There were people in his life that Remus honestly never expected to see again, and for a while, Penelope was one of those people.
Seeing her again, then, was a surprise, though not an entirely unpleasant one. To be honest, it was entirely pleasant, as the mere sight of those dark curls falling on her blue robes caused his heart to leap in a way it hadn't done in months.
He didn't know what possessed him to push through the crowded street toward her, but suddenly there he was, tapping her on the shoulder and saying, "Excuse me, Miss Clearwater?" as though he hadn't known who she was from the moment he'd seen her.
She turned, her eyes lighting up as her gaze fell on him—or maybe that was just a trick of the light. "Professor Lupin," she murmured, in a voice so calm that he was certain he'd imagined her momentary excitement. "This is certainly a surprise."
"A pleasant one, I hope. You're looking well."
"And you," she replied coolly, and if he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she wasn't the same girl who'd edited his book so many months ago. "It's been months, hasn't it?"
He nodded, suddenly feeling much more awkward than the situation called for. "You—I—the book's been finished, and I—I've been busy." He didn't add that he hadn't seen her because Sirius clearly hadn't wanted it, because Sirius in those last months had been jealous and possessive and not at all tolerant of his relationship with a pretty young editor.
"I've heard about…about everything," she said softly. "I'm sorry to hear about Mr. Black."
"You didn't know him."
"I—" She stopped abruptly, and he wondered what she'd been about to say. "Well, you knew him, so—my sympathies."
He didn't correct her, didn't tell her that sometimes even he hadn't known Sirius. She was better off not knowing Sirius, not knowing that he'd told Tonks that her relationship with Penelope was only a substitute for the one she couldn't have with Remus, not knowing how vicious and cruel he'd been at the end. "Thank you, Miss Clearwater," he said, hoping she'd take the hint and just leave it at that.
She did, staring oddly at him for a few seconds before she nodded curtly. "Of course, Professor. Be sure to contact Landon Davies if you have any questions about your book. Good day."
And then she left, brushing past him and into the throngs of Diagon Alley patrons, leaving him staring dumbly at the trail she hadn't quite left behind her. She'd just walked away, as if she hadn't remembered—and maybe she hadn't remembered, because there hadn't been anything to remember. Maybe it had been all in his mind, this girl he wanted so badly, and still wanted so badly, although he'd never known quite why.
Before he could even begin to process the absurdity of that particular thought, she was standing before him again, her curls still settling about her shoulders, so he knew she actually had left and returned and hadn't been staring at him the entire time. "Did you forget something?" he asked, feeling a bit foolish the second it was out; there hadn't been much to forget.
"I…" She trailed off helplessly, biting on her lower lip the way she used to when editing a particularly wordy passage. "It just seems that there's so much left unsaid, that's all."
"There's always something left unsaid, Miss Clearwater. That's the way life is."
"Your life, perhaps, but not mine." She bit her lip again, and he had to actively restrain himself from reaching out to pull the worried flesh away from her teeth. "Tonks told me, you know, that I'd just been a substitute for you. And I know she never intended for it to happen, but—but I don't know how it happened at all."
"I don't think anyone does," he said softly, valiantly ignoring the alarms sounding in his head, warning him that they were entering very dangerous territory. "But I'm not at all at all surprised that it did."
"Why not?"
The safest answer was that the book had connected them, had given them a link that could be seen as kinship. Then, of course, was the fact that they genuinely were similar in personality. Either one of those responses would have been more than enough information for Penelope, and either one would be completely painless for Remus.
Of course, given a choice between two painless options, he almost always chose another option entirely, and that was ostensibly how he found himself telling Penelope about his encounter with Tonks in the upstairs hallway of number twelve, Grimmauld Place in early spring. "She told me you were beautiful, and there was no reason she couldn't look at you that way, too. I never knew quite what she meant by that."
"Didn't you?" Blue eyes bored into grey, and he had to stop and remind himself that this girl was a Ravenclaw. "Did you just not want to know?"
"Something along those lines. But that's all in the past, of course, and there's no point in worrying about it."
"Of course there isn't. Just as there's no point in telling you that I used to feel too inferior to properly talk to you. Then again, I just have told you, and what's done is done. It's all in the past, isn't it?"
"If you say so," he murmured. But there was so much in the past—in his past—that he could never truly move beyond. James and Peter, and Sirius, and now Penelope, all just ghosts of memories, because he couldn't take the time to properly address those memories and lay them to rest.
Why he even wanted to lay to rest memories of the girl standing before him, in full color, in the present, he had no idea.
But he'd figure it out. Eventually.