Ambell groaned, and rolled over, tugging her blanket over her head. The blasted sunlight was demanding she get up, get out of bed, and she really rather was hoping it would go away. Bed was warm, and soft, and safe, and… she was waking herself up by thinking of reasons not to wake up.
She'd spent most of yesterday flying, but had spent the afternoon and evening with Severus, discussing a chemical solution to Hermione's problems. Then she'd spent whatever was left of the night, and a good bit of the morning, creeping her way through research, which was incredibly frustrating without the help of her best-friend-come-pack-mate. Her extensive education, and therefore endless hours of research, was almost no help when put against a system of literary cataloguing with which she was utterly unfamiliar. It had taken until half one just to find the books she needed; waking up was the last blasted thing she wanted to do right now.
Unfortunately, she had a rather long list of things that had to be done. And every single bleeding one of them had to be done by the time Severus showed up tonight. Which was rather ironic, as most of those things would go a hundred times faster with his help. Worse still, if she wasn't too terribly off, "tonight" was only about four hours away. Crazy normal people and their obsession with being awake while the sun was up.
Then again, the list of things Severus had agreed to do on his end of things was ridiculously long, half of the things on it being well-nigh impossible.
Really, though, she didn't know why all of Hermione's friends thought the man was so horrible. He wasn't – not in the least. You just had to treat him like – well, how silly of her. She knew how to treat him, yes – like one of the older, more reclusive, ingenious-but-grumpy faculty at University – but only Hermione would know a thing about that. The method was simple: realize that he prefers his work to human interaction, and thus is convinced that every minute spent in your presence is a gift not to be squandered, and then be entirely prepared to be told so.
Now, however, she was quite thoroughly awake, and might as well get started on those notes. Throwing back the soft, oh-so-comfortable summer blanket, she rolled out of bed. Only a moments' temptation suggested her retreat, before she shook it off, dressed, and pulled out those of her notes that she'd brought with her yesterday. Or… today, actually, and not-so-very long ago. Sleep still dragged at her, settling its weariness in her spine, but she walked from the room with a determined gate.
This was too important. This was for her life, for others' lives; for Hermione. This was for all the things her best friend had ever held dear. It was for all the things that had ever mattered in her own life. And it was for all the hardships that they'd ever endured, and for the hope that there would be this one less thing, for both of them.
This was for Mark.
Remus was unhappy with the progress he was making, and that was an understatement. Oh, he'd worked his way through all the ins and outs of the bonding ritual, as was his task. He'd memorized every last nuance. As far as anyone knew, however, he was still hard at work on it. That was because they'd made him promise to leave the rest of the researching to them – but he couldn't, not when it was Hermione's life that was on the line. Not when he would have to live with any one of a thousand possible, horrible outcomes, if he didn't find some way around them.
And that was exactly what he was doing – finding a way around. Research had seldom failed him before, at least not entirely, and somewhere there had to be something that would sort this whole mess out. A charm, a spell, a potion – much as the idea of living the rest of his life with all his rights restored appealed to the werewolf, the idea of a mindless, utterly obedient Hermione trotting along after him repulsed him immensely. Oh, he supposed that most men wouldn't be much bothered by the idea – after all, they'd get exactly whatever they wanted from their spouse, from attentive servant to adoring groupie to utterly willing bed partner – but Remus Lupin wasn't most men. He'd prefer his accustomed existence, however lonely, to the one being offered.
Not that he was about to tell Hermione that. He could only be thankful that she was distracted enough by trying to hide her emotions from him that she hadn't been feeling out her new abilities. Bright as she was, it wouldn't have taken her long to realize that not everything was as he'd said – that he was hardly comfortable with the possible outcomes of the upcoming moon. In point of fact, the outcome he was most comfortable with was the one she was desperately fearing – that this moon would be his last. And then – he could be with his friends again, with Sirius and James and Lily, and the worry, and the struggle, and the pain, and the never-ending uncertainty that marked his adult life, would at last cease. Rest, and peace, and so many things he'd nearly forgotten how to feel, in these last years, awaited beyond those final moments.
And, at the very minimum, at least that way his death would mean something.
From the first moment he'd realized Hermione's predicament, he'd been certain of which path he would choose. He'd researched, and studied, and discovered that, while Wolfsbane wouldn't have any effect on the girl, he was still perfectly free to use it, and yet be using himself to free her from her curse. He had been quite certain he could engineer the situation so that she would be free, content that, in all likelihood, by the time another three years passed, the Order would have found a better solution. Which was all well and good, or had been – until he'd found Hermione in her room, the other night. Wanting to die, rather than be the cause of his death. Wanting death, just to end the madness of it all – something he could only too well understand. And then, he'd realized what his death would mean to others – or, at least, to her.
And that had confused him. It had drawn out feelings that he wasn't quite certain what to do with, that he hadn't felt, or allowed himself to feel, in years. He had suddenly very much wanted to be with her, to protect her from all the things she feared, and allow her the privilege of being weak – or, rather, not as amazingly strong as she'd had to be, for her own sake and for that of her friend, these last years. He'd wanted to be the one to grant her peace, to end what she was only able to see as eternal suffering. He wanted to be the one to bring a smile, a true smile, to her face again – especially now that he knew why, in the many years he'd known her, she'd never seemed as completely at ease in his presence, as she had in her third year.
And it had seemed to work. Yesterday morning, Hermione had looked well rested for the first time since she'd arrived, not only coming down for breakfast, but smiling and laughing and even asking Harry about going for a ride on the Firebolt. And her emotions told the tale, even more than her smiles and laughter – she was feeling safe, and hopeful – even if a bit guilty. He'd tried to encourage her as best he could, to help ease her guilt at her freedom being at his cost (or at least, that's what he assumed it was) but, for whatever reason, the more he encouraged, the guiltier she seemed to feel, and he'd left it at that. But just seeing her like that, this morning – so alive, so happy to live, he couldn't help but wish that he could feel that way again as well, that he could take for himself some small measure of the happiness that life had to offer. That he could be – not alone, anymore. That he could save them both.
And so he wanted a way to win, but just barely. Or to placate the wolf - with … Animagus companions, or ... to simply save her from the moon entirely, as the others were hoping for. Perhaps with some sort of Wolfsbane or sleeping potion or something. But there wasn't anything; not a single, even halfway possible idea, except for the poorly explained and completely undefined idea of the "true" mate, which sounded more like someone's fantasy than anything possible, especially considering the utterly too-simplistic-to-possibly-do-anything blood ritual that was supposedly involved.
It was this that was consuming his thoughts, when he was interrupted by Molly Weasley. "Remus, dear, that's not a book on Wolfsbane I see in front of you, is it?"
Feeling more like one of the children than one of the adults, Remus found himself answering honestly, if reluctantly. "It is."
Molly snatched it up from the table, peering at the title. "Good."
Now feeling utterly confused, Remus stared at her. "Good?"
"Yes. Severus has been working on a Potions-based solution, and he told me there was a book missing, that might be of use. It just so happens, that this is the book."
Remus protested half-heartedly. "I don't suppose there's any chance I'll be getting it back, then?"
Mrs. Weasley merely smiled at him, and, glancing over his shoulder at his notes, plucked up the ones directly related to the book.
Returning his gaze to the table, defeatedly, Remus plucked at the – unhappily short - stack of notes that remained, the ones on the ritual he was supposed to be studying, and the ones that contained scribbles and half-formed thoughts and ideas, where he'd ruled out every option but something related to Wolfsbane.
"Why don't you go and join the broom-design team?" Molly suggested, with a soft smile. "I think they'd appreciate the help."
Remus stared, for a moment, at the notes he could be reviewing, just one more time, or the book he could re-read, in hopes of just one hint on how to recognize a true-mate. But he knew the ritual by heart, and knew the relevant chapters of the text nearly as well - and there wasn't a clue to be found. Sighing, he nodded, not bothering to paste a smile on his face. Molly might be fooled, but there was no chance that Hermione would.
He was wary of what he'd find in the kitchen. They'd been a cheerful group last night, true, but if Harry and Hermione had been left alone to brood, all day, or hadn't managed to make any progress on the broom-charms… Remus realized his fears were unfounded, however, as he neared the kitchen. Laughter – that of several Order-members – echoed out from the partly-open kitchen door, honest and simple, and a sound he hadn't thought to hear in times like these.
He paused just outside the door, sorting out the feelings coming from the room. If the laughter was at all forced, he didn't want to enter and make things worse. Or, even more, if Hermione had managed to forget the situation entirely, he didn't want to remind her by his presence. But all he found was honest humor, with an ever-so-slight undercurrent of nervousness. In Hermione, there was a sort of resigned sadness, mingled with joy, and more than a touch of … longing. She certainly hadn't forgotten, but she was enjoying what she could.
The most confusing feeling, in fact, was one he found in himself. A joy that was made from his reaction to others' joy, and to the prospective of a bit of laughter in his own future. An odd sort of pride for Hermione's resilience, and an… ache. An ache he didn't want to identify. An ache that he was far to mature to leave nameless; he wished to comfort her, to protect her, to …
Shaking those thoughts as far from him as he could, Remus slipped into the room, and smiled at its occupants. Surprisingly, almost twice as many were crammed into the kitchen as were in the Library upstairs. A momentary sensation of betrayal flashed through him, that so many would neglect the important work for a few laughs, but that too was pushed aside. Most of those seated about the tables were too engrossed in discussion to notice him, but Harry saw him, and his eyes lit up in that way of his.
"Remus! Come join us, we could use a bit of that Marauder brilliance!" Harry exclaimed, waving him over, and scooting sideways on a bench that was already far too full.
The result was that Neville, who'd taken the seat at the end, was nudged from a perch that must have been less than two inches worth of bench. Joining the room in a laugh, he stood, helped to his feet by half-a-dozen pairs of hands.
"Right, well, that's my cue to leave, I suppose." He said, grinning.
Remus tried to wave him back to his seat. "No, stay, it's fine, I can conjure a chair."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "It would have to be an awfully small chair, to fit in what space is left in here, Remus."
There really wasn't much space. Not unless you counted the space by the door - where Remus was currently standing – or an area that was truly too close to the fireplace, even with cool-burning flames and fire-retardant charms. "Or I can stand." Remus suggested, not wanting to displace anyone.
"Nah, it's no problem. I have to be getting home anyhow." Neville said, weaving through the crowd.
Before Remus was even certain the boy was gone, he found himself drawn to the table, and wedged into the seat beside Harry. Glancing at the table, he found an old Cleansweep running down the center, half-assembled (or, perhaps, half-disassembled), and several diagrams, splayed about around it. Each person had a Muggle-style notepad in front of them, and, in a few cases, a notebook. An odd mix of Muggle pens and quill-and-ink alternated throughout the group. A moment later, a voice from his other side startled him from his thoughts.
"Right, well, here's what we have so far." Hermione began.
Remus' gaze immediately fixed itself to her. Her face was aglow with the current challenge, with academic fervor and obsessive-organizational-delight, and she was smiling at him as though he were the last, and most necessary, piece to their puzzle. And he was completely unable to look away.
"Four groups – one for perfecting Muggle-control for the parts we already know will work that way; that is, staying still, hovering, in the air. They're also going to test out what happens if you try to control the broom purely by physical force." Here she rolled her eyes, obviously certain that such testing couldn't end well. "That group's already full, sorry." She said, waving in the direction of Fred and George, who looked up from furious scribbling on a pair of notebooks to flash twin grins in his direction.
"Second group is working on a sort of part-manual steering, a combination of runes, and actual controls. It's the idea that's most reasonable and probable –"
"But the one that appeals least to all of us, as it takes half the fun out of flying, and makes it awfully mechanical… more like driving a car in the air, than actually flying." Harry put in.
"Still, it's the best idea we've got." Hermione returned. The group was beginning to smirk and snort, the argument obviously not a new one.
"No, it's not! It's just the one most likely to work!"
"They've been arguing about that for half the meeting." Minerva said, obviously exasperated.
At that, amusement turned to outright laughter, with even Hermione joining in. "I suppose we have, at that. And it's even worse, really, because Harry's head of that group."
Sharing a look with the young man in question, he read in his eyes the answer – it was worth it, worth arguing-for-fun, or taking on a project he disliked, to see Hermione happy.
Clearing her throat, Hermione continued. "Third group is researching the possibility of using magic to call to the Muggle – sort of the reverse of the current setup. That way would still focus on intent, and otherwise work nearly the same way as the original. Fourth group is an offshoot of that, except on the Muggle side – using technology that understands brainwaves to interpret signals from the mind and use them to control the broom. Minerva's heading the Magic group, and I'm heading the Muggle side."
"Sounds like you've got it covered, actually." Remus said, almost disappointed. It would have been nice to work with one of the groups, and the distraction would have been nice. Sneaking back into the Library would be impossible for at least the next few hours, as Molly would be watching for it.
It was Harry that saved the day. "Nah, Remus, we need you. I could use a whole lot of help, if you wouldn't mind. Hermione's got this stack of ideas I could use for directional controls. I can figure out the Muggle switches just fine, but I don't know runes from scribbles."
Laughing with the rest of the room at the comment, Remus reached to help sort through the papers.
"Pen or Quill?" Hermione asked, flopping a notebook in front of him.
"Pen." He answered, enjoying her surprise at his request. It was worth it, especially as he could elicit a smile from Hermione any time he felt her mood slipping, just by "accidentally" reaching for an ink pot with the plastic pen.
Besides, the only person in the room that knew James had introduced the Marauders to the convenience of the Muggle pen many years before was Minerva. And she just laughed along, even if her secretive smile and twinkling eyes were a bit reminiscent of Dumbledore.