theDarkIsRising

The Night Will Go As Follows

6. BECAUSE NO ONE IS GONNA SAVE US

Remus spent his wedding night on the couch in Hermione's flat. She offered to let him sleep in her bed, but he repeatedly declined. Looking flustered (he doubted too many people had the patience to withstand her persistence), Hermione went into her bedroom, presumably to change into her nightclothes. She soon returned with some flannel pajama pants and an old t-shirt with a lion emblazoned on it. He thought he could just make out a 'W' stamped on the lion's chest.

"Here. If you're going to be difficult, at least take these." She pressed the bundle into his hand. "You know in case you'd like to be more comfortable. It's all I have, in the way of men's clothing, really. I'll just go back in here, so you can change."

She regarded him a moment as if she was going to say something else then spun on her heels and left. Making sure her door was closed, Remus took off his robe then his own t-shirt and trousers. The pajama pants were a bit baggy around his waist; he hated to look at how truly thin he'd become. They also showed quite a bit of his ankle. The shirt fit better, though it seemed a bit tight on his shoulders. He tried not to think about who the original owner of these clothes was. Neatly, he folded his clothes and looked the couch over. It was leather and seemed comfortable enough. Probably more so than the bed in his flat.

"Are you dressed?" Hermione asked through her bedroom door.

"Yes."

Hesitantly, she emerged. Her outfit was similar to his as she wore a Chudley Cannons t-shirt that nearly reached past her shorts. Remus knew he should have just gone home to the safety and stale air of his flat. However, they had been in the middle of the forest, it had been late, and Hermione had insisted.

He knew he should spend his wedding night with his wife and Remus was completely flummoxed by such a thought. A wedding. A wife. A wedding night with his wife. All phrases beyond his current comprehension. Briefly, he wondered if she expected anything from him, from their situation. But Hermione swept past him into her kitchen to set the kettle on the stove. Of course, she wouldn't use magic to boil tea, he thought amused.

Soon, she came back with two steaming mugs. "You take milk only, right?" she said. She carefully handed one to Remus before sitting on the couch and motioning for him to join her.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Oh, you know, Molly would have me help get things ready for whenever the Order came over. Especially since Dumbledore wouldn't let us join." Her thumb traced the curve of the mug's handle. "Honestly, I was trying to spy on the meetings and hear what you were talking about."

"Always eager. Nothing happening that you didn't find out about soon enough. Many of us thought that you should be included. No point in acting like you wouldn't be affected."

"Yes, we'd all be included soon enough." She set her mug down and pulled her legs beneath her. They bumped against his knee. "So, we're married."

Remus believed that was the first time either of them had spoken the truth aloud. He felt his stomach turn in an odd way and set his tea on the side table. "Yes."

"Don't look like that. Now, that was the easy part."

"Easy part? I have now magically bound a very young witch to me in marriage because the government says so or else they'll punish me. Undoubtedly, the easiest part."

Hermione crossed her arms. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice. Luckily, I bullied my way into the Ministry or else you'd be sitting on a Muggle street corner. Or in a cell in Azkaban if that's what they really wanted."

"Maybe that is what I really wanted. Maybe it's what I deserve." Remus placed his face in his hands, burying his fingers into his hair. He should have walked away from them all long ago.

"If that's what you wanted, then I think you'd have found a way to tell me 'no.' I know I am quite scary with a wand, but so are you." She put a hand on his knee; he could feel the warmth through the pajamas. She attempted to lean over and catch his eye. "And you deserve none of that. You are a wonderful man, Remus, who never asked for any of this."

He turned his head toward her. "Neither did you."

"None of us have asked for what has happened. But we can accept it. That's about all we can do now, isn't it? I knew that I would marry you as soon as that announcement came. I didn't fully realize it until later, when I knew the Ministry would not budge on it, but I knew that you were worth it. It was just a matter of convincing you."

"As you've said, you are quite convincing with a wand."

Hermione playfully scoffed at him. "And here I thought it was my good looks and charm that won you over."

Remus went still and watched as her smirk faltered on her face. He did not have a reply, because to be honest, he did not know what overriding factor caused him to agree to marry her. They'd had moments of closeness after the war, moments of support. Their promises to each other, those had hit him the hardest as he stood in front of that magistrate, making his unbearable decision. They should take care of themselves and each other. She looked at him with pleading eyes and said that one word – "promise."

Then there was the threat of banishment or even imprisonment. And a pretty, young witch with curly hair in a red dress who insisted upon their union and had her hand balled into his cloak and her wand pressing into his side. Had she even needed that wand?

She pulled away from him and picked up her tea once more, taking sips from it to avoid looking at him. She hugged her chest with her free arm.

"Listen, Hermione – "

"Like I was saying," she cut him off, "that was the easier part, I suppose. Now, you need to find a job and we need to make sure the Ministry knows that. You'll have a truncated time frame, so we'll have to act fast."

"A provision of the law was that they could no longer discriminate against werewolves in the workplace. I think I can find something."

"Perhaps. But there's also all those other werewolves seeking jobs. Maybe, we should ask Professor McGonagall?" The tension from earlier eased from her face and she smiled at her suggestion.

"I don't think there are any positions open at Hogwarts."

"You've said before how much you loved teaching. I think the person at the Defense Against the Dark Arts post is only temporary."

"But, Hermione, you work in London. You live in London."

"Yes, so?" She looked at him confused.

"Hogwarts is in the north, all the way in Scotland. I'd be living in the castle. Would you be staying in London? Shouldn't we be living together?" He had not thought about such a prospect until they had Apparated into Hermione's flat. Then, he'd remembered that typically married people live together and this was how their relationship was going to be from now on.

"You're right. I hadn't considered that. The Ministry will probably frown on us having two separate addresses. No matter what position you get, we can work it out. I can always commute in."

"What do you want to do in the meantime?"

She brightened momentarily. "You can stay here with me. If you'd like. We can move your things over. Shrink what is too big to fit."

"That's very kind of you, but I wouldn't want to impose on your private space. Should we think of somewhere bigger? You've got a one-bedroom. Mine is even smaller."

"We'd need it available now. I'm sure the Ministry will want us to file the rest of our personal details soon."

Remus thought for a moment, then said, "Doesn't Harry still have the deed for Grimmauld?"

"You seriously want to move into Grimmauld? After everything, you want to step back in there?" She looked utterly shocked and somewhat disgusted at such a prospect.

"It's large. It's vacant. And very much available."

"Well, of course, it's available. Might as well be a bloody haunted house. I think we should stay here until we get everything sorted out."

"We can do that. But I'm afraid after all that, Grimmauld will be the most sensible option."

She was muttering under her breath. "Yes, of course, sensible options: sensible Hermione, sensible Grimmauld."

Regretting his previous silence and his current choice of words, Remus tried to explain. He didn't want her believing what she suggested. "Hermione, please, I think you're taking this the wrong way."

She untucked her legs and stood up. "I rather think that we are squared away at the moment. I've left you some blankets and a pillow for tonight. I'll leave out for work around seven o'clock. I'll try not to disturb you."

"Hermione," he said.

She spun around. Some of the frustration melted from her face when she looked at him, then she just looked tired. It was late. He walked over to her. Her hand rested on her bedroom doorknob as if ready for a hasty retreat. "You should know that I never considered anyone else." Without thinking, he pulled her head closer and planted a kiss on her head. Her hair smelled faintly sweet. When he released her, he said, "Good night."

"Good night," she breathed back and then promptly disappeared behind the door.

Hours later, Remus finally quieted his thoughts – somewhat. The couch was comfortable, but that did not help him rest. He then began to catalogue what was in Hermione's flat: 278 books (that he could see), three lamps, sixty ceiling tiles, four small rugs. She kept Hogwarts: A History on the coffee table. A small tea ring stained the wood next to it.

Mostly, he lay there and listened. Being a werewolf meant he could hear every toss and turn Hermione made. He could make out mumbles as well. Once, he was certain that she called his name. Quietly, he got up and made his way to her door. He pressed his ear to the wood. She stilled and all he could hear was her deep even breathing. Remus thought about how they'd manage bedrooms and sleeping once they properly had their own place. He wondered why she called his name.

Hermione awoke with a start. Grabbing her alarm clock, she saw that it was only 5:30 in the morning. Only 5:30 meant she hadn't overslept and been late for work. However, a sense of panic still overtook her. Hermione rubbed her temples, trying to remember. A dream – she'd had a dream or rather a nightmare. That was the panic, but the details were fuzzing.

It was the Battle of Hogwarts; everyone was running past her. Except for one figure. Remus dueled with Dolohov. He kept dodging the Death Eater's curses; green light kept illuminating Remus' face. She tried to run to him, to help him, but she couldn't. All that Hermione could remember doing was standing and staring and saying his name.

Grabbing her wand, Hermione violently turned her bedroom lights on. She retreated into her bathroom and turned on the shower. She rubbed her hands over her arms. Dreams of the Battle never left her. She'd go a week or two, but then flashes of it would come back. Sometimes, she relived Horcrux hunting or that night in Malfoy Manor. Hermione traced the 'mudblood' scar on her forearm. Sometimes, she dreamt of the funerals. As usual, she tried to compartmentalize those images, breathing deep, telling herself it was in the past, nothing to be done about it. Stepping into the shower, she stood in the warm spray and repeated to herself: but he is alive, he is alive, he is alive.

Slipping out her bedroom door, Hermione quietly padded across her living room. Remus lay askew on the couch, one leg and one arm hanging off. He didn't stir when she came up next to him. She frowned at how skinny he looked. The blanket had fallen off sometime in the night. Hermione retrieved it from the floor and placed it back over him, tucking the loose ends in around his calves and arms. He shifted in his sleep, but did not wake up. Hermione thought his face looked more relaxed as opposed to his usual tense and guarded self. He looked years younger. A thick curtain of light brown hair covered his eye and fell across his check. She pushed it back a bit, so she could see more of his face. Scared she'd awaken him, she moved into the kitchen to start tea and toast.

Remus slept heavily until the sound of footsteps stirred him. He felt her gently rearrange his blanket, but was most surprised by the light sweep of her hand across his face. His hair tickled his cheek as she moved it aside. But she didn't stay long. Soon, the floorboards creaked and he could hear her filling the kettle with water again. He lay there feigning sleep until he felt her hand on his shoulder.

"Remus? Remus?" she whispered.

He cleared his throat and opened his eyes. Her hair was still damp from the shower and she wore a burgundy bathrobe. "Yes," he croaked. "I'm up."

"I just wanted to say there's some breakfast in the kitchen if you're hungry. You can have whatever you like. Or there's also a café down the street. I'll be going in a few." She paused, starting to rise from her crouched position. "I didn't want to pop out without at least saying 'good morning.'"

"Good morning," he murmured back. "What time is it?" He strained his head to look out the window. He couldn't see any light.

"Over a quarter past six, I think."

"Too early is what it sounds like. You'll be gone by seven? When will you be off?" He sat up on the couch, arching his back and turning his head from side to side.

"By four, I think. I'll try to get out sooner if they'll let me. I can probably work through lunch."

She moved back toward her bedroom, a piece of buttered toast in her hand. Rubbing his hands over his face, he felt a particularly large scar that ran across his left cheek. Self-consciously, he hoped she hadn't touched it earlier when she'd checked on him. Hermione had not run from him. Yet.

He grabbed a mug of tea and some toast and jam that were sitting out. He could hear more water running. Then, in a flurry, she reemerged with her hair freshly dried; she ran her fingers through it hurriedly. Her plain black robes fluttered open as she moved, revealing a pencil skirt and plain white shirt. She pulled a pair of short heels from a closet by her front door. With her shoes on, she fussed with her skirt and looked up at him, still on the couch.

"The post should be here at any moment. I get the Prophet. It'll have some job listings, I'm sure. Maybe something will turn up." She smiled. "There's still Hogwarts. I'll see when you need that turned in and whatever else they want."

However, Remus did not return her smile; his mind was on what happened to them yesterday at the Ministry. "I'm sure the Prophet will have plenty to say today."

Hermione blanched at his words. "Do you think they'd do that? Really? Do you think they'd capitalize –"

"Of course, they would. Look what they did to Harry, to Dumbledore. It's just a question of whether or not we've made the front page."

An owl pecked at Hermione's window; she startled at it. But it held a letter instead of the thick Prophet scroll. Confetti emerged from the envelope and it loudly squawked "Congratulations" in a thick Cockney accent. "For Merlin's sake," Remus heard Hermione mutter under her breath.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Just people who think they are rather funny."

"What's the matter?"

She squinted down at the paper before hastily shoving it back into the envelope. "It's nothing. Honestly," she said at his incredulous face. "I've got to go. Will you be all right? Everything is easy enough to find."

"I think I'll manage," he replied. She looked very officious in her work clothes, older and quite serious. He imagined her leading an entire boardroom of wizards with that no-nonsense tone she often took with others. Hermione called "goodbye" as she left.

Within five minutes of her departure, a small black owl swooped through the half-open window. Its flight was labored as it struggled to hold up the newspaper it carried. Feeling a sense of dread sink into his stomach, Remus detached the scroll. He remembered how he longed for and dreaded the paper during the war, how he knew those rumors of death would become suddenly real. Eventually, he stopped listening to the Wireless, stopped reading. It became too much waiting to hear Harry or Hermione or another Order member listed among the dead.

Unfolding the Prophet, he breathed a small sigh of relief to see they weren't above the fold. However, he recognized a bushy head as it tried to duck away from a photograph. Her scowling face kept turning into his side as he wrapped an arm around her. His face was livid; he oscillated between shouting at the reporters and trying to shove them out of the way with his free hand. The actions from yesterday looped in perpetual motion. Their picture took up nearly half of the bottom of the page. Remus hoped Hermione kept liquor somewhere in her cupboards.

Whispers surrounded Hermione she stepped onto the third floor of the Ministry and followed her into the Muggle Liaison Office. Her coworkers watched her move across the large open workspace, bypassing the mass of cubicles. She started to unlock her office door when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Turning around, she came face to face with her boss, Mr. Pemblebrook. "May I see you in my office?"

Pemblebrook asked her to his office all the time: to discuss old policy, new policy, and Muggle reactions to both. However, she'd never heard an edge in his voice until today. His grey mustached twitched as she mumbled, "Sure." She quit struggling with her key and shoved it back into her bag. The whispers followed her as she walked toward his office.

After she was seated and he'd shut the door, he sat across from her behind a large mahogany desk and straightened his blue tie with a Ravenclaw house pin. "Do you have anything to discuss with me?"

"I'm not sure what you mean, sir," replied Hermione, fiddling with the strap of her work bag.

He shuffled some papers on his desk and came up with the thick pages of the Daily Prophet. "This," he said and pointed to the bottom of the front page.

The headline, in a bold script, said "Lechery and Lycanthropy" with a smaller subheading, "Hasty Wedding at the Ministry: Is it Love, Is it Lust, Is it Lawful? By Nedd Sawtooth." Static filled Hermione's brain, a wrathful white noise that blocked out the chatter from the cubicles and whatever else Pemblebrook was saying now. She kept reading, despite her anger.

"While covering the most recent Werewolf Reform law, a certain celebrity couple, dare we say, emerged from the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, just as the marriage deadline for werewolves expired. Harry Potter's only surviving best friend and former girlfriend, Hermione Granger, was locked in a tight embrace with Remus Lupin, previous Hogwarts Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher and well-known werewolf. When asked about their presence at the Ministry, both declined to comment.

After speaking with anonymous sources within the Magical Creature Department, the Prophet has obtained documentation that Miss Granger wed Mr. Lupin minutes before the marriage deadline and before Mr. Lupin's wand was snapped. Harry Potter has not been available for comment, despite multiple owls.

Now the question becomes – was this a public affirmation of love? Or something more sinister? Mr. Lupin is nearly double the age of Miss Granger, and according to their close friends, never showed any interest…"

This time Pemblebrook tapped on the paper to get Hermione's attention. She snapped her head to look back at him. He sat back down in his chair.

"Have you heard a word I've said?" he asked, looking miffed at her.

"Sorry, sir, I hadn't seen this yet. I had no idea. They saw us leave, but I didn't think…" she trailed off.

She'd known the Prophet to be horrible, especially with Rita Skeeter at the helm, starting nasty rumors about Harry and herself during their Fourth Year. But the horrid assumptions that they dared allude to in their subheading – "Is it Love? Is it Lust? Is it Lawful?" were the worst she'd seen in a while. The very people who should be questioning the law itself were turning on the victims, the werewolves.

"I can see that from your expression." He steepled his fingers in front of his face. "Now, why didn't you inform us that you would be marrying a werewolf?"

"Excuse me?" said Hermione.

"Didn't you think it would be pertinent for us – me and the rest of the board – to know about such a marriage?"

Her eyebrows furrowed and her mouth gaped slightly. "I'm sorry, what? No, that didn't really cross my mind. It wasn't terribly planned out. Even so, I don't see what that has to do with us."

"Hermione, we work with Muggles. Day in and day out." His voice raised in volume. "What were you thinking? The Muggle Minister gets the Prophet these days. Or did you forget that? He'll see this. He'll know."

"What does that have to do with anything? He got the Prophet right after the War. I don't think werewolf marriages will bother him that much."

"Do you think he'll want to speak with you – or let any of his staff speak with you? You know he's much more conservative than the last Muggle Minister. Do you think he'll keep trusting you?"

"Are you saying because I'm now married to a werewolf that makes me untrustworthy? That I'm somehow less capable of doing my job?" asked Hermione.

"I'm not, but I am saying that's how the Muggles will see you." Pemblebrook slammed his hand down on the desk. "After all the work we've done…"

"Isn't that the point? That we work toward a better understanding between the magical and Muggle community. They need to know they don't need to fear us." She picked up the paper and said, "They don't need to fear me or him. "

"That's what we want, but they won't come to that straight away. We've been making real progress. I can't risk being set back."

Hermione sat up straighter. "What are you saying?"

"I think you should take a few days off until we get this figured out. See if this is what you really want. We'll wait and see how the Muggle Minister takes the news."

"And what if he doesn't take it well?" Hermione asked.

"We'll tackle that troll when we come to it."

"You're serious? I can't believe this. After all we've discussed about harmony and peace and…"

"Which is still the end goal," he said, cutting her list short.

Holding her head high, Hermione stood up, reshouldering her heavy work bag, knowing she'd still need to finish all the paperwork inside. "I want paid time-off."

Pemblebrook started to argue, but Hermione said, "Paid time-off."

"Sure, that's fine. It won't cut into your sick leave."

"Good. I'll be going home to my husband then." Hermione said 'husband' as acidly as possible, drawing it out. She took great satisfaction in slamming the door so loud that it shut up everyone on the floor.

Remus sat at the kitchen table with a small glass and a dark green bottle in front of him. Most of the newspaper littered the floor around him. She could tell that the classified section had survived intact and was spread out in front of him.

"You're home?" he asked. He downed the remnants in his glass.

"Yeah." She peered closer at the bottle. "Are you drinking cooking sherry? That won't get you drunk." She pulled a bottle of Firewhiskey out of her bag. "But this will."

"What's going on?" he asked. "You're back early. Very early. With alcohol."

She sat her bag down and took off her robe. Then she bunched her hands in her shirt and untucked it. She tried to smile at him. She didn't want him to know; she didn't want her job troubles to further weigh him down. She probably should have thought of that before showing up before noon with a full bottle of whiskey.

"Guess you could say I'm working from home now," she said and started to open the bottle.

"Hermione, what's happened?" He took the bottle out of her hands and sat it down with a clank on the coffee table. He was alert, completely unaffected by the sherry, which was the only alcohol she'd keep in her house since her earlier breakdowns after the War.

"I take it you've seen the paper?" she asked quietly. Her eyes roved over the mess he had made.

"Yes," he growled. He ran a hand through his hair; his face seemed paler, his scars more pronounced. She'd never seen him turn so angry, so quickly. "I hope you didn't take anything it said to heart. I worried that you'd think me – something even more horrible than what I already am."

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "They are completely ignorant, purposefully inflammatory, trying to pass off their gossip rag as a newspaper. Saying such things about you! I ought to march down to their office and hex that vile writer. They are right down the street; I've been to their offices."

Hermione's voice had risen in both pitch and speed as she spoke. Having been idly holding her wand, retrieving it from her cloak before taking it off, gold and red sparks flew from the tip. Remus loosed it from her grip. Her face felt hot and splotchy. She knew she must look a mess.

"As much I'd like for that to happen, and as much as I've thought the same, I don't think that'd help," he said. Instead of angry, he now seemed dejected. He looked quite pathetic wearing his ill-fitting pajamas at midday with mussed hair and a five o'clock shadow.

Placing her wand out of reach momentarily, he picked up the Firewhiskey and carried it into the kitchen, where he began taking down new glasses. "How'd you get off so early? With whiskey no less?"

She followed him, ignoring his question. Her feet crunched the sports and the business sections as she leaned against the sink, avoiding his gaze. "I don't think you honestly want to know."

"Hermione, tell me what happened." She remembered that voice as his serious, teacher tone. He'd used it in the Order when he still led missions.

"Really, it's nothing. My supervisor reads the Prophet as well."

Accepting a glass, she clinked the ice about, watching the amber liquid swirl around. She took a sip and felt heat flame in her chest. It'd been awhile since she'd allowed herself a drink.

His voice was tense. "Have you been fired?"

"No," she said quickly. "I'm on paid leave."

"Same thing," he snapped. "I bet I can guess the reason why. Only one thing has changed between yesterday and today. You should have never come. You should have left me there, instead of having this happen. It's your entire career."

She tipped her head back and finished off the whiskey; he hadn't touched his yet. Hermione pointed to the glass and motioned to his mouth.

"Maybe my career was shoddy to begin with," she said. "Obviously, if this is it all it took for Pemblebrook to suspend me, saying the Muggles can't handle it. For Merlin's sake, the Muggle Minister has met centaurs and…and Hagrid."

"Neither of which try to eat people, magical and Muggle, once a month. I can understand his worry that Muggles would be scared to be associated with werewolves or other such creatures. We're dangerous."

"We have the Wolfsbane potion. We've come so far and now everything seems to go backwards. You're not any more dangerous than me," said Hermione. "And if you don't drink that, I will drink it for you."

He drank his and poured them another round, which Hermione immediately swallowed in one go. Remus raised an eyebrow at her and at her prompting gave her more Firewhiskey.

"Did you know that I had such a crush on you in my Third Year?" asked Hermione. She giggled a little as she spoke. A flush crept up her neck and occasionally she'd fan herself as if suddenly warm.

Remus had matched her glass for glass, but his past two years of moderate to heavy drinking meant he still had most of wits about him. But never had he seen Hermione so inebriated. She hardly drank more than one or two glasses of wine when in public, whether at dinner or at parties. For him, the whiskey tasted a bit bitterer than usual, maybe a reminder of his last bender when he'd shut himself up in his flat, believing his life to be over.

"I had no clue," he said and grinned. That was a lie. He'd wondered; he sometimes caught thirteen-year-old Hermione gazing at him as if in a daydream.

"We all did." She slapped his arm and held out her empty glass.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He'd indulged her out of guilt; by marrying him, she'd effectively been laid off. She finally explained how her boss saw her and her connection to Remus as a liability. So he gave her more to drink.

They were sitting on the living room floor; none of the papers had been picked up. They'd pushed the coffee table to the side and sat cross-legged on the center rug with the bottle between them.

"You were the absolute best member of the Order. Did you know that? We missed you so, so much when you didn't go on anymore missions. You really were the best." She placed her hand on his forearm and leaned forward to look him in the eyes. "We really missed you."

"I know. And I knew that you needed me." He glanced away from her. He hadn't been able to face any missions after Dora had died. It felt so meaningless. Why care if they'd won if she hadn't survived.

"I's all right though. We all understood. The War was hard. It was hard on us all and sometimes you just have to stop." Her grip on his arm tightened as she tried to steady herself. He grabbed ahold of her elbow to keep her seated.

"My weakness. But you never did stop, did you? Always ticking along. Always working."

She waved her hand at him. "Or else I'd go insane. You picked this up." She nudged the bottle. She looked worried. "Which is completely understandable. I did a few times, and then I started working and never stopped, because once you stop, you remember and then you feel like you can never move forward. It just keeps coming back."

"It always comes back." He could see tears in her eyes. "But you've done so well. You've done so many important things."

Hermione used her shirt sleeve to wipe underneath her eyes. She still wore her button-down work shirt and sat awkwardly in her pencil skirt. "Yeah, it looks like I have."

"What do you mean looks like? You have. You are without a doubt the brightest witch of your age."

That caused her to grin weakly at him. "You were the first person to call me that."

"In the Shrieking Shack, during your Third Year, when you so ungraciously exposed me," Remus said. He remembered her accusations, how he'd been floored by how eviscerated he felt by her self-assured statement and pointing finger.

"It's not my fault those two were complete idiots. I watched you so closely that year; I just had to know for sure." She leaned in close to him again; a wily smile spreading across her face. "I'll have you know that did not dampen my affection."

"No?" he said faintly. He was very aware of her warm breath on his cheek as she made to whisper into his ear. No one had been this close to him in the past two years. Before Dora, no one had ever been this close to him.

"No," she intoned softly.

The proximity to his ear and the way she said that one word sent a shiver down his spine. Her hand rested on his shoulder as she steadied her wobbly form, so she did not simply fall forward on him. She wavered as she pulled away, so he placed a hand against her side. Hermione leaned into his touch, and her eyes became hooded. Remus felt alarms going off inside him. She was very drunk; undoubtedly she wouldn't remember past her fourth glass of Firewhiskey. She'd just married an old werewolf and lost her job within a span of twenty-four hours. She deserved to be drunk, but not taken advantage of.

And now, she placed her glass on the floor next to his. Her hand went back to the cheek that she'd brushed earlier that morning. She traced the scar Remus had hoped in vain she had not touched when she paused over his presumably sleeping form. His first instinct was to flinch away, but he held still. Her eyes widened when she noticed him intently looking at her.

"Why, Remus?" she asked.

"Why, what?"

"Why me? Why did you let me marry you? You said 'no' so many times. You said 'no' in your flat; you said 'no' when I came back later; you said 'no' in the Ministry. Then you said 'yes.' Why?"

"I think you know why."

He couldn't say anymore and she looked expectant. He knew why and so did she, but neither of them would say it. Maybe they would both forgot this in the morning and go back to their practical and sensible arrangement, where she served as his steadfast anchor to the wizarding world. They would return to making job and living decisions, devoid of emotion and liquor and this strange, unnerving truth that had sprung between them.

"Yes," she mumbled. "I almost told you. I did. I was so close, but I didn't. Clever people don't go about blurting such things out. I knew better."

Her words were slurring together and it was hard for him to make out what she was saying. Hermione pushed onto her knees, moving her hand to his neck, bracing against him so she could balance properly on her calves as she reclined on them.

In a thoughtful voice, she said, "You are beautiful when you sleep."

With his hand still on her waist as if preparing for a waltz, she moved her fingers to the base of his hairline. It had gotten longer; he couldn't remember when he last had it trimmed properly. Her nails lightly scraped his scalp and that shiver ran down his spine again. The alarms were back; 'she's drunk,' they yelled at him, 'would she do this otherwise?'

She tilted her head toward him and pulled Remus forward. He started to bring up his other hand to stop her before she did something that she would regret tomorrow when she woke up with a splitting headache, a hangover, and the taste of guilt in her mouth.

However, just before she pressed her lips to his, and just before he pushed her away, Hermione instead kissed that scar, that long raised scar that ran the length of his left cheek. She kissed it as if her touch would cauterize the invisible pain harbored within each mark on his body. It left Remus breathless with its intimacy.

Hermione shifted backward, her eyes oddly clear. "Please know that you are worth it. You were always worth it."

AN-

Ah, drunk!Hermione is my favorite; all those emotions that bubble to the surface when inhibitions are gone.

I aimed for a longer chapter and got it. Thanks for all the favorites and follows! Please review, too. Is everybody in character? How am I doing with the "Marriage Law" trope? Plus, reviews encourage me to write this instead of grading, which is good for everyone (except my students…). Shout out to Errow for being such a faithful reviewer.

Also, has anyone noticed a common thread in the chapter titles? Hmmm…