On The Color Of Fur
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It was the wetness on her face that woke her.
Feet, arms, and elbows fighting against the covers constraining her limbs until the fabric freed her from its grip but not from the lingering recollection of her terrors, her hand grabbing at her throat as though it would staunch the flow of blood. She sat on the firmness of her mattress as short, forceful breaths blew their way out of her mouth, their pattern mounting into breathlessness the more she gasped for oxygen. She could feel Greyback's fangs sunk around her neck just as much as she could Bellatrix's sharp-tipped knife, weapon to skin.
Unlike her arm, though, her throat remained unscathed. No defiled flesh, no seeping dark red blood they deemed muddy. Legs hugged tight against her chest, Hermione tried to dispel the nightmare. To prove it wrong by her pained yet continued existence. These days, each slumber brought along a different irreality coated in fact. Part true, part lie. But it was never a far-fetched lie—Hermione hadn't died that death, Lavender Brown had.
Close enough to her that Hermione had had to watch.
She hadn't earned a sliver of peace, it seemed. Had thought her experiences brutal enough that what-ifs couldn't plague her, but Hermione Granger understood next to nothing now, and the world would catch on to it eventually. They would cotton on to the fact that her fears were tall enough to swallow her and, unlike Voldemort, she had no clue on how to defeat them.
They were unreal, and unreal things couldn't be killed. They did not bleed, they did not hurt. Worst of all, they didn't sleep, now neither could she.
So Hermione hung, torpefied yet awake, in the pallor that preceded dawn-break, that interval that held no potential, in which life and death remained simply suspended, weighing which way the day would go.
A tapping sound sentenced the decision, tipped scales, and Hermione bolted upright. With a mad grab, though careful enough not to drop it this time, she took hold of her wand, battle-ready as she jumped out of bed and strained her ears for the sound.
It came once more, from the window, not the door. High up in the tower as she was, either an enemy had flown all the way there or there was no enemy at all.
She swallowed. Her heart only processed the first possibility, stuck on the vestigial vividness of her dream, hammering in her chest. At some point, her heart would give out, she was sure. Like mice, dying from the stress of the escape even before the bird of prey could strike.
Her steps were unsteady but silent. Breath held back to keep from making a sound as she willed away the nausea threatening to hit her. Harry and Ron thrived in it, in this adrenaline, but needing to fight even one more battle made Hermione want to cry. She didn't want to survive any longer. She might not know how, but she wanted to live, to have the right to do so without having to earn it all the time, paying her dues in flesh, blood, and tears. She had nothing more to give, no pieces left to spare.
And so, the fight was forfeited before she even made it to the window. She would live, but not struggle for it any longer. Wand pointed at the ground, she pulled the curtain aside. Outside her window, Hermione was met with black, beady eyes.
A bird, and though it was of prey, it posed no threat to mousy little her.
An owl. Post.
She swallowed against the relieved taste in her mouth, raised the latch, and pushed the window pane open. The bird didn't enter—as one of the castle's owls, its journey had been too short to have possibly tired it out. Its load, a parchment much too small to even bother sending, wasn't offered as if the animal was ready to accept the receiver's refusal, though Hermione reached for it anyway. Once free of its task, the owl took flight into the white-blue sky, oblivious to both the terror and resolve it had evoked.
Hermione didn't read whatever words the note contained. Only one person would know her to be awake at this hour. No one else had seen through the mask, after all. She rushed back to bed and pulled a fold of parchment from her bedside table.
"I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good."
His moniker greeted her on the page, proudly presenting his creation, deep red ink on yellowed paper. Yet it wasn't that what she was after. Hermione spread the map open, eyes travelling past the greyed-out parts of Hogwarts that were no more until they snagged on the name making its way out of the owlery.
It had been him, after all. Writing to her at three in the morning.
An uncharitable thought crossed her mind. Good. I'm not the only one who can't sleep.
She shook her head. Vindication didn't suit her. She didn't want him to suffer, it helped no one at all, least of all her. What Hermione truly wanted was not to suffer herself.
And what kind of person had she become that a part of her rejoiced in having company in misery? What sort of human being would wish for Remus Lupin of all people to experience anything other than happiness?
She still remembered—
Hermione froze. No, she hadn't remembered. And that was the problem, wasn't it? She had forgotten. It had just come to her at that moment, what her subconscious meant by giving her that specific dream.
The night of the battle, Hermione had tried to get to Lavender, to pry Greyback from her by hand if must be, but she was much too far. She had cast a spell, but her aim was off and it missed.
Someone else had reached them, though. Remus had hit Greyback with spell after spell yet the odious brute wouldn't let go of his catch. Remus' killing blow only landed after he had torn Lavender's throat open.
In her dream, Hermione had known the look in Remus' eyes as he watched a former student die by the teeth of his attacker because she had seen it. It was a bitter fact of war that every win came inextricably weaved with loss. And Remus wouldn't survive the night, cradling Lavender's neck in his hands, flying spells lighting his face in a colourful, bizarrely beautiful shower. It wouldn't be long until one struck him.
Another life reaped, of untold stories and unsung bravery.
She couldn't let it. Harry might have mastered Death, but she had stood up to it right beside him, against all odds, and she would Not. Let. Remus. Die.
Hermione would claim his life for herself if she must. Steal it. She had become quite proficient in that.
She had tugged on his sleeve. Pulled until he rose from his knees. Then she stared deep into his eyes and spoke the only words she knew would stir him.
"Remus, I need you."
Something had awakened in his gaze then.
Up until now, she had forgotten about it. Blocked the memory of Lavender's death, stashed it away in a box wrapped in so much spell-o-tape it would never see the light of day. But the truth of it remained: Hermione had asked for help long before tea invitations and unwanted conversations. She had asked for it then, while she still dared, while she still could because it was more about saving him than being saved herself.
Was it any wonder Remus had taken her plea to heart?
Their conversation in his drawing room… it hadn't been about her weakness at all. She should have known that people like Remus knew tenacity not in relation to themselves, but only in their keenness to help, to protect others. They were ferociously loyal. Utterly selfless. Caring to the point of detriment.
She stared at the unopened letter in her lap.
"What am I to do about you, Remus?"
Unexpectedly, the ink in the Marauder's Map shifted. She had forgotten to recite the closing words.
Mr. Moony would advise Hermione to do with him whatever she thinks best.
Mr. Prongs concurs and adds that Remus becomes especially pliable if one runs their fingers through his hair.
Mr. Padfoot is more inclined to suggest she kiss him and be done with it already.
Involuntarily, a laugh escaped her. Before Pettigrew could manifest his thoughts, Hermione touched the map with the tip of her wand. "Mischief managed."
As teenagers, they must have been a right menace.