Falling Leaves

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A/N: Quick FYI, we're going back in time a little bit, but not to the past past, if you catch my meaning (mind the dates at the top!). Bear in mind that I'll be using either movie or book canon (and sometimes a mesh of both) from here on out, depending on how they suit the plot best.

September 1st, 1993 - Stay asleep

Remus had to fight each and every one of his instincts to keep his eyes shut and himself still. Not only at the sound of her voice, jarringly young yet oh so very familiar, but especially at her words. He knew not what he had expected. This, however, was as far from it as it could conceivably be. Sixteen years of wait, of imagined and re-imagined scenarios, and Hermione could still surprise him.

Yet it was not at all dissimilar—Remus thought, sat next to the window and half-covered by his cloak as his seat dipped, accommodating another passenger—to the way they had first met. In the garden, after crashing back in time and into his life, Hermione had cast a single, unfocused glance his way and called him Remus J. Lupin. In a compartment inside the Hogwarts Express, she now had, within seconds of entering it, identified him as Professor R. J. Lupin. Both times without previous introductions of any sort. Both times startling him into a near panic, if for very distinct reasons.

And unsettling though it was, it was also rather interesting, that repetition. It was said that History repeated itself: first as a tragedy, second as a farce. Remus could attest to its truthfulness, though in a way that differed from the original muggle meaning—hardly surprising given that muggles hadn't yet devised the means to time travel.

Thus, contrary to the non-magical interpretation, the tragedy had been rewritten, changed to a point it scarcely resembled its ghost. The farce masking that fact… that farce was a necessary precaution. Neither Voldemort nor his followers could know about the possibility of long-stretched time traveling—it was far more dangerous information than Harry's prophecy had ever been. And though that had been the official reason for the secrecy, for allowing the world at large to believe things had happened as they had before Hermione decided to intervene, Remus' foremost reason had been a different one.

He could not risk Hermione's sanity. Not protecting her had never been an option, not for him. It will be as if nothing's changed, and yet everything will, she had told him. She had been clear about her previous experience with successfully changing the past, and Remus refused to deviate from it—he had kept every change a secret, for her sake. As with anything, however, there were consequences to that path—consequences that weren't only his to bear, that others had to be subjected to along with him, and that… He couldn't make peace with it.

If only he could have hoarded each ache and stab and gnawing, he would have, would have carried the weight and withstood the brunt of it all if it would spare others. His life had already been cast to shadows and secrecy, something Greyback had seen to, and he hadn't wished it on anyone else. What weight would it bring to have another lie or hurt on top of his large collection of them? He could bear it, no more than drops of water to an already running river. But it hadn't been Remus who had to be separated from a child, from his family, from everyone he knew and loved.

Misery shouldn't beget company, not when solitude was plenty.

Yet, as Lily kept reminding him, they would manage it, together. Unlike himself, she had always been a firm believer that pain shared was pain lessened, lighter whatever its darkness, weaker whatever its strength.

So the farce would continue—until the timelines were aligned, until Remus could be certain no harm would come to Hermione's mind from contradicting memories. Still, over the past few months, there had been times he wished Hermione had granted him more than a date and a sentence for each of their interactions in the letter she left him, wished she had supplied him with a script, verbatim, or perhaps a memory so he could ensure there were no inconsistencies to her original perception of them. So there would be no misstep on his part, no word or action to disrupt her recollections. After all, she had done so for every Death Eater attack, relating facts, covering not only how the murders had happened, but how witnesses had remembered them and how they had been digested in the newspapers for public consumption.

That she had, in turn, left him with a single, broad sentence as a guide for their encounters… It spoke of trust, of her belief that he could be himself, that that would suffice. Had his younger self known the extent of her faith in him… Still, this date's "Stay asleep" made him want to laugh. Cry a little, perhaps, as she entered the blasted compartment and spoke his name.

Professor R. J. Lupin…

He wished she made it easier on him to pretend, instead of setting his heart to a gallop from the very first moment, before he even had the chance to set eyes on her. Less than a minute in her presence and all of Remus' carefully placed armour had been torn from his body, leaving the soft, vulnerable parts exposed. Defenceless.

It made keeping still, which had already proven a difficult task, a near impossible one. He kept the pretence of slumber nonetheless, never mind that his skin itched and his muscles felt both sore and starting to numb and that he thought it might drive him to insanity to remain oblivious as to how she could know him once more, without the benefit of future knowledge this time.

As luck would have it, he didn't have to wait long to find out.

His suitcase. He had forgotten all about the tag Lily had charmed to display his name and new title while he and James had been out in the woods the night before, one last time as Moony and Prongs before Remus would once again endure his transformations alone. He should have known. Hermione's warm, intelligent brown eyes had been ever so observant—eyes he'd never forgotten even as the lines of her face blurred in his recollections, since her memory vials had remained in Dumbledore's possession and, like with asking her name once upon a time, it had escaped his younger self's mind to request a photograph.

Once Remus was able to breathe again, emotions more or less reigned in and heart no longer threatening to puncture through his rib cage, he couldn't help but compare the way she spoke on both occasions. The first time, for Remus that is, that Hermione had addressed him by his full name, there had been a rueful undertone to her words, tendrils of shock interwoven throughout, as she claimed to know him. Now… now it was nothing but a matter-of-fact remark, prompted by a keen eye and mere logic, no recognition of any kind in sight. A farce, too, in its own way. A mocking echo of his remembrance.

The pang of loss at the realisation—even if he knew, rationally, any other outcome to be impossible—hurt worse than he had expected, distracting him from the conversation taking place around him. The gap lodged in his chest—part longing, part resignation—turned even more acute at her concern for him and her gentle attempts to rouse him as the trolley lady stopped by their compartment. Yet as per Hermione's sole instruction in the letter, Remus remained, to all appearances, asleep.

That is, until the Dementor came.

September 2nd, 1993

The chill outside was a familiar one.

One he'd once learned to welcome, to crave, for it brought the tidings of her arrival. After so many years, it had done so once more. He had been sat across from her for an entire train ride the day before, had seen her from the corner of his eye as he offered Harry some chocolate, even though he had tried to train his gaze forward, away from her. She was painfully young, this version of her, yet she existed.

There were times during which he'd doubted that. Worried she had been erased, her existence disrupted by their changes regardless of the precautions he had taken. Dumbledore had assured him it was not the case, but he hadn't seen for himself then. That was a fear that could now be put to rest.

Enveloped by the gales like loose leaves, Remus took a couple of steps forward, the last ones leading to the garden door. His fingers traced the coarse wood, so much darker at night that it blended with the stones surrounding it. He felt a sentimental fool, standing alone in the dark, but on this very day, one year from now, Hermione would tumble into his very unboring, non-mundane life and still take it by storm.

Remus had no idea how one person could, but she encompassed both calm and havoc. If there was good reason to be in awe of anything, Remus thought with a smile, Hermione was it. He pressed his palm forward, resting his entire hand against the door, face drawn near the red and gold vines that had grown around and over the garden's entrance.

"Do not fear," Remus whispered, his voice hoarse. "The garden is yours;

And it is yours to gather the fruits,

And every flower of every kind,

And to set the high wall about it,

And the closed gates.

The gates of your wall no hand shall open,

No feet shall pass,

Through all the days until your return.

Do not fear.

"But soon,

Soon let it be, your coming!

For the pathways will grow desolate waiting,

The flowers say, 'Our loveliness has no eyes to behold it!'

The leaves murmur all day with longing,

All night the boughs of the trees sway themselves with longing…

O Mistress of the Garden,

O my sun and rain and dew,

Come quickly."*

He let his fingers trail a downward path over it, taking a moment longer.

"Remus?"

The clipped, slightly shrill voice stunned him and Remus let his hand fall. Years of hearing it speak 'Mr. Lupin' in that same tone had his body freeze otherwise, as if caught pulling a prank and refraining from moving would turn him invisible. Regardless of the fact that that strategy had never worked.

Never too late to be a grown-up about it. "Good evening, Minerva."

"And to you, as well. Now, what on Earth do you think you're doing?"

Remus turned, paying no more heed to the door, lying half-hidden under the vines. From her position, it was unlikely Minerva could see it. "Just reacquainting myself with Hogwarts. I hadn't expected to see the castle again, it's remarkable to be back."

"Yes, I suppose it would feel that way." The Head of Gryffindor frowned. "But might I recommend getting reacquainted with it during the day?"

"Certainly—there are dementors out, after all."

"Dementors? Oh, I've little doubt you would handle them. Unlike our previous hires, you're not incompetent." The older witch scrutinised him over the rim of her spectacles. "Black, on the other hand…"

Remus remained silent. Dementors rated much higher in his list of dangers than an innocent man, wrongfully arrested. Though Merlin only knew how desperation would exacerbate Sirius' propensity to rashness.

Despite the poor lighting, Remus caught sight of Minerva clasping her hands together, her gaze softening just a tad. "I can't imagine how that must feel, thick as thieves as you all were. None of us ever expected… But he is already responsible for fifteen deaths, and those are only the ones we've learned about. Don't be the next, Remus. Let the past be laid to rest. He'll be caught, and, in the meantime, we'll protect young Mr. Potter."

"Yes, Harry shall be fine."

At least, unlike Severus, Minerva didn't believe Remus to be colluding with a supposed killer. Then again, she seemed under the impression Remus had come to Hogwarts to confront his best friend. He didn't know if that belief was any better.

September 9th, 1993 - That was absolutely brilliant! Truly.

She wasn't in the classroom when his first lesson with the third-year Gryffindors started. Remus had spotted Harry easily enough, and, next to him, Ron, the young Weasley boy he'd met on the train. Before the start of the term, Remus had familiarised himself with Hogwarts' student list, had made sure to learn the name of every student beforehand.

Addressing someone by their name was a very useful trick, Remus had learned—it had the ability to make them feel seen, to put them at ease and establish a bond. And with his height and the scars on his face, he had to make use of whatever devices he could to settle others, make them fear him a little less. As a teacher, and, particularly, a Hogwarts DADA teacher and therefore working against the odds to keep his position, that alone wasn't enough. He had to excel at impressing them as well. Gryffindors were rather easier to please, a congenial behaviour went a long way with them, as Remus could attest from personal experience, yet, Remus had hoped to do his best to avoid a repeat of the situation with Severus, to prevent any favouritism on his part apart, of course, from the unavoidable ones. Slytherins were a tough crowd and so he had chosen the class dynamic very carefully, in order to make it as engaging as possible for all.

Yet, out of all of them, the one student he had been absolutely certain would attend was nowhere to be seen. Remus put his hands in his trousers' pockets and tried to stifle his disappointment. He had looked forward to seeing her since that very first day. Properly, this time. But it would have to wait, it seemed—he had a job to perform, one that didn't include pining over the possibility of spending time in the presence of a particular student.

It was only when he asked a more complex question, his back turned, that she materialised, right answer spilling from her lips. It made him forget, for a moment, that he was supposed to teach her and he found himself finishing her sentence instead, the same way he would more often than not when he was younger and she, older, and they had discussed all matter of topics together.

Hermione kept catching him off his guard. Not a new habit, albeit a bittersweet one—she's a child now, and though he could see the seeds of the young woman he loved, this Hermione wasn't his. He hadn't known how to feel these last few months, knowing he would finally see her again, knowing this version of himself would leave a lasting impression on her, enough so that she would keep visiting his past self after the castle sent her back that first time.

He had counted the days and dreaded them. Hadn't wanted to assume a position of power over her, but couldn't help but inwardly laugh when Dumbledore had asked him to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts this year, at the irony that Hermione had been the one to set him on this path, practising spells in the garden, and now he'd be her teacher.

He hadn't known how to feel, and so he had, foolishly, hoped for the impossible. Not for anything close to romantic feelings, but for a spark of recognition of sorts. For something in her gaze to shift, a part of her soul to resonate to his presence in some manner… For a small piece of her to know him, even if she couldn't quite put her finger on why. It had been so very long since he'd last seen her. But now, as he finished her sentence, her face remained blank.

Stupid heart. It had hurried up only to wait more. Instead of encouraging his own misery, the next time he asked a question, he directed it at Harry instead. The class progressed as he taught them the proper wand movements and incantation, along with the necessary element to defeating a Boggart: laughter.

Remus hadn't meant to incense old grievances even more, far from it, but as Neville stepped forward at his request and told him of whom he was most afraid, Remus knew it to be a lost battle. Even without James and Sirius here, it seemed an enmity with the Potions Master was inescapable. Not that their relationship so far had been cordial, precisely, but Remus had been appreciative of the other wizard's detached disdain. Neither party could be deemed innocent, and Remus, for one, had been willing to make whatever amends he could. Humiliating another Professor in front of his students hardly classified as that, but circumstances hadn't worked in Remus' favour.

After Severus' Boggart form had been redressed as Augusta Longbottom, Remus instructed the remaining students to form a line. The cheerful music was a helpful addition when it came to facing your fears, and he watched as, one by one, the students confronted them. Still, Remus remained at attention. Hermione had once told him, when she stressed she wouldn't hold him to his future self standards, that he would watch her run from a Boggart. He had been waiting, wand at the ready, to cast the spell for her if she failed to do so once her turn arrived, whatever her biggest fear proved to be.

But he hadn't ever gotten to it—he had watched as Harry stepped forward to face the creature, and Remus' insides turned hard and icy cold.

Remus still remembered the day Lily had held the little bundle in her arms forth, presenting her child to him.

"Remus, I'd like for you to meet Harry."

Remus' heart caught in his throat. That name had been uttered countless times, either in a fond, exasperated, or worried way, always by Hermione. He had never thought—had never considered—

Remus swallowed, tears welling in his eyes. "Hello, Harry."

Clear green pools opened to meet him at the sound of his voice, just like Lily's. A splash of fine, downy hair peeked from under the blanket—jet-black, the same shade as James'.

He was precious.

Standing at the young wizard's side now—watching the Scottish moors that made up Hogwarts' landscape together as Remus explained his reluctance in allowing Harry to face the Bogart in class—it was very plain to see Harry had gotten the best of James and most of Lily. So much so that Remus couldn't resist telling him of them. So much so that he couldn't stop himself from telling him the truth in some small way, words carefully constructed though they were.

In time, Remus promised him, staring out the bridge, Harry would come to see just how much like his parents he was.

Although unwillingly brewed, Severus' Wolfsbane Potion proved quite effective in taming the wolf. The constant jabs proved more tiresome, but he bore them just the same.

The lack of proper DADA instructors for the past two years showed. No wonder Hermione had been livid in her fifth year, the students' knowledge was so spotty already that another year of poor lessons proved inadmissible.

Remus knew not whether to be thankful or peeved that Severus saw fit to cover werewolves when filling in for the third-years. It spared Remus the trouble, spared him of the students' reactions to the 'beasts', of their fear and prejudice. Yet Remus could well imagine how coloured Severus' portrait of them had been.

He tried not to dwell on it too much. There were more pressing matters, and the post-full moon soreness took much of his attention on its own. It was with a wan semblance and a heavy conscience that Remus taught the fourth-year students—Hufflepuffs in particular—all the defensive spells he'd known, engaging them in duelling exercises and encouraging them to push themselves. It was strenuous, more so fresh out of a full moon, yet, like most of what he did, not enough. Invariably not enough.

At mealtimes, Remus tried to focus discreetly on Harry, in order to relay any information he could to Lily and James about their son. Letters were too risky, but Remus' office had a fireplace available, and he'd taken to making fire calls to The Garden whenever it had proven safe to do so.

Yet even as he watched Harry, Remus made an effort every day to never set eyes on her for more than a moment, passing glances meant to watch over her, and, at times, to assure himself Hermione was truly there and wasn't instead a figment of his imagination. Remus couldn't help noticing, however, how tired Hermione had begun to look. The weight of the time-turner around her neck, of which he'd only caught a quick glimpse, had begun to wear her down, though he had heard nothing but praise from every one of her Professors—with two notable exceptions, whose dismissive and belittling opinions he never put much stock in. She was still performing admirably.

On one occasion, after his first transformation of the school year, his gaze caught hers across the Great Hall during his cursory, veiled glance at her usual spot at the Gryffindor table. She had looked exhausted and preoccupied, but not nearly as bad as he likely did. Her worried yet uncertain gaze still warmed him, and Remus threw her a reassuring smile before averting his own. It wasn't the only odd look he'd received that day. Harry had seemed troubled as well, along with some of the other students. Remus would have been more flattered by their concern had it not held any correlation to their dislike for his substitute. Having Severus fill in hadn't helped matters.

When he could no longer feel her eyes trained on him, he glanced her way again, masking the action by taking a sip of his tea. Remus couldn't see a plate in her vicinity, yet Hermione was biting the end of a Sugar Quill, before scratching and scribbling in turns on what he imagined was a piece of parchment.

She would work herself haggard and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

A/N: So… We'll be sticking with adult Remus for a few chapters (what a hardship, right?)

The poem he declares is called 'The Garden' by Helen Hoyt. I had to make a small change to it, though: the original said "Master of the Garden", but I adapted it to fit Hermione instead.

Oh, and if I could interest you in a little fluff, I wrote a Remione drabble as a gift to waybystarlight! It's called 'Close Your Eyes' if you guys want to check it out :)

I guess that's it for now, I hope you enjoyed it! And, if you can, let me know your thoughts!

Black Cauldron Cups to everyone who read, followed and bookmarked the story, and a special thanks to River-Mel.O.D and peggy77 for the comments!

Have I told you you guys are wonderful?

Let me tell you again: you all are :)