Hermione's mind had been in a whirlwind since her meeting with Dumbledore. Over the following two weeks, she found herself spiralling into a tangle of time theories, endlessly replaying his subtle yet pointed words. The idea that she could be invited to join the Order of the Phoenix—an organisation she knew inside and out from her own time—had sent her into a deep, conflicted state of reflection.
There was one glaring problem, one that kept her awake at night when the nightmares didn't and gnawed at her every waking moment: as far as she knew, there had never been a Mina Delacour in the Order. Not in the stories she'd been told, never mentioned in the countless meetings she'd eavesdropped on in the future, not in any of the dusty records she'd pored over during the Second War. Mina Delacour didn't exist in any history she knew.
But now, Dumbledore had practically extended an invitation to her, or at the very least, planted the seed. Was this how it was always supposed to be? Had her presence already been woven into the fabric of time, a hidden player in the first Order that simply went unrecorded? Or was she on the verge of rewriting history, altering events in ways that could ripple out far beyond her control?
The questions haunted her. She spent hours in the library, pouring over anything she could find on temporal magic, hidden between studying her other classes. But none of the old theories, the rigid laws of time travel she'd learned from reading the works of Croaker and other Ministry experts, offered any real comfort. The possibility of altering the past was a tightly guarded taboo, shrouded in the stern warnings of catastrophic consequences. But then, what if she was simply fulfilling a role that had always existed, hidden in the shadows?
And then there was Remus. He had never mentioned anyone named Mina Delacour. Hermione had tried to remember every scrap of information Remus had ever shared about his school years, every fleeting mention of classmates or professors. But in truth, he rarely spoke of anyone beyond his closest circle: James, Sirius, Peter, Lily, and occasionally Snape. If she'd been here, if she'd mattered, surely there would have been something?
She couldn't help but imagine scenarios where her actions—her presence—might alter the course of history. She thought of James and Lily, of Peter's betrayal, of Sirius's twelve years in Azkaban. She thought of Remus, the quiet, kind man who had lost so much. If she were to intervene, even in small ways, could she change the future? Could she save them from the fates that awaited them?
But every time she considered it, she was reminded of the dire warnings in every time-turner manual: "Do not meddle with time." The past was meant to be observed, not altered. And yet, here she was, more than an observer. She was a participant, actively living in a time that wasn't hers, making choices and connections that could very well matter.
The uncertainty gnawed at her, leaving her restless and frustrated. In classes, she found herself distracted, her thoughts drifting back to Dumbledore's words. In quiet moments, she caught herself staring at the Marauders, at Lily, wondering if there was any indication that her presence had shifted something fundamental.
She tried to play it safe, to keep her distance emotionally, but it was harder than she'd imagined. Watching James and Lily bicker in that endearing way that would eventually turn into love, seeing Sirius's carefree confidence before Azkaban would steal it, and feeling the quiet strength of Remus, who was always so kind despite everything. Every day with them was a reminder of what they would lose, and of the impossible choices she would face if she allowed herself to interfere.
Arithmancy was one of the few classes where Hermione felt entirely at ease. Numbers and patterns made sense in a way that little else did, offering comfort in their predictability and structure. As she and Lily settled into their seats, Hermione felt the familiar anticipation of diving into a subject she loved at each opportunity.
Professor Vector, a sharp, no-nonsense witch with an eye for detail, began the lesson with her usual brisk pace, outlining the day's topics on the blackboard. That day's discussion on her third full week at Hogwarts focused on predictive calculations—using complex equations to forecast magical outcomes, from simple charms to advanced spellwork. Hermione had always found it fascinating; it was one of the reasons she'd pursued Arithmancy in the first place.
After reviewing some foundational concepts, Professor Vector turned to the board and tapped her wand against it, revealing a series of complicated equations. The symbols twisted and flowed, forming a complex pattern that Hermione recognized instantly.
"I'd like you all to take a look at this sequence," Vector said, her tone inviting but challenging. "These are some of the more advanced equations we encounter in Arithmancy, particularly when we deal with multidimensional variables. I'd be interested to hear your thoughts on it. Don't worry about getting it right—this is just an exercise in theoretical thinking."
Hermione stared at the board, the familiarity of the problem settling in her mind. She had seen this exact equation before—in fact, she'd worked on it extensively during her sixth year at Hogwarts. It was part of their curriculum, a practical demonstration of advanced multivariable calculations that had fascinated her.
Without even thinking, Hermione raised her hand and spoke, her confidence carrying her forward. "The equation becomes manageable if you adjust for the magical flux constants. You need to account for the shifts in magical flow that occur during periods of heightened magical activity, like full moons or solar eclipses. Once you stabilise those variables, the calculations smooth out."
Professor Vector's eyebrows shot up in surprise, and the room fell silent. Hermione realised too late that her response was far too specific and confident for what was supposed to be a mere exercise in speculation. She felt a wave of cold dread wash over her as she saw the stunned expressions of her classmates.
"Yes… yes, Miss Delacour," Vector said slowly, her voice tinged with genuine astonishment. "That's an impressive analysis. Those adjustments are indeed part of the current discussions surrounding these equations. However, it's remarkable you've come across this approach; it's highly specialised knowledge. Where did you encounter it?"
Hermione's mind raced, trying to formulate a plausible answer. She couldn't exactly tell them the truth—that the problem had been officially solved in 1985, and by her sixth year, it had become a staple part of the curriculum. Her instincts had betrayed her, and now she was stuck.
"Oh, um," Hermione stammered, forcing a smile. "I read a lot of theory in my spare time. Beauxbatons has some extensive texts, and I must have come across something similar."
Professor Vector nodded, though Hermione could tell she was still trying to piece together how a student, especially one new to Hogwarts, could have such an in-depth grasp of an unsolved—or at least still debated—theory. "Well, it's certainly an intriguing take. Thank you for sharing, Miss Delacour. Your insight is… ahead of its time."
As Professor Vector moved on, Hermione sank lower in her seat, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She couldn't believe she'd made such a basic mistake. She'd been so caught up in her own knowledge that she'd completely forgotten when she was supposed to be. It was one thing to be clever, but this was different—this was dangerous.
Lily leaned over, her eyes wide with admiration and a hint of curiosity. "That was brilliant, Mina. I've never heard anyone explain it like that. You must have had some amazing teachers."
Hermione forced a laugh, though it felt hollow. "Yeah, something like that."
As the lesson continued, Hermione struggled to focus, her mind racing with what had just happened. She'd let her guard down, allowed herself to slip into old habits, and now she'd given herself away in front of the entire class. She couldn't afford to make mistakes like this
Finally the bell rang, and Hermione gathered her things slowly, still reeling from her slip-up. She wanted nothing more than to disappear into the crowd, to avoid any lingering eyes or questions. But as she stepped into the corridor, Remus caught up with her, his expression warm and sincere.
"Hey, Mina," he said softly, falling into step beside her. "You were really something in there. It's good to see you back on form."
Hermione glanced up at him, surprised by the gentle encouragement in his voice. They hadn't really spoken much since her off day beyond general niceties, but there was something about Remus's presence that felt steady and comforting. "Thanks," she murmured, feeling a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. "I got a bit carried away, I guess."
Remus smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Hermione's heart skip. "No need to apologise. I think it's great that you're so passionate about it. Not many people get that excited about Arithmancy." He gave her a light, reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, a casual touch that felt both comforting and intimate. "It's... inspiring, actually."
Hermione couldn't help but smile, the tension in her chest easing slightly at his kind words. "You're just being nice," she said, trying to downplay her unease, but the warmth in Remus's gaze told her he meant every word.
"I mean it," Remus replied, his voice low and earnest. "You've got something special, Mina. Don't let anyone make you feel like you shouldn't show it."
For a moment, there was a charged silence between them, something unspoken hanging in the air. Remus's touch lingered just a second too long, and Hermione felt a flutter of something she couldn't quite name. It was a connection—warm, genuine, but tinged with something deeper. She caught a glimpse of admiration in his eyes, something that went beyond friendship.
But just as quickly, it was gone. Remus's expression shifted, a flash of regret passing through his eyes as he withdrew his hand, his smile faltering. He seemed to remember something, a painful reminder that flickered behind his usually composed demeanour.
Remus cleared his throat, taking a small step back, the brief moment of closeness retreating with him. "Anyway, I'm glad you're feeling better," he said, his tone still kind but more distant now, as if he were pulling away from the warmth of the moment. "I should get going. See you around, yeah?"
Hermione watched him, caught off guard by the sudden shift. There was something in the way he said it—an underlying sadness, like he was holding himself back. "Yeah… see you around," she echoed, unable to shake the feeling that there was more to his withdrawal than just politeness.
Remus gave her one last, lingering look, his eyes filled with something unspoken before he turned and walked away, his usual calm exterior back in place. Hermione stood there, feeling the sudden absence of his presence more acutely than she expected. She wanted to reach out, to ask him what was wrong, but the moment had passed, leaving her with the unsettling sense that Remus was fighting a battle she couldn't see.
The next morning at breakfast, the Great Hall buzzed with the usual chatter, students catching up on news and clinking cutlery echoing through the air. Hermione, seated at the Gryffindor table, was half-listening to the conversations around her, still feeling the weight of everything that had happened over the past few weeks. It was hard to believe she'd only been here three weeks—it felt like a lifetime.
As the flurry of owls swooped in, delivering letters and parcels, Hermione glanced up, surprised when an unfamiliar brown owl landed in front of her, dropping a neatly wrapped package from Honeydukes.
"Oh, finally," Hermione muttered, tearing into the package eagerly. Inside were several bars of chocolate—the kind she'd specifically ordered for Remus. She hadn't bought them for herself, and she certainly wasn't about to admit that to anyone.
Lily, sitting across from her, glanced up in mild surprise. "You've been here three weeks, and this is the first time I've seen you get post. Thought your dad would've written by now."
Hermione smiled tightly, covering the pang of anxiety that flickered in her chest. "Oh, he's terrible about that. Gets so wrapped up in his research, he forgets to eat, let alone write. It's not unusual, really." She hoped her voice sounded light enough to deflect further questions; keeping up this charade was becoming more challenging with each passing day.
Lily nodded, accepting the explanation, though Hermione could feel her friend's curiosity lingering. "That sounds a bit like James when he's obsessed with a new Quidditch strategy."
Hermione forced a laugh, then turned her attention back to the chocolates. Without touching any herself, she picked up a whole bar and slid it across the table to Remus, who looked even paler than usual, dark circles shadowing his eyes as the full moon loomed closer.
"Want some?" she offered casually. "They're pretty good."
Remus glanced down at the chocolate, then back up at her, a mix of surprise and cautious curiosity flickering in his eyes. "How did you know these are my favourite?"
Hermione blinked, caught off guard by the directness of his question but covering it with a practised smile. "Oh, they're my favourite too," she lied smoothly. "What's not to love?"
Peter, seated next to Remus, looked up from his plate and chimed in unhelpfully. "They sell those in France too? I thought they were just from Honeydukes."
Hermione didn't hesitate, keeping her tone breezy. "Oh, yes, they have them in France. Quite common, actually." She hoped that would be enough to brush off Peter's remark, but she could feel Remus's eyes lingering on her, as if trying to read something between the lines.
Remus hesitated, then slowly took the bar, unwrapping it with deliberate movements. He took a small bite, and for a moment, Hermione saw a flicker of relief wash over his features. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly, the familiar taste offering a brief comfort.
"Thanks," he said, though his voice carried a hint of suspicion. It was clear the gesture touched him, but it was equally clear that he was trying to puzzle out the intention behind it.
Hermione watched him, feeling the knot of guilt tighten. She knew that Remus was nearing the most difficult time of the month, and she wanted to help in any way she could, even if it was just through the small comfort of chocolate.
She might have miscalculated her talent at subtlety though. Over the next few days, Hermione found herself sliding chocolate toward Remus at every opportunity.
In Defence Against the Dark Arts, Hermione expertly flicked a chocolate bar across the table while Winklebottom wasn't looking. It slid to a stop right in front of Remus, who blinked down at it in surprise. Sirius, seated beside him, snorted with laughter. "I swear, mate, you've got a secret admirer," he teased, earning an eye roll from Remus and a chuckle from Hermione.
In the library, Remus was hunched over a particularly thick book, his brow furrowed in concentration. Hermione, seated across from him, casually nudged a chocolate bar across the table, sliding it right onto his notes. Remus blinked, looking up in confusion. "Is this part of the curriculum now?" he asked dryly, but he pocketed it with a resigned smile.
During a quiet afternoon in the common room, Remus was flipping through his Charms textbook when Hermione dropped a chocolate bar directly onto the open pages. "Here," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Remus looked from the chocolate to her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "This is getting ridiculous," he said, but he still took a bite.
Outside by the lake, Hermione joined Remus on a bench as he scribbled notes on a roll of parchment. Without a word, she pulled out yet another chocolate bar, placing it gently beside his inkpot. Remus glanced at it, then up at her, exasperation clear in his eyes. "You know, there are other ways to show affection," he said, half-joking, half-serious. Hermione just shrugged with an innocent smile, refusing to elaborate.
Each time, Hermione watched Remus's growing wariness, his expression shifting from confusion to something sharper, but as if he was trying to piece together an unspoken puzzle, but then he would relax as soon as he ate some and everything went back to normal. By Monday though, the tension between them had reached a boiling point.
After lunch, they were walking together down the corridor, the usual buzz of student chatter echoing around them. Hermione, seeing the tiredness etched on Remus's face, reached into her bag and pulled out yet another chocolate bar, holding it out to him with a casual, "Here, Remus."
That was the last straw.
"I don't need any more chocolate," Remus snapped, his voice cutting through the din of the hallway like a whip. His tone was sharper than she'd ever heard, and the irritation in his eyes was unmistakable. He stopped abruptly, his usual calm demeanour fraying at the edges. "What is this, some kind of joke? Why do you keep doing this?"
Hermione's hand froze in mid-air, the chocolate still extended between them. The hallway suddenly felt too quiet, the students around them turning their heads at the unexpected outburst. She blinked, caught completely off guard by his reaction. "I—I'm sorry, I just thought—"
"Help?" he repeated, the word dripping with bitterness. "You think this helps? Do you think I need this from you?"
But Remus didn't wait for her to come up with an explanation. He ran a hand through his hair, his expression a mix of frustration and something deeper, something raw. "I don't need your charity."
With that, he turned on his heel and stormed off, his footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Hermione watched him go, her heart sinking as she realised how badly she had miscalculated. She'd only wanted to ease his burden, but instead, she'd just made it worse.
As the other students slowly resumed their conversations, Hermione stood there, the uneaten chocolate bar still in her hand. She felt a sting of shame and regret, wishing she could take back the last few days and do it all differently. But it was too late now; the damage was done.
Remus's thoughts were a jumble of worry and frustration as he trudged through the days leading up to the full moon. The constant drain on his energy was enough on its own, but lately, his mind was consumed by something—or rather, someone—else entirely: Mina Delacour. She'd been distant since the Charms lesson, avoiding any meaningful conversations and keeping interactions strictly polite, a shadow of the girl he'd started to get to know.
They still exchanged pleasantries in passing—"Good morning," "How's your essay going?"—but there was a wall between them now, something that hadn't been there before. And each time she slipped away before Remus could really talk to her, it felt like losing another chance to understand what was going on beneath the surface.
That Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson had been a disaster. The classroom-turned-maze had felt like a personal affront to Mina, a push too far when she was already on edge. Remus had wanted to say something, to call out Winklebottom's reckless approach, but he'd held back, hoping that Mina would let him in, that she'd lean on him—or any of them—instead of bottling it all up. But she didn't. She just soldiered on, trying to pretend nothing was wrong.
The familiar pull of the full moon made his skin itch, every muscle taut as he struggled to keep his composure through classes and meals. He was barely managing his own worries when suddenly, Mina started appearing at his side, always with chocolate in hand. At first, it seemed harmless—one bar at breakfast, casually slid across the table with a faint smile. Remus had been surprised but grateful; the chocolate had been a small comfort during a difficult time. He'd assumed it was just a kind gesture, something she happened to share with him.
But then it happened again. And again. And again. Each time, a new bar of chocolate would appear in the oddest of places. In Defence, she would flick a bar across the table when Winklebottom was distracted, Sirius teasing Remus with a smug grin about his "secret admirer." In the library, while Remus was lost in a complex chapter on magical theory, Mina would nudge another chocolate onto his notes, acting as if it were as natural as breathing.
It started feeling less like a friendly gesture and more like a statement—a reminder of something that Remus couldn't quite decipher. Was she trying to cheer him up? Or did she know more than she let on? It felt oddly targeted, like she was honing in on something personal, and Remus couldn't shake the uncomfortable suspicion that Mina knew more about him than she should.
By Monday, the pattern had become painfully clear. Every day, without fail, Mina would present him with a chocolate bar, as if it were some kind of ritual. Remus's mind spiralled, jumping to conclusions he didn't want to admit to himself. Did she know? About his condition, about the full moon, about the way chocolate soothed the aches that lingered before and after? Or was it something else? Something even more humiliating, like pity?
In his mind, the pieces started fitting together in the worst possible way. Mina was new, but she wasn't stupid. She'd been observant from the start, always watching, always piecing things together. Remus's temper flared at the idea that maybe, just maybe, she'd figured out his biggest secret—and worse, that she might think she was helping him like some sort of charity case.
He couldn't bear the thought. He'd been on the receiving end of pity before, from well-meaning people who didn't understand what it felt like to be constantly managing an illness that defined him in ways he couldn't escape. He didn't need Mina to see him like that. He didn't need anyone to see him like that.
So when Mina pulled out yet another bar of chocolate as they walked down the corridor after lunch, Remus finally snapped.
"I don't need any more chocolate," he said sharply, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet hallway. Mina's eyes widened, taken aback by the sudden outburst. Remus rarely lost his temper—especially not with her—but the irritation he'd been swallowing for days surged to the surface.
"What is this, some kind of joke?" he continued, his words spilling out before he could stop them. "Why do you keep doing this?"
Mina stared at him, confusion and hurt flickering across her face. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out, just a stunned silence that echoed between them. Remus immediately regretted his tone, but he was too wrapped up in his own frustration to pull back.
Mina finally managed to speak, her voice softer than usual. "I—I'm sorry," she hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "I just thought…"
Remus cut her off, his anger fueled by the misunderstanding that had been building between them. "Help?" he repeated, the word dripping with bitterness. "You think this helps? Do you think I need this from you?"
Mina looked down, her face a mix of guilt and confusion, and for a brief moment, Remus saw a flicker of something vulnerable, something he didn't want to see. It twisted the knife of his own shame even deeper, because he knew she hadn't meant to make him feel like this. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being patronised, that she'd found out too much and was trying to make up for it in all the wrong ways.
Remus turned away, his shoulders tense. "I don't need your charity," he muttered, barely audible, but he knew she'd heard it. Without waiting for a response, he walked off, leaving Mina standing there with the chocolate still clutched in her hand.
He knew he'd overreacted, that he'd let his own insecurities get the better of him. But right now, all he could think about was how small and exposed he felt, how all the things he kept tightly controlled were slipping out of his grasp.
And it hurt, knowing that he'd lashed out at the one person who was just trying to help. But sometimes, even the smallest gestures felt like a spotlight on everything he wished he could hide.
Remus sat on his bed in the Marauders' dorm, his head buried in his hands. The curtains were drawn tightly around his four-poster, shutting out the dim light that filtered in from the windows. His mind was a swirling mess of regret, frustration, and self-reproach. Why had he snapped like that? Why couldn't he have just accepted Mina's gesture for what it was—a simple act of kindness, maybe even an olive branch? Instead, he'd gone full pre-moon curmudgeon on her, lashing out when she'd finally started to open up again.
It wasn't just the moon looming closer; it was everything. Mina had been avoiding him since that disastrous Charms lesson, and now she'd been the one trying to reach out, to bridge the gap, and he'd thrown it back in her face.
His mind kept replaying the look on her face when he'd snapped at her in the hallway, the confusion, the hurt, the way her hand had faltered as she held out the chocolate. She'd been trying—no, she'd been succeeding—in breaking down that wall between them, offering something small but meaningful. And he'd ruined it, letting his own insecurities and the moon's creeping influence twist the situation into something ugly.
Remus sighed, dragging his fingers through his hair, tugging at the roots as if the physical sensation could drown out the self-loathing. He'd been so wrapped up in his own thoughts, in the panic of feeling exposed, that he hadn't seen the gesture for what it was. Mina wasn't pitying him—she was reaching out. She was trying to help in the only way she knew how.
But Remus's own warped reasoning had twisted it into something else entirely. The exhaustion, the unrelenting ache in his bones, the constant struggle to keep up appearances—it had all boiled over in that single moment. He'd seen the chocolate and felt every insecurity come crashing down on him. She knows, he'd thought. She knows I'm a wreck, and she's trying to fix it with this.
Remus stood up abruptly, pacing the small space of his bed, his mind spinning. Mina hadn't meant to make him feel like a charity case. She'd been gentle, thoughtful, and he'd been too blind to see it. He'd let his own fear of being seen as weak, as vulnerable, cloud his judgement. And now, he'd pushed her away, just when she'd been trying to let him back in.
He stopped and leaned heavily against the bedpost, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the cool wood. "Why, Remus?" he muttered to himself, his voice thick with frustration. "Why did you have to go and ruin it?"
The sound of the dormitory door creaking open pulled him out of his thoughts. Remus turned, half-expecting one of the boys, but it was Sirius who slipped in, looking uncharacteristically serious. He raised an eyebrow at Remus, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
"You've been hiding in here for an hour, mate," Sirius said, his tone more gentle than usual. "I thought you were going to dig a hole in that floor with all your pacing."
Remus sighed, slumping back onto his bed. "I messed up, Pads," he said, his voice strained. "I messed up bad."
Sirius moved closer, pulling a chair beside the bed and sitting down with a thud. "Yeah, I heard," he said plainly, though not unkindly. "James filled me in on what happened earlier."
Remus rubbed his face, the weight of everything pressing down on him. "She was trying to be nice," he admitted, more to himself than to Sirius. "She was… she was reaching out, and I bit her head off like an arse. All because I thought she was… I don't know, pitying me or something. It's stupid."
Sirius gave him a long look, eyes flickering with understanding. "Moony, I get it. The moon's close, you're feeling it, and it all piles up. But you know she wasn't doing it to get a rise out of you. She's not like that."
Remus nodded, his throat tightening as he thought about how fragile the connection had been. Mina had barely been talking to him since that Charms incident. It had been nothing but pleasantries—no more long chats, no more shared moments in the library, just guarded smiles and quick goodbyes. And this had been her first real attempt to break through that distance, and he'd gone and shattered it all over again.
"I'm just so bloody tired," Remus confessed, his voice cracking. "Tired of feeling like this all the time, of pushing people away, of the moon and… everything. And now I've gone and pushed her away, too."
Sirius clapped a hand on Remus's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "You're not a mind reader, mate. None of us are. But you can fix this. Mina's not the type to hold a grudge."
Remus shook his head, guilt gnawing at him. "But what if this was it? What if she doesn't try again?"
Sirius's expression softened, a rare flicker of something unguarded in his usually mischievous eyes. "Then you be the one to reach out. You go to her, explain, apologise. You know she's got a good heart, Remus. She'll understand."
Remus knew Sirius was right, but the thought of facing Mina again, of admitting that he'd let his own fears control him, was daunting. He didn't want her to see him like this—frayed, volatile, barely holding it together.
Sirius's expression softened, a rare flicker of something unguarded in his usually mischievous eyes. "Then you be the one to reach out. You go to her, explain, apologise. You know she's got a good heart, Remus. She'll understand."
Remus stared at the ceiling, his hands clenched into tight fists as he fought back the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He knew Sirius was right; he needed to apologise, to explain himself, to do anything other than hide away. But the thought of facing Mina again—of admitting that he'd let his fears and frustrations take control—was daunting. Every instinct told him to reach out, but the fear of baring himself, of showing her the parts of him that were raw and broken, held him back.
He turned away, staring at the worn wooden floorboards. "I just can't, Pads," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not right before the moon. I'm not… I'm not strong enough for this right now."
Sirius shifted closer, his gaze softening with an empathy that Remus rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. "Moony, no one's asking you to be perfect. But running away from it won't make it any easier. She's not going to think less of you because you've got bad days. Merlin knows we've all had them."
Remus let out a hollow laugh, but there was no humour in it. "Yeah, but mine are predictable. And I'm sick of being the one who lashes out, who hides away every time things get tough. Mina doesn't deserve to deal with that, especially not now." He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble on his cheeks, the weight of the coming moon pressing down on him. "I've got enough to handle with this bloody transformation, Pads. I don't have it in me to face her, not when I'm like this."
Sirius hesitated, clearly torn between pushing Remus to act and respecting his boundaries. He leaned back, tapping his fingers idly on the arm of the chair. "Alright. If you're not ready, you're not ready. But don't let this fester. The longer you wait, the harder it'll be to bridge that gap."
Remus nodded, but his heart wasn't in it. He wanted to believe that after the full moon, he'd find the courage to talk to Mina, to fix the mess he'd made. But right now, all he felt was dread, his body already bracing for the pain that would come with the transformation. The moon was tomorrow, and every hour that passed felt like a countdown to the inevitable.
His mind flashed back to that Defence lesson again, the fog rolling in, the disorienting darkness, and the sharp commands of Winklebottom echoing through the mist. He remembered the panic in Mina's eyes, the way she moved with determination but also a hint of fear. Remus had wanted to reach out, to offer some reassurance, but he'd been caught up in his own struggle, grappling with his instincts to fight or flee. The professor's unrelenting challenges had only served to stoke his anger, and seeing Mina flounder, trying so hard to navigate the chaos, had struck a nerve he hadn't been able to shake.
Now, sitting in the dim confines of his bed, Remus couldn't help but berate himself for how he'd handled things since then. He'd kept his distance, hoping that if he just waited, Mina would come around on her own. But instead, she'd reached out in the only way she knew how—through small, thoughtful gestures—and he'd thrown them back in her face. His irritation at Winklebottom, his frustration with the moon, and his own self-doubt had all come to a head, and Mina had been caught in the crossfire.
Sirius watched him for a long moment, the playful spark usually present in his eyes dimmed with concern. "You're not the only one struggling, you know. Mina's got her own battles, and I don't think they're any easier than yours. You don't have to be perfect, Moony. You just have to be there."
Remus nodded, though his chest still felt tight, his thoughts a jumbled mess of regret and fear. He knew Sirius was right, but the idea of facing Mina now, when he was barely holding it together, felt impossible. He wasn't ready to open up, to show her the parts of himself that he worked so hard to keep hidden. Not now. Not when the full moon loomed so close.
"I just… I need to get through tomorrow first," Remus said quietly, his voice edged with the weight of his exhaustion. "After that, maybe I'll have something left to give."
Sirius gave him a long, measured look before nodding, understanding without pushing further. "Alright, Moony. But don't leave it too long. She's not going to wait forever."
With that, Sirius rose, giving Remus's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading out. Remus watched him go, the dormitory door creaking shut behind him, leaving him alone with the heavy silence. He leaned back against the headboard, the familiar ache of the impending transformation settling into his bones.
All he could do now was survive the moon. And maybe, once the storm had passed, he'd find a way to make things right with Mina. For now, though, he was too tired, too frayed, and too afraid of what she might see if he let her in.
That evening, Remus was notably absent from the common room. Hermione tried to focus on her studies, but her thoughts kept drifting back to their confrontation. She approached James hesitantly, hoping for some kind of explanation that would make sense of Remus's sudden anger.
"Where's Remus?" she asked, keeping her voice casual despite the worry gnawing at her.
James exchanged a quick look with Sirius, who just shrugged, looking equally uneasy. "He's not feeling well," James said carefully. "He needed some time to… rest."
Hermione nodded, her expression carefully neutral, but inside, her mind was spinning. She knew exactly what "rest" meant. Remus was likely already holed up in the Shrieking Shack, preparing for the full moon's transformation. The thought of him alone there, wrestling with the pain and fear that came every month, tugged at her heart.
She glanced at James and Sirius, wondering when they would slip away to join him. It was strange, seeing them as they were now—just teenagers, joking around in the common room, as if they didn't carry the weight of such a dangerous secret.
Hermione felt a mix of admiration and a pang of sadness. They'd do anything to help Remus, to keep him from feeling alone in his pain, even if it meant risking everything. She wondered if they realised just how much it meant to him—or how much he relied on their unwavering presence during his worst moments.
Hermione sighed, glancing down at the uneaten chocolate bar still in her bag. She'd tried to offer Remus comfort, but she'd only managed to add to his burden. For now, all she could do was let him be and hope that, when the full moon passed, he'd find it in himself to forgive her clumsy attempts at kindness.
Predictably, Remus was absent the next day, and Hermione tried to focus on her classes, though her thoughts kept drifting back to him. She longed to check on him, to make sure he was alright, but she knew that showing up at the hospital wing would likely do more harm than good. Remus's frustration still lingered in her mind, and the last thing she wanted was to provoke another outburst.
Instead, she channelled her concern into something practical. In every class they shared, Hermione took meticulous notes, jotting down every detail with a precision that bordered on obsessive. It was a small gesture, but it was all she could think to do—a way to show that she cared without crossing any lines. She filled page after page with instructions, diagrams, and reminders, making sure there was nothing he'd miss.
By evening, Remus was back in the common room, looking a little worn but upright, his usual calm demeanour slowly returning. Hermione spotted him sitting by the fire, a blanket draped around his shoulders, surrounded by the warm hum of the Gryffindors catching up after dinner. She took a deep breath, clutching the stack of notes in her hand as she approached him.
"Hey," she said softly, standing beside his chair. "I, um… I took notes for you in class today. Thought you might need them."
Remus looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes as he took in the neat stack of parchment she held out. For a moment, he didn't say anything, his expression shifting from mild confusion to something softer. He reached out, accepting the notes with a grateful nod.
"Thanks," he said, his voice quiet, almost cautious. "Sorry I missed everything. I, uh… had a migraine."
Hermione knew it was a lie, but she wasn't going to push it. She simply nodded, pretending to believe him, though the weight of unspoken truths hung between them. "Those can be awful. I'm glad you're feeling better."
Remus glanced down at the detailed notes, his thumb brushing the edges of the parchment. It was such a simple thing, but the care she'd put into it was unmistakable. He looked back up at her, and for the first time since their fight, there was a hint of his usual warmth.
"Well, I can't exactly let all this hard work go to waste," he said lightly, trying to ease the awkwardness of the moment. He hesitated, then added with a cheeky grin, "And, you know… I wouldn't mind sharing a chocolate if you still have some left."
Hermione's heart lifted at his playful tone, and she couldn't help the bright smile that spread across her face. She reached into her bag, pulling out a bar she'd been carrying just in case. "I think I can spare one."
Remus accepted the chocolate with a mock look of serious contemplation, unwrapping it slowly before breaking off a piece and handing it back to her. "Truce?" he asked, his smile soft but sincere.
Hermione nodded, feeling a surge of relief. "Truce."