I do not pretend to own anything other than Brede and Rosemary. All hail Queen Rowling.
As two girls exited the Hogwarts hospital wing, both were sure they almost heard a sigh of relief emerge from the only patient within. They both released sighs of frustration, and made their way to the Griffindor common room. Neither noticed the tall, black haired witch slip into the ward after them.
As they heaved themselves past the immense silk-clad guard, they were met by several worried faces. They shushed the inquiries and informed all that the lone occupant of the infirmary had finally regained consciousness. The guilt-ridden fifth years seemed especially relieved, as were many of the first years, who had sorely missed their protector from a few of the less savory characters in Sytherin House. Her well-known sarcasm and wit, in addition to her four years of magical experience, had often kept those who would prey on unsuspecting "firsties" in check, but the rate of curses and insults flung at the newbies had dramatically shot up in her absence.
The first group gathered around the duo after the rest had returned to their previous undertakings. The four boys and two girls pressed them for further details. They commenced in expressing their deep concern after Brede's long-term welfare, and Remus nearly blurted out his heightened worry, based on the racket she had been making that Sunday, but he held himself in check. He did, however, express his guilt at suggesting the party for the millionth time, as he hadn't expected her to react so violently at all. He hadn't, either. He had hoped the show of friendship would cheer her up, not knock her out.
He had come to the rueful conclusion that group intervention, as most of the students around him were suggesting, would not help the situation. Something would have to be done, however. Obviously, something was severely troubling to Brede, and the Girl Who Didn't Cry was determined to remain her stubbornly flippant self. She had spent the past four years not getting particularly close to anyone, and he had decided one person would have to worm their way into her trust to cause her concession.
As the fifteen-year-old witches and wizards came to the conclusion that a meeting would be held in an hour's time to design a plan of action, Remus came to the conclusion he would have to earn her trust. No one else understood the coolness, the barriers produced to keep others out, the deflection of warmth and love to protect one's secrets the way he did. He would gain her confidence. He would wait.