Harry lay on the hospital bed before Hermione, looking like he could just be sleeping if it weren't for his deathly pallor and the coldness of his skin and the fact that he'd been unresponsive since Friday night. He was miraculously not dead as the Healers had predicted he'd be by Saturday morning, but she wouldn't exactly say he was alive either. He was in a magical coma, his vitals were barely vital, and the Healers could do nothing to make him better. There was no known magic, potion, or Muggle medication that could combat the effects of the curse that the now captured Death Eater had hit him with. The Healers said the only reason Harry hadn't yet succumbed was because his will to survive was so great.

But would his will to wake up be strong enough? Could sheer will be enough to fight off the curse? How long could it keep him alive? She knew the longer he stayed in the coma, the slimmer his chances became and hoped he'd rally up whatever strength he had left and react soon.

"I've brought you three some sandwiches," Mrs. Weasley said as she came into the room.

Although she felt no desire to eat, Hermione thanked her and took the food she offered, as did Ron. Ginny, however, refused.

"You haven't eaten all day, dear."

"I'm not hungry, Mum."

"But you have to eat something."

"Fine," Ginny said, taking the sandwich.

Mrs. Weasley looked at her daughter, then Harry, with a pained expression before quietly leaving the room again. Upon her exit, Ginny discarded the sandwich and gathered Harry's hand in hers once more.

Ron also seemed to have lost his normally ravenous appetite. He slowly took a few bites before setting the food aside as well. His face was very pale. So was Ginny's, which magnified the dark circles under her teary eyes. Hermione thought she herself must look just as bad as they did. None of them had left Harry's side for long these past few days. They, along with him, were in limbo.

Hermione felt like she was in a daze. How could this be happening? How could Harry be in this position after everything he'd already had to go through, after everything he'd survived, including saving the entire wizarding and Muggle world? It wasn't fair. Just when he'd begun to settle into a less burdened life, full of possibilities and happiness. He deserved more time. He had to wake up. He had to live. He had to.

Evening came. Hermione said aloud that she'd be gone for a little while, but she'd be back very soon. Ginny and Ron didn't ask where she was going. They simply nodded in response. But Hermione wasn't speaking to them anyway. She spoke to Harry. She was convinced he could hear her and knew what was going on around him even if he couldn't show it. She kissed his cheek and gave his cold hand another squeeze, hoping he might react, but when he didn't she parted from the heavy atmosphere of the hospital room.

Before she knew it, she was lurking in the halls at Hogwarts. She checked the Marauder's Map for a path to Slughorn's office that would allow her to avoid running into anybody and being bombarded with questions: How's Harry? Will he ever wake up? Is it true what the Daily Prophet reported, that the Boy Who Lived is going to die? She dreadfully feared the answers.

"You needn't have written this essay, Miss Granger," Professor Slughorn told her as he accepted the assignment she handed over. "Under the circumstances… I would have understood."

"I finished it before Harry—" Hermione blinked back her sudden emotion and cleared her throat. "I finished it last week, Professor, so I thought I'd turn it in." Then, because she was sure he was about to inquire about Harry's condition, or hers, she asked, "Is that for Professor Lupin?"

Slughorn followed her gaze to the goblet on his desk. "Ah, yes. He never came by to pick up his potion. I was just about to deliver it to him myself."

"I could do that for you if you like. I'm heading that way."

"That would be great. Thank you, Miss Granger. And don't worry about this week's assignments, all right?"

For once Hermione wasn't worried about homework. She hadn't come to Hogwarts to turn in her assignment, or to get more books from the library to research ways to help Harry like she'd told McGonagall. In truth, she'd only come to see Remus.

She was extremely upset with him. She wasn't sure if this feeling was at all rational or fair to him, but it was real and strong within her. His absence at St. Mungo's these past few days had been awful. He'd left on Saturday and he had never returned, and she was angry at him for not being by Harry's side, for not being by her side. She needed his comforting words, his strength and his steadiness, and the reassuring calm he provided in difficult situations like this. She needed him but he wasn't there, and so she marched to his office to demand his reason why.

Remus poured himself more firewhiskey. Raising the glass to his lips, he stared at the framed photographs perched atop the mantelpiece in his living quarters. The once smiling faces of the people he loved, now deceased.

There was a picture of him as a young boy with his mother. She'd passed away when he was sixteen. Another photo of her and his father. He'd died as well, a number of years ago. A picture of Remus with his three best friends. All of them dead and gone now.

He snatched the photograph of the Marauders at Hogwarts. A lot of the greatest, happiest times of his life had been when he was a student, roaming the school with his friends, joking and laughing and getting into trouble. Then the worst time in his life had followed a few short years later. Within twenty-four hours he'd lost all of his closest friends: first James and Lily were murdered, then Peter (or so he'd thought), and Sirius was carted off to Azkaban with a life sentence, believed to be the traitor responsible for these horrific deaths. And he had been left alone.

He'd gone on to live a poor, miserable existence for the majority of his adult life, and he couldn't understand why he'd outlived his friends. Why had they died while he'd survived? James and Sirius had so much more potential than him, much more opportunity for happiness and success. They had brains, talent, money, and looks, while any positive attributes he might have were rendered useless by his lycanthropy. They were the ones who deserved more time, not him. Especially James. He had already started his own family. He'd married the love of his life and they'd had a son. And now that son lay near death in a hospital bed, without hope of recovery…

He couldn't bear to see Harry in that state. He couldn't bear to see the stricken faces of Hermione and the Weasleys gathered at his bedside. Hermione had looked so pale when they'd left Hogwarts and arrived at St. Mungo's Friday night, and it had pained him to see the sorrow in her eyes when they'd seen Harry for the first time. He knew how agonizing this must be for her; Harry was like her brother. For a while she couldn't speak. She'd only held Harry's hand and hugged a silently sobbing Ginny. But outside the hospital room later she wiped away her own tears and he was surprised by the edge of anger in her voice when she said to him it wasn't fair.

He had long ago learned that life was unfair and sometimes things happened for no reason at all. Still, he agreed with Hermione. It wasn't fair, and he couldn't accept what was happening to Harry. It was beyond unjust what Harry had already had to live through, and he more than deserved a long, happy, and peaceful life. If he could switch places with him, if he could give up his own life so that he could live, he would do so without hesitation. But he couldn't. Once more he'd have to stand by helplessly as another person he cared for died, and much too young. Why Harry?

A few years ago, after Sirius's death, he'd told Dumbledore that Sirius had been the closest thing to his real family Harry had left, an irreplaceable link to his parents, and Dumbledore had told him that he, Remus, now filled that role. The opposite was also true. Remus felt that Harry was an irreplaceable link to his own happy, Hogwarts days and the family he'd found with the Marauders, and now he was about to lose him too…

He drained his glass of firewhiskey and poured himself another. He was tired of losing everyone he loved. He was cursed, he had to be.

Hermione banged on the door to Remus's office. He didn't answer.

"Alohomora!" she cried and the door burst open. She entered. The Marauder's Map showed her that Remus was in his living quarters, the door to which she knew was camouflaged in the wall behind his desk. She raised her fist to knock on it, but a loud crashing sound in the room beyond made her jump back in alarm — what was that? Was Remus all right? A worried Hermione hurried inside the unlocked door to see what was going on.

She took a cursory look around the room, a sitting room, and then her eyes settled upon Remus. He stood with his back toward her, tense and breathing hard. She noted the nearly empty bottle of firewhiskey on the table beside him, the dripping wall by the fireplace, and the shards of glass on the floor, and tentatively stepped forward. He turned around before she could say his name, his eyes overly bright.

"He can't die too."

Her heart wrenched at the sound of his broken voice. She saw the photograph he had clutched in his hand and she immediately understood what he must be feeling. She remembered his reaction to Dumbledore's death, the only other time she'd ever seen him lose his composure, and she knew this situation with Harry must be more painful still because Remus had already lost so many of the people he cared about most in life…

Hermione rushed towards him.

"He won't die, he'll be okay!" she cried, her hand cupping his face. "He'll be okay, Remus. He'll wake up. He has to wake up!"

Her words and tone started out reassuring, but they quickly turned into an uncertain plea. She tried to be strong for him, but how could she when she felt so hopeless herself? It didn't matter, though. Upon seeing her distress, Remus began to regain his composure. He gently took her face into his hands.

"Of course he'll wake up." His thumbs caressed her cheeks, wiping away her fallen tears. "Harry's tough. Resilient. He's survived everything life has thrown at him thus far, and he'll survive this. He will wake up. He'll be okay." He pressed his lips to her forehead. "Everything will be okay, Hermione."

He pulled her to him and she hugged him tightly, her eyes closing at the soothing touch of him stroking her hair. This was exactly what she'd needed these last few days. This was exactly what she'd desperately missed these past several months. And in his comforting embrace, Hermione believed for the first time since Friday night that maybe everything truly would be okay.

He didn't know how long he stood there holding Hermione. It could have been a minute, or a handful of hours. But in that time all thoughts of Harry disappeared from his mind and each breath he took plunged him deeper into an inebriated state that had less to do with firewhiskey and everything to do with the perfume of the girl in his arms. His mind had gone hazy while his senses had sharpened until all that mattered in the world was Hermione and her intoxicating scent.

He continued to breathe her in, and with each passing second he became increasingly aware of a curious sensation overcoming him, something gentle and rhythmic, like the beat of beautiful music pulsing through him. He ignored it, preferring to focus instead on the warmth of Hermione's body against his, the feel of her slender figure beneath his hands, the flare of her hips, the curve of her—

Hermione abruptly withdrew from their embrace. She peered up at him, a slight frown on her face, and looking into his eyes, her own slowly widened.

"I — I think I should go now," she said in a voice just above a whisper. She stepped back cautiously, but he caught her arm before she could turn away.

"Hermione…" he said, his voice low and laced with lust.

A beautiful blush burned her face. "I need to go. Professor McGonagall's expecting me."

Avoiding his gaze, she pulled free from his grasp, but he caught her once more around her wrist. She glanced down at his unyielding grip, then her chocolate brown eyes returned to his. She bit her lip, a nervous habit of hers. It drove him mad watching her do it — he wanted to be the one doing the biting.

He yanked her towards him and her sharp intake of breath as her body crashed into his further heated his blood. With his arm around her waist, he held her firmly, possessively, his gaze intent on her slightly parted lips. He ran his thumb over them, slowly along the bottom one, so delectably soft and full and red… Did she taste as delicious as her scent promised? It'd be easy to learn the answer. He tilted her chin up and mere centimeters separated their lips from touching.

But just as he was about to close that distance, the gentle pulse he'd noticed earlier picked up pace, pounding away within him now. He cocked his head curiously as it occurred to him the sensation was directly related to Hermione. He lowered his gaze to her chest and his hand followed, fingers slowly running down her silky skin, slipping just beneath the V-neck of her sweater. She went perfectly still, holding her breath, as he pressed his hand over her heart and confirmed that the pulse he was feeling belonged to her — somehow the beat of her heart was echoing inside him.

Regarding her with heightened interest, he raised his gaze again to her lovely face. Her eyes were closed, but they quickly fluttered open once more and met with his. And in that moment, holding her in his arms, gazing into her eyes, and feeling her heart beat within him, he felt like Hermione was his. And he wanted to make her his. He wanted to feel more of her, wanted to taste her.

He tangled his hand in her hair, delighting in the way her breath hitched as he brushed his lips against her jaw, then nuzzled her neck, inhaling her deeply, drowning in her seductive scent.

"Remus," she whispered timidly in his ear. She squirmed weakly against him, but he only tightened his hold on her, relishing the feel of the tension in her body pressed against his, her fingers digging into his arm, her breaths coming quick and shallow as he continued to kiss her neck. A soft moan escaped her lips, and the sweet sound fueled his already raging desire and ignited deep, dark, dangerous impulses. He bared his teeth.

"Remus!" she gasped when he nipped her neck. She squirmed again in his arms, her heartbeat frantic now, like that of frightened prey caught beneath the fangs of a wolf.

And then he remembered he was a wolf.

The haze clouding his mind began to lift as if he was slowly waking from a dream, and he pulled away from Hermione slightly. He could smell her fear. But that wasn't all he perceived. There was something else she was struggling with, a distinct and more intense feeling that his touch had aroused…

He couldn't believe it. As clearly and as strongly as he felt his own desire for her, he sensed Hermione's longing for him. Though she knew she should flee, part of her wanted to stay, wanted him. She yearned for him. He stared at her, absolutely stunned. How could a young, beautiful, clever witch like herself want somebody like him? It was completely unfathomable, yet it was also undeniably true. He could feel it in his blood, feel it in hers.

He would have loved to give her what she craved. He would have loved to fulfill every need and every wish she might have, and then some. But this violent lust he was feeling now was the wolf's, not his. At least, not entirely his. And though he was sorely tempted to give in to his wolfish instincts, he wouldn't. For some reason, the knowledge of her desire for him had a sobering effect.

His head clear and his sense of self returned, Remus released her immediately.

"I-I'm sorry, Hermione," he stammered, hastily backing away from her in a panic. What had he just done? "I didn't mean to… I — I'm not quite myself tonight."

"I understand," she said breathlessly. "The full moon is only a few nights away and it — it affects you…" She glanced down at his mouth, a hint of longing still in her eyes despite having just caught a glimpse of his wolfish nature.

Remus turned away from her. With unsteady hands he seized the goblet she'd placed on the table earlier. "You should leave," he said before quickly downing the Wolfsbane Potion, though he knew it wouldn't help him in the least with these impulses, these feelings for Hermione. It didn't work on her for whatever reason, which was incredibly unfortunate considering she was the one who most affected him, and now, the only one who'd ever made him lose control.

He looked around at the door after he'd drained the foul-tasting tonic. Hermione stood paused at the threshold. She glanced back at him, then lowered her gaze and retreated from the room, leaving him to suffer alone with her lingering scent.