Remus wants to believe, really, that there are things the man in question has never touched. There must be small corners of the world somewhere, where nothing will remind you of anything; least of all perfect fingers and angular jaw and black- stop it. There are books with no resembling characters. There is food that he did not hate or enjoy. These things are safe, neutral. Remus dresses in only his own colors, wheat and grey and beige. The colors of quiet, solitude, calm. He is a pebble at the bottom of a lake.
Fucking fuck. The pebble pounds the arm of his chair, and spills scotch all over his front. Just when he feels at his most ridiculous, there's a knock at the door.
"Professor ?" it's a girl's voice, tentative, all eggshells and pity. Hermione then, so respectful of his feelings. Bugger. "Er, Mr. Lupin ?" He feels boneless and drunk and something like a nostalgic whistle is chortling in his ear. He does what he must do. He pulls himself together.
"Yes, Hermione ?" he opens the latch. "Do you need anything ?" Her great liquid eyes seem to melt at that statement.
"N-no." she chatters. "I came up here to ask if you needed- if there was anything I could- oh, Professor !" she says, launching herself into his sweater. He hopes, vainly, that he does not smell too much of inebriated werewolf. "It's just so awful. I went up the hall, and that woman- her voice ! Saying those things about him ! And he was so good, Professor, and I don't understand- and what is Harry going to do without him !?" her wailing melts what little is left of his brain. Remus pats ineffectively at her shoulders.
"It's alright. It's alright." he says, while the world ends around him. "It's going to be okay." She seems more convinced than he does that crying is going to solve things, so he lets her. In a few moments, she calms herself, releases the damp wool, and rubs absently at her nose with the back of her hand. He would offer a handkerchief, but he used it to mop up the spill.
"What can I do ?"
"You could get drunk." he says offhand, forgetting that this is Not Sirius Or James Or Even Tonks and oh God, did I really just say that ? flashes across his brain, to no relief. She is staring at him. "Which is, er, a terrible suggestion. Don't know what came over me."
"You've…" there's a pause. "That's scotch, Professor."
"Remus. Please. Please just call me Remus. I'm not teaching anymore." he puts a hand to his face, not in sadness, but disgust. "And I most likely never will again. Good observation, though."
"You don't sound very drunk."
"I've only just started." he slaps himself, mentally, again. "Miss Granger," he says, straightening his shirtfront, "it's time for you to join the others downstairs. Nearly tea-time, I suspect." she smiles wanly and nods; before she is fully down the stairway Remus has latched the door again and returned to the bottle. It's a good bottle, in that it is not empty. He puts it to his mouth, a mouth not terribly dissimilar to one which he will never be meeting again, and salutes. "I'm going to drink your half, too, you realizes." he says, to dead air.
He does not quite make it to tea.