was sure every word was memorized. He knew what was in it. And, not once was there mention of where she had been staying in her own time. Only that she was with Harry and Ron and whoever the hell Draco was.

He racked his brain, going over the multitude of conversations he'd had with Hermione in the last two years. Had she mentioned where she was staying? Had she ever even said what town she was in? He knew the war was still happening, she had talked about that as much as she could without giving too much away. But, what was her place here?

The Order.

He needed to find the Order and figure out where to go from there. He flipped through the pages and lingered on the entry written when James had been captured and held in the dungeons with Marlene. God, he had been so terrified that day. His skin still bore the marks of the silver chains that had seared into his flesh, and he still had nightmares about Hermione being in that room with him—trying desperately to take his pain away. Yet, all she had written on the page was I'm afraid I won't get to tell him I love him.

There was evidence all over the journal, written in neat, curly writing, that she had loved him just as quickly as he'd loved her. And yet, he had questioned it. He had said terrible things to her to make her feel like he didn't value what her love meant. She had spent—no, wasted—two years of her life with him and he had gone and told her he thought her love was conditional. When she had been proving over and over that everything she did was because she loved him. Trying to get her memories back, figuring out how to break the vow so that she could stay, even if it meant turning into a monster…

Merlin, he was worthless. He didn't deserve her. No one deserved her.

He set his sight on the bottle that sat on the counter again and with a sigh, pushed himself up from the table to rummage through the cabinets. It was with only a touch of malice that he laughed when he found an unopened bottle of the cheapest firewhisky he had ever seen wedged beneath the pipes of the sink.

Monday, April 8, 2002

His skin was on fire.

Not literally, of course, but the heat that radiated from his body had him convinced that should someone open a canister that contained something combustible, it would explode and send the house blazing in seconds. His bones ached and his head was throbbing and all he wanted to do was lie on the cool floor and sleep until the day passed. Time travel was not conducive to lycanthropy.

Today should have been the full moon, had he been in his own time. He had no idea what to expect today, but he knew his head was pounding and his stomach was in knots and Moony had not gotten the memo that there was nothing he could do about the change of lunar cycle when coming to a new timeline.

I want to run.

I know. I know. I know.

It should be my night! You fucking idiot, you couldn't wait until the waning?

You can't have it both ways! You want me to find her or you want to run? Pick one!

If you didn't keep me locked in cages—

I don't have a choice! If you weren't a bloodthirsty beast I could let you run!

This isn't about blood, you sod! You keep me locked in cages all month, not just when I'm out.

You've lost your mind.

That's fucking rich.

Remus groaned and rolled over, ignoring the pang of hunger in his stomach. He hadn't eaten anything solid since his arrival and he could feel his head swimming from it. He bit back the acrid taste that teased the back of his throat and pushed himself into a sitting position.

Hogwarts.

He would go to Hogwarts today and talk to Dumbledore. He would remember him, he would know what to do. And, at the very least, he could convince the old Headmaster to take pity on him and feed him a decent meal.

After a much needed shower and draining the rest of the bottle of firewhisky he had been nursing for three days, Remus stepped into the afternoon sun. With a crack he disappeared from Yorkshire and appeared in the early spring chill of the Scottish highlands, just outside of Hogsmeade. He bunched his cloak tighter around himself and headed through the high street, eyes raking over the lopsided buildings that still looked as familiar as they did from his own time.

There was a strange twist in his gut as he passed The Three Broomsticks and he idly wondered if Madam Rosmerta was still around, still slinging over-full pints of butterbeer to students and slipping McGonagall double shots of Gigglewater when they thought no one was paying attention. It felt like a lifetime ago that he had been here with James, Peter and…

He swallowed the lump in his throat, his chest constricting as a shaking, angry breath pulled from him. Every fond memory of the little magical village was now tainted with the knowledge of Sirius dancing through his mind. How many secrets had they all shared together here? How many trips to Zonko's to buy dungbombs or Honeydukes for Chocolate Frogs? How many inside jokes and silly anecdotes in his memories were now polluted by the betrayal of someone he had trusted most? He felt sick, nauseous in a way that made his neck sweat and his mouth water.

He staggered to the side and gripped the uneven brick of Scrivenshaft for support, trying to catch his breath. His hands shook as they came to scrub his face, trying to wipe the bleary vision from his eyes.

She's close.

You don't know that.

You're an idiot, I do know that. She's nearby. Can't you feel her?

The only thing I feel is a splitting headache from you and the need to vomit.

Stop being a cunt for four seconds and pay attention.

Remus closed his eyes and took in a slow, deep breath. He willed the bile creeping up his throat to recede and when it finally did, he waited. It felt like eons that he stood, slumped against the side of Scrivenshaft waiting for something to happen but—oh! There it was. A strange prickling in his chest, a tug that radiated from behind his sternum to the tips of his fingers, rippling through his spine… Connection. Like his magic was slowly prickling and prodding its fingers into something else. Reaching and grasping at invisible strings that bound him to Hermione.

Told you.

Remus' eyes fluttered as the heady feeling pulsed through him. He slowly pushed himself away from the wall with a new resolve. She was close. Perhaps she had taken to Hogwarts for cover? Maybe she was living somewhere in the Village, but wherever it was, she was nearby and he wouldn't waste another second sitting here, feeling sorry for himself.

The Marauder's Map had been a brain child of them all. Remus, of course, had taken it upon himself during his first year at Hogwarts to keep track of every passageway he came across that got him to his destination faster. A post-transformation body wasn't always the fastest moving, even at the age of twelve, and the short-cuts the Marauders had found had been most beneficial. Over the next couple of years, the list turned into a catalogue, and after spending several hours on a binge of all things related to magical cartography, Remus had found himself with a hobby.

Mapping the castle out had taken all four of them. Finding the secret passages that led out of the school, the different routes that led to strange rooms that spit you out at different parts of the castle, the staircases—ever changing. There was a pattern to it all, and he had prided himself in his ability to find them.

Creating the charms to adhere them to the map had taken far more effort. It wasn't just footwork—hours of aimless wandering about the castle in James' Invisibility Cloak hoping for a new passage leading into the kitchens. It was spell building and charms work that was more advanced than they had ever tried. It was trial and error and, when they had finally cemented something that would finally fucking work, it was one of the crowning moments of his Hogwarts career.

And now, Remus found himself thankful—more than ever—for the long hours spent in the library pouring over books like Quintessence: A Quest and all seven volumes of Chadwick's Charms. When he stepped out from behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy and the smell of lunch wafted down the first floor corridor, he knew the hours of mapping the castle had been useful. If anything, he could always rely on Hogwarts to remain unchanged.

He quickly made his way up the stairs and through the crowds of staring students. He felt awkward and gangly—just as he had when he, himself, attended. Funny how years could pass, his life having changed drastically, but in the halls of somewhere so familiar he still felt as he did at sixteen. He moved as fast as his aching body would allow, sticking to the shadows to try and blend in. He knew all too well that it wasn't every day that a six and a half foot werewolf stalked the corridors of the school. At least, not anymore. Well, probably.

Remus came to a stop outside the gargoyle statue and realized he was in a bit of a dilemma. He had no idea what the password was to get into the office and on his fifth try at some random sweet, he was beginning to lose confidence that Dumbledore had stuck to the same password regimen over the years.

"Sherbet Lemon," Remus sighed, his sixteenth try.

He jolted when the gargoyle shifted to the side, the stone groaning and scraping loudly against the flagstone floors as it moved. He suddenly felt jittery and nervous—unsure if this was the best idea or not. But, sod it, he'd already come this far and if the thrumming in his chest meant anything it was that he was this much closer to seeing Hermione again.

His knuckles had barely scraped the door at the top of the stairs when he heard a voice tell him to enter. He swallowed, trying to stifle his nerves and pushed the door open.

Sitting behind the large desk at the high-backed armchair was not an ancient man with a long white beard wearing plum robes that sparkled with constellations. But, instead, a severe looking Scottish woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and a pair of glasses perched on the end of her nose as she continued to read whatever parchment was on the desk in front of her.

"Professor McGonagall?" Remus asked, his brows pulled together and his voice a touch higher than normal.

At a snail's pace, she set down the quill that had been quietly scratching against the parchment and looked up over her spectacles. Her eyes narrowed and then grew wide with recognition. She sat back in the chair, face completely drained of color.

"Mr Lupin," she stated, her voice contradicting her expression of shock.

Remus stood between the open door and the desk, feeling every bit as dumbfounded as he was sure he looked. His eyes finally pulled away from McGonagall and roamed the wall behind her, flickering from an empty frame at her back to the occupied one to it's left. His mouth fell open when he saw a large portrait smiling back at him, eyes twinkling as if they had never stopped, trapped forever in charmed oil paints.

"Remus," the portrait of Albus Dumbledore said. "I had wondered how long it would be before we saw you in this office again."

"I…" Remus opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find the words. Finally he blurted out, "You're dead?!"

"As a doornail, I'm afraid," Dumbledore said, smiling from the portrait. "You seem to be very much alive, however."

"I—yes, I am." Remus said, feeling very confused.

"Lupin, sit." Mcgonagall ordered.

Remus welcomed the command, the barked instruction feeling almost comically natural to him from his years of detentions in her office. He fell into the chair across from her and stared around the room, noting the small changes that had been made to the office from what he could remember. There were less than half the trinkets and strange spindly items that Dumbledore had kept. Gone was Fawkes' perch and Remus couldn't help but notice the tea-tray in the exact spot it had been on the edge of the desk when he had last been to the office. With some level of guilt, he recalled how he had flung the teacup to the ground and yelled at Dumbledore.

"You were grieving," Dumbledore's portrait said. "No harm done besides a broken teacup."

"You knew I'd be back?"

"Naturally, I had assumed."

Remus' eyes drifted back to the empty portrait next to Dumbledore's. A thought struck him.

"Wait a moment," Remus huffed, looking between McGonagall and Dumbledore. "If Dumbledore died, and you're Headmistress now, whose painting is—"

"Astute observation, Mr Lupin. Only time can reveal most mysteries and—"

"Albus," McGonagall warned.

Dumbledore's painting chuckled.

"Well, if you'll excuse me," he hummed. "I think I would much fancy a roam about the castle. The portrait of the ladies peonies on the fourth floor has become a rather interesting spot to enjoy the afternoon sun. Goodbye, Remus."

With that, Dumbledore's portrait disappeared from the frame and Remus gaped after him, thoroughly bewildered. He glanced back at Professor McGonagall, and her eyes told him everything he needed to know—the empty frame would remain a mystery to him, it seemed.

"He knew I'd come today." Remus whispered, more to himself than anyone.

"Mr Lupin, you above all others should know that the art of Divination is unclear and unreliable at best. You had visited Albus asking questions, I assume?" She waited for him to nod before continuing. "Ergo, Albus deduced you would eventually show up in my office wearing that look of shock on your face."

"S-sorry, Professor," Remus stammered, trying to school his features. "I'm just a bit...shell shocked."

"I can imagine you are," she said. "Tea?"

Remus sighed in relief. Leave it to Professor McGonagall to solve the hardest issues with a strong cup of English Breakfast and a few cheeky biscuits. He gratefully accepted three of the shortbread in the tin she shoved toward him, trying to pace himself so he didn't look like a complete lunatic while he inhaled every crumb.

After he drained his second cup of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he finally met the Professor's—no, Headmistress'—eyes. She stared at him with a slightly narrowed gaze and an arched brow, her eyes scrutinizing his every move. He suddenly felt very embarrassed for his ravenous consumption of tea and biscuits.

"Erm...sorry, Pro-Headmistress. I haven't eaten much lately."

"No, I suspect you haven't."

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and looked down at his hands, now twisting together at the hem of his jumper.

"I will admit," she began. "That seeing you here, as you are now, is shocking—although, not completely unexpected."

"It isn't?"

"No," she deadpanned. "I met with someone a mere six months ago who came to ask for my help regarding time travel. I expect that you know this person…?"

Remus looked up and gave a tight nod.

"I thought so," she shuffled the parchment she had been working on when he arrived to the side and folded her hands in front of her, pinning him once again with her intense gaze. "I now must give you the same warnings I had relayed to them, it should seem."

"Warnings?"

"Time travel is a delicate form of magic, Remus. One wrong step too far to the left and you could quite unravel everything as we know it. It is most rare to travel such lengths without consequences."

"I know, but—"

"And, while I am certain you come here with...we'll call it, good intentions...I am not confident with the precautions, or lack thereof, that have been made to ensure our timeline does not unravel."

"Prof-Headmistress I-I-fuck," Remus breathed, running his hand roughly down his face. "I just need to find her. Please."

McGonagall raised one eyebrow at him, her lips tightening a bit at his use of language and he had a horrible but all-too-familiar feeling of being back in fifth year—scolded for using naughty words in the corridors between classes when he was supposed to be setting an example as a Prefect.

"Please," Remus begged again, ignoring the incessant eyerollesque feeling he was getting from Moony.

"I can not give you the location in good conscience, Mr Lupin."

Remus swore under his breath, his shoulders sagging.

"But," the lifted tone of her voice caught his attention and his head shot back up, holding her gaze. "But, I can tell you that it is somewhere you are intimately familiar with."

Relief flooded his chest as he stared at her face and he swore, if he had any less sense about him, he would have leaned over the desk and kissed Minerva McGonagall soundly.

.

.

a/n: OPE Finally in 2002! Seeeeeeee, I told you it was coming soon! 3

Side note, I just wanna say thank you so much to anyone who voted for this story in the Granger Enchanted Awards! The awards will be announced on May 2nd, so *fingers crossed* Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing and following! You make the world go round.

xoxo