Disclaimer: I promise I'm broke, which means I'm definitely not Rowling. And I do not own Lolita, the passages I have quoted in here all belong to Vladimir Nabakov.

Just Like the Old Man in That Book By Nabakov

Loose talk in the classroom

To hurt they try and try

Strong words in the staff room

The accusations fly

It's no use, he sees her

He starts to shake and cough

Just like the old man in

That book by Nabakov

Remus cast a weary glance at the students exiting his classroom. Hermione was not there. No need to worry, he kept telling himself, it was just the mild flu going around the school. Madam Pomfrey was handling the situation, armed with bottles of Pepper-Up potion and bossily marching around the school. She had stuffed some potion down his throat just yesterday morning, when she had found him roaming aimlessly around the hallways.

Remus looked up at the chattering Parvati and Lavender. He was tired of them constantly taunting Hermione, even when she wasn't present to be taunted. He kept reminding himself it was not appropriate to yell at a student and instead he coldly interrupting their sly little comments today. They had immediately stopped to survey him, almost accusingly, before wide giggly smiles decorated their faces again as they apologized and simpered. They were the most irritating pair of girls he had ever had the unfortunate fate of meeting. Rubbing his temples, Remus thoughts floated to Hermione, his mind unconsciously comparing her to the girls.

It was not that Hermione was perfect; actually, she was not perfect at all. Her hair was bushy, her height was too short, she was too shrill and impatient, and sometimes selfish when she wanted to be. She was never going to be perfect. Who was?

She was adorable. Remus sighed as he pictured her soft, impossibly curly hair and the cute way she tweaked her nose at times when trying to get to the higher bookshelves in the library. He smiled, thinking fondly of her frequent eye rolling and her enthusiastic voicing when she had discovered something new or exciting.

His next class had already began piling in and taking their seats. Remus slid the book that was lying on his desk onto his lap. He fingered the binding, remembering how he had received it on Christmas almost a month ago.

The elf had brought it along with a whole tray of Christmas breakfast. It had been lying next to the goblet of pumpkin juice. It was not wrapped, but a bookmark was sticking out from it. Curiously, he had picked it up after thanking the elf. The title read Lolita. He had flipped through it vaguely, finally reaching the pages where the bookmark had been pressed. It was towards the end of the book.

Reading the few pages, he had sat on the edge of his bed, his mind racing with confusing and overwhelming theories and thoughts. Picking up the bookmark, he had stared at the transforming day and night cycle. It had not been a pleasant Christmas day, nor had it been a completely unpleasant one. He had simply spent almost all of it thinking about Hermione's present.

Remus turned to the same page, caressing it softly, wondering about what Hermione meant, and whether she did mean anything at all by it. He looked down at the page, certain passages standing out. His finger followed the lines as he read them.

"You know, what's so dreadful about dying is that you are completely on your own"; and it struck me, as my automaton knees went up and down, that I simply did now know a thing about my darling's mind and that quite possibly, behind the awful juvenile clichés, there was in her a garden and a twilight, and a palace gate—dim and adorable regions which happened to be lucidly and absolutely forbidden to me…

Remus sighed deeply, confused. His eyes went further down the page, his mind working furiously again, trying to figure out whether or not Hermione had simply liked the book and wanted him to read it, or whether she was trying to tell him something.

I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais! And there were times when I knew how you felt, and it was hell to know it, my little one.

At times the book seemed to signify one meaning, and as Remus thought about it more, it started to possibly signify something else. He had hundreds of these hypotheses in his head, and none of them were ready to be theories. He was lost as to what Hermione wanted him to understand, he did not understand what she wanted, did not get what she meant by all this.

"Damnit, Hermione, I don't even understand what I want!" Remus ran his hands through his hair, frustrated because he wanted to understand, himself and Hermione. The bell began ringing, loudly and clearly, pounding in his ears, mingling with the mocking laughter playing in his head.

Hermione placed her mouth over the tip of her quill, sucking on the pure sugary crystals. She was probably going to have a heart attack by the time she was in her twenties at this rate, Hermione grinned, looking down at the large amounts of sugar quill and chocolate boxes she had received for Christmas from Ron, and they were already almost empty. She stared out through the window at the clear skies sleeping above the thick mass of trees. Sighing, she picked up the black leather-bound journal again. It was beautiful; she had loved it the moment she had set eyes on it. Running her fingers over its engraved cover, she flipped to the page she had been writing on before she had left off in order to rush to Potions class. She had received it from Harry, it was very helpful in sorting out her feelings. The quills were supposed to be helpful, not that she could actually use them to write, but they were helpful in the fact that they satisfied the sugar cravings she often had.

Hermione reached for her real writing quill, continuing to finish her rampaging thoughts in the handsome journal.

It's most definitely not right, this… whatever it is we share. I'm not sure if I can even label it yet. I can label it some things, like lust, but that's not right. Merlin, he's my teacher! He's 36 years old and I'm 16! It would be horrible if someone found out. Even if this does work, how would I tell Harry and Ron? Wouldn't they hate us? I would feel like I'd be stealing something, a bond from Harry. Just when he started to get closer to Remus, I'd be stealing that part away from him. He'd never look at Remus the same way as before, he wouldn't look at me the same way either. What about mum and dad? How would I explain it? Meet my professor mum and dad… Oh, and he also happens to be my… er… my what? My boyfriend? That doesn't even sound right. My… I have no other words. Remus. Remus Lupin. Remus John Lupin. His name's rather nice isn't it?

What about Dumbledore, how would he react? And what about all the other staff members, especially Snape? What about the students? If they ever found out... I don't want to care, I really don't. But somehow I feel like I should, and wouldn't it be reckless if I didn't? It's not like me to be reckless, I think about things before I act them out. I think about how it might turn out to be, the possibilities, the risks… of course, when I run into something I didn't expect I tend to freeze up and not know what to do. I don't think I'd want to risk it. I want him. I want him very much. And those visits at night tell he wants this just as much as I do. We shouldn't risk it.

I don't even know how it happened, don't know why it happened, or the exact date of when it started happening. I don't think I should, we should, do anything for some probable loneliness and rash desires. I'd end up regretting this in the future, I know I would. And knowing him, he would too. He'd feel horrible, and more like a beast then he is (Not that he's a wild beast at all. I like to think and believe that he just has a part of him that wants to let go and be set free, for all the times he couldn't… for all the years he's lived on this earth, live it again, and this time enjoy them and make them his own, something he could treasure while dying). His guilt would ruin him. There isn't any way any of this could ever work out.

Hermione looked down at the pages she had filled, and probably many, many more she could fill. She wanted it to work. She would give it a chance if he was willing. She looked out the window again. It was dark, and the crescent moon was the only celestial body visible tonight. The thick clouds seemed to have covered all the stars. Hermione sighed, her eyes drooping of their own accord, her head tiredly falling into her arms. Wasn't he coming tonight? Hermione tried to wait longer. It was an hour almost before sleep gripped its strong arms around her and carried her away.

Remus stepped into the library. The side that prompted him to come here somehow won the debate that had been going on in his mind. He was instantly hit with the lingering smell of old books and ink. It was too quiet for Hermione to be awake. The deep burgundy carpet covering the floor padded his footsteps. Remus hesitantly stepped towards Hermione, who was sleeping soundly on the broad windowsill. In her limp hands she still held a quill, the ink dripping from it stained her fingers. Remus searched around her form, finally finding what she had been using the quill for.

It was a leather book of some sort. Flipping it over he saw the word journal clearly imprinted on the elegant covering. Remus began flipping through the pages before he paused. It was not right for him to look through her journal, her personal thoughts. He looked down at her, taking in the wild brown curls, her soft skin. He let his fingers slip through her soft hair, his heart sighing with relief at the touch. Curiosity gripped him strongly, and his hands began to turn the pages, as he read the content, each page revealing something new about Hermione. It was probably new, he figured, but already many of the pages were filled. Remus turned to the last page that had her scribbles on it. He surmised it was the one she had been writing on before she had fallen alseep.

The first line caught his attention right away. It's most definitely not right, this… whatever it is we share. His eyes narrowing, his forehead creasing as his eyes trailed down the page, his mind filling with dread as the words gave him more insight than anything else possibly could. Finally, at the last sentence, he closed the journal abruptly, pressing his hands to its leather sides, his eyes squeezing shut. He looked down at Hermione, and then at her journal still held in his hands. She was right, everything she had written down, all her thoughts were absolutely right. I understood now, Remus thought as he gently laid the book by her side again. Reaching out, he tenderly pushed a lock of hair away from her face, letting his thumb trace her cheek; he sadly looked again at the black journal again before pulling his hand away from the young woman and walking out of the library.

A/N-Please leave a reveiw after the beep!

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