Falling Leaves

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It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. Not to be mistaken by disinterest or animosity of any kind–no, that wasn't the case at all. He held his future self in the highest regard since, in some way beyond his understanding, older Remus had to have done something formidable to make Hermione wish to return to him. She had called him one of her favorite people, and Remus had been well-liked and welcomed by his friends, but favored? Cherished to the point someone willingly traveled in time to spend an entire afternoon in a garden with him, hearing about the flora of all things? He loved his friends with a fierceness he often disguised, but Sirius and James were the ones that seemed like long-lost brothers, thick as thieves. Together they burned as the sun. And wherever the two went, Peter followed–Remus understood. It was hard not to want to gravitate in their radiance, bask in their warmth. On the other hand, and in more ways than one, Remus belonged to the moon. He would reflect their light whenever it shone upon him, almost undeservedly, yet a sliver of something remained. Something he did his very best to smother, something that proved his unworthiness. Something her mere presence fed.

Who wouldn't want a glimpse at their own future when it was so bright it captured the adoration of a clever, beautiful witch such as Hermione? Therein, however, lied his reluctance. Because he wondered if she would ever compare him to himself and find young, idiotic Remus, who helped his friends sic pumpkins on others, lacking somehow. Wondered if, at some point, she would find him an unfinished, droll mockery when it came to the real thing. So no, it wasn't a conversation he wanted to have. Yet, without asking, there was no way to get the answers he needed, and there were plenty of those.

Because, at the end of the day, how did a 35-year-old werewolf come to meet a teenage witch? Had he known her all her life or had it been a more recent development? Were they friends in the future? Mere acquaintances? No, there was no instance in which he saw himself not craving to maintain a relationship with her, not unless it was inappropriate in some way, and though he could see himself falling desperately in love with her, had begun to already, he knew better than to start a romantic relationship even if she would have him. To be stuck forever with a werewolf was a fate he wished on no one. Yet there was the fact that Hermione had called him Moony. She had also said the Marauders weren't famous in her time, which made this knowledge even more obscure, pointing toward a closer bond between them. It also begged the question of why had older him seen fit to reveal it, given how close to the truth the moniker got.

Those thoughts churned inside his stomach undigested, mashing over and over throughout that night. They soured the taste of his meals, robbed him of sharing genuine laughter with his best friends. But the prospect of having the answers... Nothing could subdue a person quite like scarcity. Being a werewolf, he had always been aware of all the ways he fell short. It was so very easy to determine. What he lacked, however, in comparison to a version of him he could never meet until he had become it? Those were inadequacies only she could shed any light on. So when Hermione entered the garden the next day, looking lovelier and livelier than all the nature around them, sad bitterness bled into his tone, "How do you know me?"

She had been in the process of removing her scarf, but halted, a sad smile pulling on her lips, "I was wondering when you would ask me that."

"Well then, here we are."

"I can't tell you, Remus. You know that. The reason we met… It's the kind of life-changing decision you have to make yourself. The last thing I want is for you to feel you have no control over your life, just because some time-traveler came and informed you of your personal choices. Only you know yourself well enough to make them."

"You said I'm one of your favorite people. How bad could that be, for you to tell me? It would ensure we met when we did."

"You didn't become one of my favorite people because of how we met. Nor because I know everything there is to know about you, because trust me, I don't. You're one of my favorite people because you're kind and brave, loyal to a fault, exceedingly intelligent..."

Heavy, treacherous words weighted in his throat and he choked on his own voice. He had the chance to swallow them, to not question a good thing when it had been handed to him. But wouldn't not knowing spoil things? The shadow of that doubt tarnish any friendship they might develop? "But that's the thing, isn't it? I may not be any of those things. I'm not your Remus… I haven't experienced the things that might have made the me you know who he is."

"My Remus…? Is that what brought this on? That you aren't him, or that you feel you should… No. No, you understand? Coming here was never about holding you against some ideal I've made up in my head to see how well you compare. I've seen how this goes, how people turn against you when you no longer conform to their expectations, and I would not allow it, less so coming from myself. You don't have to be him, I won't hold you to some unattainable standard, expecting you'll meet it because you did at some point in the future. Besides, my knowing you'll be a great man then doesn't make you any less of one now, and you're entitled to make mistakes. You'll certainly witness some of mine–now, later… You'll see me run from a Bogart sobbing my heart out even though I knew the spell to defeat it. Even though I've faced far more dangerous things. Will you judge me then? Think me pitiful? Less than?"

What? "No, of course—"

"There you have it, then. Hogwarts has taught me a lot, Remus. Charms, potions… Yet, ultimately, the most important lesson was that it's possible to be kind without always being kind, and brave without always being brave, and so incredibly stupid at times. They're not absolute traits. Being who you are is far more important than being an embodiment of them. And nothing you say or do will convince me that the wizard who rushed to my aid last year isn't kind, who respected my wish not to go to the Infirmary isn't loyal, that the one putting together a magical map and teaching me everything about plants is unintelligent," For the first time during her tirade, Hermione smiled, "Brave, well, that remains to be seen, but…"

His lips parted. Silence danced between them, almost taking form, waltzing upon the stone floor, floating along with the breeze. Remus locked his feet in place not to run to her, clenched his hands not to hug her and never let go. Even in silence, his voice was but a whisper he wasn't sure would reach her, "Thank you.

And the running came, and so did the touching, but not from him. The next thing he knew, his arms were full of her. Her hands enveloped his torso, fingers clutching his jumper, pulling him towards her. She laid her head over his chest and hugged him tighter, "You silly, silly wizard. You're enough. Whatever you are, whichever you that might be, you will always be enough," Hermione let go of him enough to face him and he missed her warmth instantly, but her scent and eyes conspired to keep him captive. "Now, are you going to show me how to take a cutting of the Heather? I've just had the worst class in the history of bad classes, and it wasn't even Divination. I'm afraid gardening is my last hope to salvage the rest of the day."

To anyone watching, his actions would paint the strangest of pictures. Remus would enter the garden, leave carrying an unpotted cutting, wait three minutes, then go back inside. All that only to reappear empty-handed, close the door, and open it again, repeating the entire process once more. Restoring the entire garden had seemed too difficult an undertaking, so they carved a corner mini-garden inside the jungle, weeding and fencing it before setting to work on the plants themselves. Over the week, they had also managed to get rid of most of the moss, making the stone floor shine through anew. They would blow on dry dandelions, threaten each other's faces and clothes with dirty hands… Their conversations remained light and free of topics regarding the future. That is, until they didn't.

"That wretched, loathsome, injudicious little toad!"

Her stream of insults snatched Remus' attention. She stomped her way down the stairs, skin flushed, and began to rip her scarf and robe off. "Hermione?"

"Sorry. It's just—She's torturing students now. Those who disagree with her."

"What?" Remus scrambled to his feet, bounding in her direction. He inspected her head to toe, finding no signs of injury, "Who is?"

"Our DADA professor," Her lip curled, "Though 'professor' is too generous a term for the likes of her. She's using a Blood Quill, can you believe it?"

Remus wouldn't be surprised if all blood had drained from his face. Mr. Filch had often threatened he and his friends with physical punishments, but not once had he believed anyone at Hogwarts would enforce them, "Those were banned. Have been for centuries…. Have they reported her?"

"No. Harry is too stubborn."

"Merlin… How long has this woman been teaching?"

"She's just started."

"I think you should report it. She'll be sacked and investigated and—"

"It's not that simple, Remus. I would've gone to the Headmaster already if it were, Harry would be furious, but his well-being is far more important. But I don't believe she would even be suspended, she wasn't hired in the first place… And then she would only make his life more miserable, because of me. Harry's right, just not for the reason he believes," She tipped her head towards the ceiling, burying her hands in her hair, and inhaled. "The position is still cursed and none of the teachers last for more than one year. And it'll be good riddance when she leaves, but we can't afford not to learn anything all year long. Not now. So far we've only had one proper teacher, the others were frauds. It's a wonder we've learned anything at all. And, as if everything else is not enough, she forbids us from using our wands in class. I love books and theory, but..."

"They're not enough. In History of Magic yes, but not Defense," It was unthinkable not to teach defensive spells, more so when it came to students about to take their O.W.L.s. He racked his brain for a way to help, "Perhaps you could ask one of the older students to tutor you? I don't mind teaching you the ones we're learning, but the curriculum might have changed and it seems as though your whole class would need them as well. Those of you worried about the O.W.L.s could put together a club, something along the lines of a dueling club, only intent on teaching spells."

"Remus," Hermione grabbed him by the arms, bounced on her toes, and slapped a kiss on his cheek, "You're brilliant!"

And he felt so, too. Brilliant.

A/N: Hey everyone! This week was a bit crazy since I was working on both this chapter and the one for my other fic, but here it is!

It ended up being more dialogue-heavy, but for good reason.

As always, I hope you all enjoy it and let me know your thoughts if you have the chance! :)

To thoupetty: I'm happy it surprised you in a good way :)

Bear hugs to xXMizz Alec VolturiXx, Imagination of Grace, EvanescoVeritas, PaleandBroodingsGirl, 1991, khaleesiunburnt, caprubia, LilithGray, and thoupetty for the reviews.

To sleeplesslilly, DoeDoesntDo, LilithGray, traceytree, Chantal9, Imagination of Grace, Rotehexe, and Snape1227 for adding the story to their favorites.

And to Fandomwizard26, Writerles, Seraphinac, tkm8949, owlzilla, LilithGray, glowybeans, Katy Silvestry, TeacupsandToads, Unnisa, khaleesiunburnt, D Mysinger, EvanescoVeritas, Imagination of Grace, LeoEstrella, Rotehexe, Snape1227, and ThePurpleStorm for following the story.

You all always brighten my day, I hope this story brightens yours as well! :)