From the start Ron did not want Remus to join them. Not only did he take offense to the fact that Hermione had sent the owl without consulting him first, but an old prejudice reared its ugly head as well.
"It should've been just the two of us. How will we deal with his… transformations?" Ron grumbled as Remus erected their tent with a single, deft wave of his wand. They'd spent several hours hiking deep into an anonymous Scottish forest and were now setting up camp for the first time in a small clearing, intending to construct a more detailed plan for hunting down the horcruxes that remained. Hermione had a copious amount of research to do before they could begin their search in earnest.
"We already talked about this." Hermione had less patience for Ron's bias now than ever. "Once a month we'll secure him safely away from our tent. We'll use the same charms he was using with his infant son in the house, Ron. It's completely safe."
Ron pulled a metallic flask from his rucksack and took a deep swig. "He's putting us in danger," he said darkly.
"We're already in danger," Hermione snapped. "Don't forget that you're traveling with a muggleborn. Remind me, what's the penalty for that these days—is it still just life imprisonment? Or have they upgraded to death?"
Ron couldn't argue with that. He scowled at her and disappeared behind the burlap tent flap, leaving Hermione alone in the crisp fall air with Remus.
She approached where he was standing at the opposite end of the tent, dead leaves crunching audibly beneath her feet, hoping he hadn't heard her exchange with Ron.
"You can see it already," Remus said softly, pointing up at the sky. Hermione followed his gesture and saw the moon: a pale crescent just visible through a gap in the treeline, drifting in an endless sea of blue.
"It's beautiful," Hermione said without thinking, then turned quickly and looked at Remus again, whose steady gaze betrayed nothing. At least three years since she'd seen him last, and he appeared wearier, somehow, as if the war had worn away some elemental part of him. She wondered what he saw when he looked at her.
"My apologies if my presence causes any additional trouble," he said quietly, his eyes remaining trained on the sky. A cold wind blew through the trees. "I'll be sure to make myself useful."
Hermione flushed despite the cool temperature, realizing he had heard what Ron said after all. Ron, who hadn't even bothered to whisper.
"I'm sorry, Remus," she said immediately. "I… I don't feel the way he does. And—he doesn't mean it, anyway. He's been different since Harry left. I don't know how to explain it."
"I think I do," Remus said evenly. "But it's nothing I'm not used to."
He looked down then and shook his head, as if to clear his mind.
"Anyway, Hermione, I wanted to let you know that I trust you," he continued. "I believe that Dumbledore left Harry with the tools to end this war, and I believe that Harry shared those with you before he left. I'm not here to stir up trouble, or to try to take the lead." He glanced over at her, his smile offering the touch of levity she'd been craving for days. "You're still the smartest witch I know. I'll follow you."
For a fleeting moment it felt like school again. To be in the company of someone who believed she had the right answers. And for the first time in quite a while, all of her fear and doubt evaporated.
"Thank you, Remus," she managed.
She wanted to say more, but found she couldn't. And so the two of them stood there together for some time as the autumn chill crept in. They watched the distinct Vs of birds flying overhead, the drifting leaves and faint birdsong. Hermione closed her eyes and breathed deeply, letting herself revel in the feeling of the fresh air on her skin. After three years trapped in a cramped house with so many other people, the forest did, in some ways, feel like coming home.
Eventually the sun set, beautiful hues of orange and pink melting into cool indigo night. Another breeze ruffled their loose, nondescript clothing; Hermione shivered. Remus looked over at her and smiled gently. She wondered how long they'd been standing there.
"You're cold," he said. "We should go in."
She nodded, but they lingered for a moment. Remus cast one last glance to the freshly darkened sky, the moon more visible now than ever.
"Funny, for all the trouble it causes…" he murmured. "It is beautiful, isn't it."
He disappeared behind the tent flap as Ron had, and then Hermione was left well and truly alone, still gazing up through the trees into the night sky.
It began early on.
Hermione hadn't meant to look. She'd left the tent to forage, trying to find mushrooms worth eating, plucking their rubbery heads from the ground over and over again—tedious, unrewarding work. When she returned with her half-filled bucket, the first thing she noticed was that he'd lit the fireplace.
Something she'd observed after just a few weeks was that Remus seemed to very deeply love the fire. It almost seemed an antidote for his loneliness, a source of comfort. She'd watched him stare into it more than once, as if he believed he could divine his future from the burning flames and smoke.
That night, when she came back, the firelight was illuminating his shirtless torso.
Hermione swallowed and instinctively hung back behind the tent flap. As in previous days, she watched him for a reason she couldn't quite articulate, finding herself unable to pry her gaze away.
Remus' back was to the entrance, which allowed Hermione to properly take in the full, wide breadth of his shoulders. His bare skin gleamed gold as he moved, the firelight grazing the sinewy curves of his muscles like a caress. She could just make out a faint, twisting scar running diagonally down the length of his back. It caught the light and reflected it, a bright mark on his fire-warmed skin.
Or she imagined his skin was warm, anyway, seeing as she was not touching him—
And now she was thinking about touching him—?
Though Hermione was still standing outside in the cold, she found she was suddenly feeling very warm.
Remus turned abruptly, pulling a loose white shirt over his head. She caught a glimpse of his round, rose-colored nipples, the soft thatch of russet hair across his chest, and more scars before they all disappeared together under the textured cloth.
Remus smoothed the shirt down over his torso and turned back to face the depths of the fire as if entranced. This was around the time Hermione's wits returned to her, her conscience—whatever you wanted to call it.
What was she doing?
In truth, she felt aroused and also embarrassed. Though she had not seen anything she wouldn't have seen on a particularly warm day at the beach, the fact of Hermione's private persona coupled with where she was standing—hidden from view, just beyond the entrance to the tent—made her feel like the voyeur she was.
Blushing, she readjusted her tight grip on the basket; her hands were markedly more clammy than before. But, too late—a small noise of surprise escaped her as she fumbled the handle and almost dropped their dinner entirely.
Remus pivoted sharply at the sound, as if he thought she was some kind of threat, but he must have seen something that identified her. Perhaps her stupid, bushy hair, she thought regretfully.
"Hermione?"
She nudged the tent flap aside and walked in sheepishly, willing the burn she could still feel in her cheeks to diminish. He'd known it was her, and not Ron. Had he seen her watching him after all, and just not said anything?
If that was the case, he mercifully gave no sign of it. Hermione stood there before him, feeling small and nervous, still holding the basket of mushrooms. Remus smiled at her good-naturedly and clapped his hands together, moving the two of them out of the tentative, uncertain territory where they'd hovered together for a moment.
"Well! Should we get started on dinner, then?"
He took the basket from her, peeked in.
"These look delicious," he said kindly, and Hermione blushed again.
Resentment was beginning to fester between Ron and Hermione.
There were a million little reasons—everything from Ron's socks left strewn on the floor of the tent to the way Hermione refused to be interrupted while she was reading. Through all of these small annoyances it became clear that they both blamed each other, in some way, for Harry's absence. But they never spoke of it. And they especially never spoke of the sex.
The pair had continued to sleep together on and off after the last few years, but sex had never been at the forefront of Hermione's mind the way it was Ron's. She wasn't sure if this was because of the physical and emotional toll the war had taken on her, or simply the fact that her desire for Ron had never burned very brightly. Sex with him tended to feel more like stress relief, a chance at release. In fact, concerningly enough, they only seemed to have good sex when they were angry with each other. Almost every time they'd slept with each other since Harry's departure had sprung from an argument. Hermione had a vague inkling that the association was probably unhealthy, but her options were limited and, well. She was only human.
The first time they had sex after leaving Grimmauld Place was one of these instances. They had reached the point where they were both perpetually simmering with anger at each other, and the slightest thing could touch them off. Remus seemed aware of this but was not the kind of person to acknowledge it; he just spent a lot of time outside of the tent, which made Ron even angrier because Remus' absence created time that he and Hermione could have been fucking, but weren't—usually because Hermione opted for the company of a book instead.
In this particular instance, Remus had gone outside with the radio. Ron had left a mess in the kitchen again—expecting, as always, that Hermione would clean up after him, as if she were his mother, and she wasn't his mother. She told him this—screamed it at him, really—flinging his dirty dishes at his feet, and then other things too, the books and trinkets he left scattered all over their shared living space, always with the assumption that she would tidy up after him, which she refused to do.
And suddenly, amidst all of this, Ron had grabbed her, and then they were kissing—not in a romantic way, not even in a way that was particularly pleasant. It was like they were both trying to take something from the other at once.
All Hermione could see and feel as they kissed was her anger, white-hot, which she had felt so much since Harry disappeared, and then something else, seething underneath—but then it was all obliterated as she found herself clutching at the wooden table where the three of them had eaten lunch earlier that day, her pants and underwear now pooled around her ankles, as Ron thrust into her—angry, still angry—and she was still spitting something back at him, something bitter and resentful, all while he moved inside of her.
Ron had his eyes closed, as he had the very first time and every one since. He seemed unable to look at Hermione while they fucked—perhaps he was thinking of Lavender Brown. Hermione no longer cared; she only wanted to feel good in that moment, and admittedly it did feel good as Ron continued to move in and out of her from behind, his hand pressed over her mouth so she could not say another word.
It was at this moment that Remus returned. He was so quiet that she had not even heard him at first when he raised the tent flap, but when she turned her head back toward the entrance she saw him standing there, his arms full of firewood, looking at them. Looking at her.
A low moan escaped her lips, embarrassingly. His gaze on her sent a kind of illicit shiver down her spine for a reason she could not explain. His eyes were the deepest gray, she realized. Hazy and dark, like the sky just before a storm.
For a split second he seemed entranced by the scene before him, compelled by it. Something burned there, in his eyes—an emotion she could not immediately identify. The firelight flickered over his impassive expression, casting smooth, dark shadows across his lips as he breathed in, sharply. Ron had not noticed, his eyes still tightly shut, focused on himself alone.
It seemed to take Remus another second to process what he was seeing, after which he averted his gaze and bowed back out. Hermione's orgasm arrived not long after, waves of pleasure violently rocking her body as she continued to picture Remus' face there, framed by the tent's rough fabric. How he had watched her as she came closer and closer to the edge. How he had understood the pleasure she was feeling, how he had wanted to continue watching her experience it. Even though he knew it was wrong.
Later on, the three of them were eating dinner quietly together around the table where Ron had fucked her just hours prior, the newly replenished fire roaring in the background. Only then did Hermione process the look on Remus' face as she watched him anew before the fire. She understood now, finally, as his eyes flickered to hers and rested there.
It had been hunger that she'd seen in his eyes, and here it was again.
Desire.