Tie Your Heart at Night to Mine, Love
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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Hermione's recollection of her first time getting sloshed was not at all a bad one.
Yes, the first sip of Firewhisky had murdered her taste buds, scorched her throat and made her wonder whether or not drinking was a good plan. By the second glass, however, such concerns had abated as she played the part of backing singer, shouting the chorus to Ginny's off-key performance of the Weird Sisters' new song. And, after Ginny had dared them to a game of Straight Face, whatever worries her mind had entertained had waned away along with her capacity of retaining details.
Yet came the moment when the laughter died, as if its presence was rather an indicator of hysteria than of merriment, and the silence converted Grimmauld Place into a hostile house once again.
Ginny had turned to Harry, Neville to Luna, and, given the choice, Hermione turned to her least protected friend. The one who would tend his own wounds yet was always there to tend to others'. She was well acquainted with that class of strength – one engendered not out of bravery or vanity but for other people's benefit – for their peace of mind, a means to assuage their fears. A cultivated strength, useless to its owner for, try as he may, it's a hoax to which he's unsusceptible. Its walls are like solid armor, bathed in kindness to outsiders whilst the thorns of censure and burden point inward.
No one questioned her as she left. She steadied herself against the walls and doorways, taking studious and diminutive steps to overcome her drunken ineptitude. The stairs felt far more treacherous than the changeable staircases at Hogwarts as she felt her way down to the poorly illuminated kitchen. Once arrived, it took her a few missteps and stumbles to reach the remedies' cabinet. It was with care that she searched it, disregarding the Order's large reserve of Dittany, until she located a small green bottle tagged, in black, overly large letters, 'Sober up Potion'.
Instant tears sprung from her eyes as she downed its contents, followed by a crushing sensation that assailed her skull as if intent on making her brain implode. Unlike the Pepperup, steam didn't come out of her ears. Still the silence became as loud as the whizzing left by the common-cold cure and the kitchen lights harmed her eyes as if they shone as bright as the sun itself. Hermione doubled over, massaging her temples as best as she could and promising Merlin, God, or whoever was out there that she would never drink again provided that the pain stopped. And as she lowered herself to the ground, planning to curl into a ball and wishing the pain gone for as little as two, perhaps three full seconds, it did stop.
A second passed. Two. Three. She swallowed as her bargained time came to an end and chanced a look at the little green bottle. Its tag now read "You're sober!" in the same overly large letters. It was, apparently, the end of her condensed hangover.
Hermione rose to her feet, her balance flawless and her senses keen, and seized some of the Dittany as a precaution. On her way out, she grabbed her wrap coat, threw it over her owl pajamas and disapparated.
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Remus hadn't eaten a thing all day. It was unlike the wolf not to feed but, then again, so was its need to get inside the house. It was not one of its unfounded, animal-like behaviors – not to Remus, not this time. For when he regained consciousness his fingertips were raw from clawing at the floorboards, his back and shoulders stung with cuts caused either by the broken center table or the smashed window – perhaps even both – and still none of it mattered for he woke up surrounded by her, wrapped up inside her robe-turned-blanket.
It was the wolf's most prized possession, he reckoned, the one item in which his scent and hers mingled. And Remus might as well admit it, if only to himself, that Hermione had somehow become the single point of convergence between man and wolf.
He hadn't bothered to eat either – the aconite-poisoning had taken its toll on Remus' body despite the antidote Hermione had him take. All he had accomplished to do that day was drag himself up the couch taking the blanket with him, and sink once again into unconsciousness.
Neither the scent of food nor the smell of danger would prompt him into awareness at that point, but hers did. Her fragrance wafted across the room, holding his senses captive. Exhaustion was no match, yet Hermione remained beautifully oblivious of her own hold over him. Right then and there, Remus was just another wolf battling Moony for her attention. The latter desired to flaunt himself at her in naked and feral glory. Yet, the former… the former longed to let his wounds show – a display of weakness and trust meant to only be seen by his mate.
In the end, victory was determined not by the strongest wolf, but rather by Hermione herself. It was her concerned look – her wrinkled brows and sudden intake of air at the sight of him – that made Remus sit up and remain that way, as the blanket lay covering his lower body.
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Whatever Hermione expected, the scene presented to her was not it. Moonlight from a not-quite-as-full moon reflected itself from large shards of glass by the window but, more so, from the viscous liquid underneath them. It was not until she followed its trail to a better lit corner that paws and footprints betrayed its reddish-brown pigmentation – Remus' blood. A pool of Remus' blood. The table she had rested her cup of tea the day before lay broken in halves and the mug Hermione supposed had at some point rested on top of it was now shattered on the ground beside it.
And Remus… her breath hitched once she saw him, so smeared with his own blood that it took Hermione a full minute to notice his lack of clothes. Even once it came to her attention, his nakedness wasn't something she could focus on, as her eyes lingered on the open gashes climbing up his shoulders, the end of which escaped her limited sight. Others would certainly show, once she managed to clean the dry blood he was bathed in.
There weren't words. No sweet reassurances or panicked interjections. There was, however, an unspoken agreement, allowed by the dreamlike quality of the late hour, that that particular encounter would remain thus – unspoken of, and perchance nothing more than a figment of their imagination.
It didn't advance their relationship in any way, yet there was a sense of intimacy instilled in every action – in the way Remus' body would tense under her touch and Hermione's breath would catch under the gaze of those gold-rimmed eyes.
Once his wounds were addressed, Remus caressed Hermione's hand and brushed his lips against her forehead. But then, lying in her own bed half-asleep hours later, she couldn't tell for sure whether or not she had dreamt that part.
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A/N: I had too many ideas for this chapter. It's quite unusual, normally my mind goes completely blank and the chapter starts with one stupid sentence that will be heavily edited by the time I publish. But I came up with so many things and dialogues this time that some will probably go to waste – a pity since most of them sounded really funny in my head.
Oh, well, I hope you enjoyed Remus' nakedness (sorry about all the blood, though!).
Nosebleed nougats to…
My reviewers: Sampdoria, IrishIris, SereniteRose, Lisamalvina, lexi0804, rosesnblueberries, and GraysonSteele.
To alysensmom, angeljade7, GraysonSteele, and Uruwhy for adding the story to their favorites.
And to reannamirwin, LillithBlade, Tempted Sacrifice, ChronicallyCurious, angeljade7, Duskblack28, The Lioness of Fenchurch East, LoonyLoopyMoony, lepome, happyhippy, AtinyOceane, GraysonSteele, shannon mcgalliard 5, and Shnazy for following!
Thank you all! Please review :)