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.
Special thanks: To MammaWeasley27, for beta-reading the story and helping me with some plot changes, and to mrsblack0905 for alpha-reading and encouragement! They were awesome :)
A muscle ticked in his mouth, flashing one of his canines. Of all the plots and strategies devised by the Order of the Phoenix over the years, many had been suicidal. Others, daring. This, however, had been the only laughable one. Minerva was no Dumbledore. Not that Remus believed it wouldn't work for Harry or Ron, chances were it would. Only not for Hermione.
She was no longer a student, limited to a raise of hand and the permission to pose a question. Not that it had ever been the case – her raised hand would unerringly be followed by accurate answers or, at the very least, logical conclusions. Not doubts, not ever. So, unless all Order members were to avoid her forever, it couldn't be done.
His wolf, for one, couldn't stomach the distance much longer.
It had been out for his blood when she came for him. Darkness narrowed his vision, thick sweat forming on his palms as he pressed them, fisted, to his thighs. When she called his name, his controlled breath hitched, escaping through his nostrils with such force he feared she would hear it. And, just as she had come, she left.
A deep growling sound rippled through the night – a blend between the wolf's howl and Remus' cry that strained his vocal cords, the tension threatening them to the point of rupture. But the tears belonged to the man alone.
His mate had come for him and he had refused her on account of a pointless secret from a crumbling organization, of all things. Had they bothered to come, neither Minerva nor Kings would have been welcomed in his house afterward, lest he murder one, or both. For the last two days, metal and glass reflected yellow in his stare – no longer the glimpse of monstrosity, but rather the monster itself. It had shattered everything he owned, yet Hermione's blanket remained, her elusive scent preserved by a spell Remus fought to maintain as he cleaned the stains of his own blood from it.
At times, Remus wished to destroy it as well.
Not that he could. He would never have her, yet, like a masochist, he would tempt and taunt and torture himself. He was, after all, a pathetic man.
He Apparated close to a tall bush that looked neither intentionally planted, nor cared for. Weeds fought grass on the square and won, the smell of wild nature conjoined by pollution. It had been ages since he last took that path. Ordinarily, Remus would apparate inside Number Twelve itself.
He walked his way to the street, coming to a stop before Number Eleven, his gaze fixed on the nothingness that Headquarters was to the unsuspecting eye. He didn't think the words, didn't will the house to reveal itself. Street sounds dimmed and muted. Time became somewhat still as he stood, hourglass sand frozen in place waiting to fall. Staring at it, the void outside reflecting the one within.
Layers of protective charms kept Hermione from harm. Layers of cultivated self-control kept Remus. As a child, he had invented a self to oppose the wolf - aloofness wrapped in humility and patience, an entire persona created to distinguish the person from the curse.
Even the reigns of that fabricated personality now escaped him. He couldn't not hope, couldn't not feel, couldn't not desire. Dragging a hand over his face, the stubble felt longer and pricklier than he recalled, cold sweat beaded on his feverish skin. "I'd frighten her, I—"
Distorted images and colors mingled as he disapparated from the street and back into his house, directly under the shower. Cold water ran over and soaked Remus' hair, clothes, and skin. And, still, yellow eyes stared back at him from the fog-less mirror. He needed to contain it, to urge his human side back - if not for his sake, then for hers.
As rarely happened, Moony and Remus seemed to agree.
The afternoon found Hermione a redhead.
It was not the gingery shade of the Weasley's, but a darker auburn hue that verged on the brown until light caught it just right – only then was it red. In spite of that, it still descended in loose curls over her shoulders the way it did before. She inspected the foreign face in the mirror. Fuller lips parted as delicate, well-manicured fingers traced the collection of freckles that colored her cheeks and nose, resting atop her creamy complexion. Rounded eyebrows framed her deep-set, honey-colored eyes – tones lighter than it had been, almost as if the sun had decided to shine behind brown irises. When she smiled, small mounds of flesh raised over high cheekbones.
Her glamouring was improving. She squared her shoulders and diverted her gaze in search of her purse. It would have to do.
With a crack, the newly turned redhead landed outside Tomes and Scrolls and spared a quick glance at the books behind the window. Harry's face, or illustrations of it, populated a few unauthorized biographies of him. Curiosity had struck her once, the enticing covers begging to be picked up – never had she laughed so loudly. Romanticized Harry had never been a teenager, had never been unsure, or afraid. Moreover, he had never even been a mere wizard – oh, there were theories… And they all served to change Hermione's opinion of Luna – she was saner than most.
One volume, however, did not belong there. Beige spines made for an odd choice – Wizarding publishers tended to stick with color: gold and red for Gryffindor, clear green for his mother's eyes and dark hair for his father's. Sometimes, all of the above – but never beige, never any type of choice that could make an epic, fiction-like tale look dull. In order to get a view of the cover, she drew closer and her stomach knotted. Titled The Wand of Justice: the Woman Who Locked Evil Away, it featured what most would believe a fierce-looking witch. For Hermione, however, it featured the short, flabby embodiment of prim, evil-minded people, an embodiment who also happened to possess a disturbing predilection for pink.
There were better things to do. Hermione rushed off, gaining distance from the most popular shops and shifting away from people as she went. Past Aberforth's pub, another grim front came into view. Hermione worried her bottom lip, assessing what she had earlier considered her best option. A mix of dirt and dried raindrops blurred the round bay windows, betraying nothing of its interior. White Gothic letters read Dogweed and Deathcap over a moss green painting fused with the plant that named it. The prospect looked far less appealing now. She wrung her hands once or twice before crossing the street and reaching for the knob.
A bell sounded overhead and stale air greeted her. Jars, bottles, and other containers filled a ceiling-high, wall-to-wall cupboard. Settled dust coated the counter and floor, a graveyard for scales, mortars, and pestles. As she surveyed the room, sunken green eyes gawked at her from a corner. She had the presence of mind not to jump. Their owner was a corpulent, though not very tall wizard, with a gray beard and graying dark hair.
"What do you want?"
"Hi, um…" Hermione fumbled for her purse, thankfully finding her list with ease, "I was hoping to purchase these, though I'm not certain of the quantities."
She had been able to put together the list of Wolfsbane ingredients the night before, right after jotting down a letter to Professor McGonagall. No reply had come from that yet. She could have returned to Hogwarts to look for the Headmistress once again, now that they had been given a day off, and, while there, taken a small detour towards the Greenhouses to sneak a few of the components. Except… Professor Snape's advice had felt somehow foreboding. Not that she believed things such as omens and not that the secrets were in any way related. But Hermione had long learned that "precautions,", and "unnecessary," when coupled together, were, as a rule, followed by failure.
The wizard snatched the piece of parchment from her hand. He glanced it over, but made no move to procure the ingredients. "Why would you want that? Been bitten, have you?"
"No, I–"
"Such a waste... Too pretty to grow fangs and scar. What was your name again, sweet pie?"
"That's none of your concern."
"Oh, but it is." Hermione stepped back as he advanced, only then catching sight of the side counter. Clippings of the Daily Prophet featuring Umbridge's photographs lay stacked on top of it, likely the only clean surface of the shop. Apparently, the man had yet to acquire her "unauthorized" biography. "Freaks ought to be registered. Maybe wear a collar, too."
Hermione froze. And all caution left her.
"What gives you the right?" Hermione didn't shout it. Each word left her mouth as if melded with disgust, "Belittling people at your will. How are you better than anybody? Judging someone based on... on sheer prejudice and ignorance?"
The bell clinked once again and Hermione didn't need to look to know that a giant of a man was behind her. Her fingers itched around the handle of her wand.
The shopkeeper took another step forward, their faces inches apart. All he needed to do was touch her… but Hermione couldn't be damned.
"Ooh, a feisty she-wolf, that is. Think we're equal, do you? I might even keep you…for a pet."
Oh, magic her arse, she would—
"What is goin' on 'ere?"
Hermione forced herself to exhale quietly. Hagrid. Turned out the giant of a man was in fact part-giant.
Recognition, she assumed, had the seller take a step back, but his sunken eyes gleamed at her. Even as the gamekeeper took a step to stand between them, she wrinkled her nose, "Just a poor excuse for a wizard."
A hand to his shoulder kept him in place, Hagrid's voice a warning, "Astor…"
"You'll be locked in a cage, where your kind belongs!"
"Yer alright, lass?"
"Yes. It's me, Hagrid, Hermione."
"How—?" He waved at the air, "Oh, nevermind. The three of yeh ough' ter stop with this Polyjuice business. Not the kind of thing to be playin' with."
Hermione meant to correct him, but he spoke again, "What did Astor mean, 'yer kind'?"
"Werewolves."
Hagrid stopped mid-breath. "They will victimize yeh, they will. Bastards, the 'ole lot of 'em. Things ain't good for werewolves these days, not since their lot supported Voldemort. Word gets out, rumors even, that someone 'lse has been turned, ye of all people..."
"I haven't, Hagrid. He was wrong."
He pressed a hand to his stomach, his voice gruff. "Oh, thank Merlin."
His relief caught on her throat like an unpalatable beverage. Something she couldn't quite swallow until it forced its way down: the curse wasn't about the beast. That was a fact, of course, an avoidable one with the potion, but a fact nonetheless. Yet, the real curse lay in a lifetime of that shop. Hell cemented by derision, bigotry, and fear. Hermione herself had used 'werewolf' as an accusation once, against Remus. A qualifier meant to annul everything about a person but their condition.
Never again.
Ron's voice shook her from realization, but it lingered in her mind like an acerbic awareness. She had missed the beginning of the conversation.
"Me? Been buyin' some things, nothin' much, oh no, just plain, regular things. And accompanyin' Hermione 'ere, o' course, as I said, nothin' much."
"Hermione? Where?"
"Don't worry, Ronald, I was just leaving. Goodbye, Hagrid."
"'Mione? No, wait—"
But the girl had already scampered away. A mass of people left Zonko's then, just as a young man bolted after her, towards the castle. His hair changed colors from brown to blond as he bumped against the people in the street.
It was eerie seeing Tonks as a man. Hagrid winced as she, or rather he, knocked a man to the ground, arse to the tiled pavement, and shook his head. She oughtter be more careful. Such a clumsy witch, that one.
The Phoenix was falling when he arrived. Fiery feathers burned a brighter orange in an all-consuming fire that ignited in its chest and coursed its way to open wings. There was no ash, no extinguished existence. It rose from within itself, a swirl of fire emerging in a skyward flight. A struggle of old and new reconciled at last as it floated above its pedestal.
It was still as beautiful as the first time he had seen it.
His gaze roamed the Monument's structure. Next to Lily and James' names lay the name of his best friend – the Black, yet honorary Potter.
A single firework erupted, green sparks culminating into the perfect replica of Sirius. Like a photograph taken from too close a distance, the ghost of him showed nothing from the chest below, yet Remus couldn't bring himself to meet his friend's eyes. Thoughts spun in disarray inside his mind, the ability to form coherent sentences escaping him. There were things he wished to tell Sirius, things he had carried with him for two years. As had happened during the First War, those things had remained unsaid, as a sort of arrogance or naive hope that everyone they knew would escape unscathed. It was never the case.
"Took you long enough, Moony. I know George said to come whenever you wanted, but—" Remus managed to face him, "Hell! What happened to you, old friend?"
"Hermione."
"Couple's row already?" Remus glowered at him, "What? You were holding hands the last time I saw you, right over there. What was I to think?"
"She was just being kind."
At that, undue wrinkles formed between Sirius' eyebrows, "And the problem?"
"The Order is making me lie to her."
Sirius barely missed a beat, "You've been lying to her for far longer than that, Remus."
"It was a necessary lie."
"And whatever this one is, it's unimportant?" he asked, "I'm just saying, are you sure it's their lie that got you in this state?"
"And what would you have me do, Pads? Tell Hermione she's my mate and watch as she screams bloody murder? I can't do that; I couldn't bear it."
Sirius never answered, his gaze had darted from Remus to something else.
"By—By mate," a woman's voice traveled from a pillar nearby, "you don't, by any chance, mean the slang word, do you?"
Remus turned his head. The voice was off. The eyes, too, every single part of her, except…
Except she smelled of bathing salts and wine, of fallen leaves and books.
"Because Harry and Ron never did, they were more partial to friend. Although they did believe I was one of the guys, that happened to sleep in a different dormitory, up until fourth year," Her brows furrowed, "If not for the Yule Ball—"
"Hermione."
"Yes?"
Remus daren't move.
A/N: And the moment of truth is upon us! Please don't hate me for the cliffhanger lol
I hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think!
Many, many thanks to…
My reviewers: Sparky She-Demon, SereniteRose, arizonadaydreamer, bethrcsimpson, RAV3N R1PP3R, happyhippy, and Missingvangogh
To GirlsAreLikeApples, RAV3N R1PP3R, kelayna, afraidofspiders, Kittenshift17, erinmelanie, Fairie Daggers, It's always Wednesday, MammaWeasley27, NormalAgain, Angel Cauldwell, and myprimuslune for adding the story to their favorites.
And to smaltbey, olliepuppy, Tomlinzoides, Naomi54321, thewinnowingwind, The RedGirl0000000000, ajmed12, Roseemarie, Lori2622, GirlOnline23, johnsocz, Oceans Night, afraidofspiders, HHrbelong2gether, Mahawna, Mindori Takahashi, Xainte, Christie623, erinmelanie, Fairie Daggers, Lkillgrove, It's always Wednesday, BeccaTurner1892, ObliviateMeQuietly, MammaWeasley27, NormalAgain, Kat-AnnGranger, Angel Cauldwell, HazelChaser, Missingvangogh, and vampire juhi for following the story.