Golden: Chapter One
Title: Golden
Rating: mostly PG-13
Summary: Follow Remus Lupin through his year as a Hogwarts professor as he faces his demons, comes to terms with his past and finally learns to move forward.
Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Ginny Weasley, Lily (Evans) Potter, Harry Potter
Pairings: past!Remus/Sirius, onesided!Remus/Lily, Remus/Ginny
Setting: Year 3, primarily at Hogwarts
Warnings: Some sexual themes and strong hints of May/December, though nothing too graphic
Spoilers: PoA and beyond
Word Count: 2,750
I saw her again the very next day. Reserved, she moved through the crowd of students independently, clutching her Defense Against the Dark Arts text to her chest like a shield to ward off the curious glances of her friends and peers. I remembered her as an affable, if independent, little girl, with a stubborn, pouting mouth and defiant eyes. This Ginny seemed the victim of some recent tragedy or humiliation. Her face bore no expression save for apology; her cloistered gestures and stern posture seemed to be begging me not to look at her. At the time, I had no reasons for it.
Clearing my throat, I stepped in front of the assembled second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. A number of eyes looked my way impassively, though I saw a few bright, rapt faces in the crowd. A number of students observed me through slitted eyes, and I felt myself swallowing my nervousness. I was at Hogwarts; I had always loved Hogwarts. Although my boyhood home had been a good one and I had lived comfortably with my family - unlike Sirius, for instance - I had immediately found a second home here, and tried to let the familiar atmosphere permeate me. Tension drained from my shoulders.
"Good morning," I began, to lacklustre response, and rustled through my notes to cover up my shaking hands.
I scarcely remember what the lesson was about, now, only that by the end of it, a number of the students filing out the door had grins on their faces, and a few waved farewell as they took their leave. My first lesson of the day had gone over well; I was a success as a teacher.
Ginny was one of the last to leave. One of her quills had rolled off the table onto the floor, and I picked it up and handed it over. I watched her carefully rolling her notes onto a battered-looking scroll and gingerly pocketing her ink bottle before she raised her eyes to me.
"Thank you," she mumbled, frowning slightly, lost in thought.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, watching her furtive eyes as she scanned the classroom. She seemed unwilling to look at my face, as though she had something to hide.
"Uh huh," she nodded, her eyes settling on the dragon skeleton above, which leered down at us through empty eye sockets, all sharp-edged, sun-bleached bones. She paused, clutching her quill. "What's the assignment again?"
She had passed the class period with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, blankly watching as my notes scattered themselves across the blackboard in my usual slanted penmanship. I'd thought she had been reading, or else simply following along with my introductory lecture, but it seemed she had not been paying attention at all. The whites of her eyes were a little red, as if she had been rubbing them.
"No homework," I answered, with a heartier smile than I intended.
"Oh, okay. Good."
_________________
In the beginning, Ginny scarcely occupied my thoughts at all. I had a significant number of other students to worry about, after all. My days became consumed with a scarcely interrupted routine of aiding the stragglers, praising my advanced students and staying up late into the evening to grade ink-spotted essays by the light of a single candle and the crescent moon.
Often, in my free moments, my thoughts drifted back to the past and my legs followed the trails of my youth, winding through shadowy hallways and the secret passages I had discovered with James, Sirius and Peter. I strode across the lawn and the edge of the Forbidden Forest, so lost in thought that I could almost see my boyhood mates rushing past me, howling with the delight of our amusements, eagerly whispering plans for the latest prank. There was James, I sometimes thought, tall and lean and awkward, like a tree shoot reaching for the sun, his glasses askew and his hair perpetually mussed. I could almost hear his voice, deep and smooth and bass as he mumbled fantasies about the nubile Gryffindor girls. There was Peter, low and scurrying, a manic grin on his face and his blonde hair plastered to his pink forehead. I listened for his snicker. And Sirius, always Sirius looming up in my mind; dark and angular, his eyes alight with compulsive mischief, his warm hand on my back between the jutting shoulder blades, his voice speaking my name with a sound so real the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stood to attention. "Oh, Remus". I pushed away his memory, burning with anger and sick with betrayal, an odd straining sensation in my groin.
One night, I found myself standing in front of the entrance to Gryffindor tower, face to face with the Fat Lady in her frame. I bluffed my way in on some pretense; it was not difficult, she remembered me and swung kindly forward, granting me admittance.
The place had changed much since I had last been an occupant, and yet so much remained the same. A number of threadbare chairs had been replaced with newer models, and the fire grate seemed to have a different shape than I remembered, but the smell was the same, a lingering mixture of girlish perfume and stinging broomstick polish. Owing to the lateness of the hour, hardly anyone was about. A sixth year dosed in one chair, and a young couple necked discreetly against the banister leading to the boy's dormitory. Only one student raised her head to me, a studious girl with auburn hair and a pragmatic expression on her curious face.
"Professor," greeted Hermione Granger kindly.
I was only beginning to learn the names of my students, though of course, Hermione stood out in memory for a number of reasons, namely her friendship with Harry and her own brilliant mind.
"'Evening," I commented, glancing down at the stack of books before her. She appeared to be writing a Transfiguration essay, and her wand lay next to her, beside a discarded silver cup. "Burning the midnight oil, I see."
She shrugged, modestly. "Well, you know," she murmured demurely, her fingertips exploring a book cover. "I want to do my best."
"You're an excellent student, Hermione," I offered, charmed by her dedication to her studies. I remembered my own fervent desire to succeed, the way I often took a ribbing from James and Sirius about my need to linger in dusty library corners when there was perfect Quidditch weather outside. How she could manage to allot so much time to the books while being close friends with Harry and Ron Weasley, I was not sure, but I gave her a smile anyway. "Don't forget to get some rest," I advised, leaving the Gryffindor stronghold and moving back down the staircase towards my own quarters.
Halfway down, I was met by Ginny.
She gave a startled "oh!" when she saw me, and immediately her hands flew to her hair, a nervous gesture she seemed to have adopted. Instead of her school robes she was in a threadbare pink dressing gown. The sleeves were too short, exposing her forearms and wrists. Her feet were bare against the cold stone.
"Ginny?"
"I -- I'm sorry, Professor," she blurted, flustered. Her hair was a bit frizzy and her dressing gown seemed slightly askew, and for a moment I assumed she had met a beau in some secret corner of the school and was just now returning from her rendezvous. However, she was a bit young for that sort of thing, and in any case, her face betrayed no interrupted passion or daydreaming. Her eyes were red again, and there were crimson splotches high on her cheeks, as if she had been crying. A faint salt tang clung to her skin.
"It's a bit late to be running around the school, isn't it?" I questioned, trying for a tone of equal firmness and light-hearted ease. "Where have you been?"
Miserable, she stared at my shoes. "I'm sorry," she gasped, urgently, and her throat seemed constricted against another sob. "I'm going back right now."
"Just a minute, please, Ginny." Beckoning her to follow, I walked down to a landing where I was sure we would not be overheard. Motioning for her to sit down, I lowered myself to a stair. She stood before me, her hands clutching the rail as if expecting to be pushed. "What is going on?"
"Nothing!" she burst out urgently, shaking her head back and forth so that her hair flew wildly.
With a disappointed frown, I gave her my best teacher's stare. "Am I to assume you met up with friends? Perhaps" -- I guessed from my own experiences -- "a number of you struck out to Hogsmeade?"
She fixed me with a level gaze, her face serious. "Of course not, Professor," she informed me, her tone innocent. "It's just --"
"Yes?"
"I just needed to think about some things," she explained patiently, a half-truth. Finally, she sat down on the step as far from me as she could, angling her body away from mine. "I needed some privacy. It won't happen again," she promised.
"I'm glad to hear it, but I'd still like to help if I can," I offered. I watched her, sitting with her hands over her face, her posture demonstrating a clear desire to be left alone, and thought of Lily one time when I found her in similar circumstances just moments after overhearing an argument between her and Snape. I had not left Lily, however, and I preferred not to leave Ginny to her distress either. "May I ask what's bothering you? Are you being harassed?"
"Nothing like that," emerged her muted voice, grief stricken. Her back and shoulders shook a little, from contained sobs.
"Please tell me."
Silence remained for a few long moments. I was just on the verge of standing up and excusing Ginny to her dormitory when she finally spoke. "I've made a fool of myself."
I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted as she continued.
"I was so stupid. To keep writing in it, to even pick it up after I saw what happened. Dad always said you couldn't trust anything that thought for itself unless you could see where it kept it's brain, and still --" she sniffed, elaborately. "I was just so lonely," she cried, her voice leaking sorrow, begging for absolution. "Homesick, and he would hardly look my way."
I was bemused, and said so. "I'm afraid I'm missing something, Ginny."
She set her hands in her lap and shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. "Last year, I found a diary among my schoolbooks," she explained. Her breathing was shallow. "It was blank. I thought maybe Dad had bought it for me, except I guess I should have known he hadn't. He never said anything about it, and it was sort of battered, second-hand."
"Go on."
"I -- I started writing in it a few days after I arrived here. I was lonely. I missed my parents. My brothers ignored me. It was hard for me to make friends. At first, I thought it was a normal diary, but pretty soon -- it started writing back." Her voice shook, and I detected fear beneath the sadness. "I should have thrown it away then, I know, or told someone, but he seemed so nice, so understanding."
"He?" I asked, concerned.
"Tom," she gasped, and hiccuped as though the name still frightened her. "I told him everything, how I felt, what was bothering me. I told him about -- about Harry." The name escaped her lips laden with meaning, spoken like a sigh, the childish crush painfully obvious in the reverent, needful tone. "He seemed interested - Tom, I mean - and after a while all I could think about during the day was running back to my dorm and writing to him."
"Eventually, though, he started to scare me. The things he said -- sometimes they were so cruel. He asked me to do things for him, things that would have gotten me into so much trouble if I'd been found out, and there were times I could hardly remember what I'd done at all. I felt like a completely different person." Her hands trembled and I patted her wrist comfortingly. "I tried to get rid of the diary. I threw it away a number of times. It kept coming back, and then once, Harry found it. I was mortified. I thought for sure, he would learn about everything, about my crush." Ginny's cheeks burned with embarrassment as she went on. "I took the diary back."
"And you're concerned," I said, speculating. "That Harry may have read it?"
By her expression, I could tell I was off the mark. "Haven't you heard," she demanded. "About what happened here last year? The Chamber of Secrets?"
I searched my memory of the previous year and placed myself in Romania, far beyond the reach of the British press and Hogwarts gossip. Nonetheless, the name sounded vaguely familiar to me, as though I had heard the place mentioned in past rumours. "Tell me."
"The Chamber was opened! There was a monster in it, people got petrified and everything; we were lucky no one was killed. Harry -- Harry killed the monster inside, the basilisk."
"I hadn't heard," I mentioned dully, with a pang of sympathy for Harry, who had already faced so much. I thought of James, and ached. "But what did that have to do with you?"
"It was me who opened it," she blurted out, and the tears sprang from her eyes in rivers. Beside her, I felt myself jump at the admission. Her grief and fear was palpable. "They say I was possessed, by the spirit in the diary." Raising her gaze to my face, she asked mournfully, "Do you know who Tom really was?" When I shook my head, she bit her lower lip. "Tom Riddle."
An electric shock bolted through my body, sizzling my nerves. I'd heard the name before, of course, as a member of the Order of the Phoenix; Dumbledore had once used it, probably to ease our fears of the man who called himself Lord. "But, Tom Riddle is --"
"Voldemort," she interrupted, speaking the taboo name. Her chin quivered as she backpedaled. "You-Know-Who." Her words faded as tears overcame her. For a long moment she cried, her entire body quaking with grief, remorse and terror. I wanted to comfort her, but I hardly knew her; I patted her hand, my fingers on her knuckles, and did not draw away when she clutched my hand spasmodically.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, fifteen minutes later, when the tears had dried up.
"It's okay."
She affixed me with a wavery smile, her eyes shrouded with tears that clung to her lower lashes. "You're the first person I've told," she explained after a moment. "Aside from my family. Harry knows, of course. I think the Headmaster explained it to him. I feel," she paused, drawing a deep breath. "I feel a bit better now."
My heart leapt a little, and I felt momentarily worthwhile, a sensation I had not been acquainted with since before James and Lily's deaths. "I'm glad. Do you think you'll be able to sleep?"
"Yes." She rose from the stairs gracefully. "Thank you, Professor Lupin."
"Remus," I countered. "Outside of class, you can call me Remus." At the time, I scarcely knew why I said it, aside from the fact that she had shared one of her deepest secrets with me, and that had created a bond. Somewhere in my subconscious mind, I must have registered the affect of her soft halo of hair, so like Lily's as it brushed my arm. I could smell the sweetness of her shampoo and feel the heat of her body due to our proximity, but I would swear upon the graves of my dead friends, all of them, that at the time, I scarcely noticed my feelings at all.
"Goodnight, Remus," she said, giving me a quick wave as she climbed the stairs. The skin around her eyes was pink and puffy from crying, but she looked lovely nonetheless, and far more at peace than I had yet seen her.
"Goodnight, Ginny," I called back with artificial ease, and stayed rooted to the stair, watching her go until her slim figure blended with the evening shadows and she faded from sight.
Rating: mostly PG-13
Summary: Follow Remus Lupin through his year as a Hogwarts professor as he faces his demons, comes to terms with his past and finally learns to move forward.
Characters: Remus Lupin, Sirius Black, Ginny Weasley, Lily (Evans) Potter, Harry Potter
Pairings: past!Remus/Sirius, onesided!Remus/Lily, Remus/Ginny
Setting: Year 3, primarily at Hogwarts
Warnings: Some sexual themes and strong hints of May/December, though nothing too graphic
Spoilers: PoA and beyond
Word Count: 2,750
I saw her again the very next day. Reserved, she moved through the crowd of students independently, clutching her Defense Against the Dark Arts text to her chest like a shield to ward off the curious glances of her friends and peers. I remembered her as an affable, if independent, little girl, with a stubborn, pouting mouth and defiant eyes. This Ginny seemed the victim of some recent tragedy or humiliation. Her face bore no expression save for apology; her cloistered gestures and stern posture seemed to be begging me not to look at her. At the time, I had no reasons for it.
Clearing my throat, I stepped in front of the assembled second-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. A number of eyes looked my way impassively, though I saw a few bright, rapt faces in the crowd. A number of students observed me through slitted eyes, and I felt myself swallowing my nervousness. I was at Hogwarts; I had always loved Hogwarts. Although my boyhood home had been a good one and I had lived comfortably with my family - unlike Sirius, for instance - I had immediately found a second home here, and tried to let the familiar atmosphere permeate me. Tension drained from my shoulders.
"Good morning," I began, to lacklustre response, and rustled through my notes to cover up my shaking hands.
I scarcely remember what the lesson was about, now, only that by the end of it, a number of the students filing out the door had grins on their faces, and a few waved farewell as they took their leave. My first lesson of the day had gone over well; I was a success as a teacher.
Ginny was one of the last to leave. One of her quills had rolled off the table onto the floor, and I picked it up and handed it over. I watched her carefully rolling her notes onto a battered-looking scroll and gingerly pocketing her ink bottle before she raised her eyes to me.
"Thank you," she mumbled, frowning slightly, lost in thought.
"Is everything okay?" I asked, watching her furtive eyes as she scanned the classroom. She seemed unwilling to look at my face, as though she had something to hide.
"Uh huh," she nodded, her eyes settling on the dragon skeleton above, which leered down at us through empty eye sockets, all sharp-edged, sun-bleached bones. She paused, clutching her quill. "What's the assignment again?"
She had passed the class period with her chin resting in the palm of her hand, blankly watching as my notes scattered themselves across the blackboard in my usual slanted penmanship. I'd thought she had been reading, or else simply following along with my introductory lecture, but it seemed she had not been paying attention at all. The whites of her eyes were a little red, as if she had been rubbing them.
"No homework," I answered, with a heartier smile than I intended.
"Oh, okay. Good."
_________________
In the beginning, Ginny scarcely occupied my thoughts at all. I had a significant number of other students to worry about, after all. My days became consumed with a scarcely interrupted routine of aiding the stragglers, praising my advanced students and staying up late into the evening to grade ink-spotted essays by the light of a single candle and the crescent moon.
Often, in my free moments, my thoughts drifted back to the past and my legs followed the trails of my youth, winding through shadowy hallways and the secret passages I had discovered with James, Sirius and Peter. I strode across the lawn and the edge of the Forbidden Forest, so lost in thought that I could almost see my boyhood mates rushing past me, howling with the delight of our amusements, eagerly whispering plans for the latest prank. There was James, I sometimes thought, tall and lean and awkward, like a tree shoot reaching for the sun, his glasses askew and his hair perpetually mussed. I could almost hear his voice, deep and smooth and bass as he mumbled fantasies about the nubile Gryffindor girls. There was Peter, low and scurrying, a manic grin on his face and his blonde hair plastered to his pink forehead. I listened for his snicker. And Sirius, always Sirius looming up in my mind; dark and angular, his eyes alight with compulsive mischief, his warm hand on my back between the jutting shoulder blades, his voice speaking my name with a sound so real the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stood to attention. "Oh, Remus". I pushed away his memory, burning with anger and sick with betrayal, an odd straining sensation in my groin.
One night, I found myself standing in front of the entrance to Gryffindor tower, face to face with the Fat Lady in her frame. I bluffed my way in on some pretense; it was not difficult, she remembered me and swung kindly forward, granting me admittance.
The place had changed much since I had last been an occupant, and yet so much remained the same. A number of threadbare chairs had been replaced with newer models, and the fire grate seemed to have a different shape than I remembered, but the smell was the same, a lingering mixture of girlish perfume and stinging broomstick polish. Owing to the lateness of the hour, hardly anyone was about. A sixth year dosed in one chair, and a young couple necked discreetly against the banister leading to the boy's dormitory. Only one student raised her head to me, a studious girl with auburn hair and a pragmatic expression on her curious face.
"Professor," greeted Hermione Granger kindly.
I was only beginning to learn the names of my students, though of course, Hermione stood out in memory for a number of reasons, namely her friendship with Harry and her own brilliant mind.
"'Evening," I commented, glancing down at the stack of books before her. She appeared to be writing a Transfiguration essay, and her wand lay next to her, beside a discarded silver cup. "Burning the midnight oil, I see."
She shrugged, modestly. "Well, you know," she murmured demurely, her fingertips exploring a book cover. "I want to do my best."
"You're an excellent student, Hermione," I offered, charmed by her dedication to her studies. I remembered my own fervent desire to succeed, the way I often took a ribbing from James and Sirius about my need to linger in dusty library corners when there was perfect Quidditch weather outside. How she could manage to allot so much time to the books while being close friends with Harry and Ron Weasley, I was not sure, but I gave her a smile anyway. "Don't forget to get some rest," I advised, leaving the Gryffindor stronghold and moving back down the staircase towards my own quarters.
Halfway down, I was met by Ginny.
She gave a startled "oh!" when she saw me, and immediately her hands flew to her hair, a nervous gesture she seemed to have adopted. Instead of her school robes she was in a threadbare pink dressing gown. The sleeves were too short, exposing her forearms and wrists. Her feet were bare against the cold stone.
"Ginny?"
"I -- I'm sorry, Professor," she blurted, flustered. Her hair was a bit frizzy and her dressing gown seemed slightly askew, and for a moment I assumed she had met a beau in some secret corner of the school and was just now returning from her rendezvous. However, she was a bit young for that sort of thing, and in any case, her face betrayed no interrupted passion or daydreaming. Her eyes were red again, and there were crimson splotches high on her cheeks, as if she had been crying. A faint salt tang clung to her skin.
"It's a bit late to be running around the school, isn't it?" I questioned, trying for a tone of equal firmness and light-hearted ease. "Where have you been?"
Miserable, she stared at my shoes. "I'm sorry," she gasped, urgently, and her throat seemed constricted against another sob. "I'm going back right now."
"Just a minute, please, Ginny." Beckoning her to follow, I walked down to a landing where I was sure we would not be overheard. Motioning for her to sit down, I lowered myself to a stair. She stood before me, her hands clutching the rail as if expecting to be pushed. "What is going on?"
"Nothing!" she burst out urgently, shaking her head back and forth so that her hair flew wildly.
With a disappointed frown, I gave her my best teacher's stare. "Am I to assume you met up with friends? Perhaps" -- I guessed from my own experiences -- "a number of you struck out to Hogsmeade?"
She fixed me with a level gaze, her face serious. "Of course not, Professor," she informed me, her tone innocent. "It's just --"
"Yes?"
"I just needed to think about some things," she explained patiently, a half-truth. Finally, she sat down on the step as far from me as she could, angling her body away from mine. "I needed some privacy. It won't happen again," she promised.
"I'm glad to hear it, but I'd still like to help if I can," I offered. I watched her, sitting with her hands over her face, her posture demonstrating a clear desire to be left alone, and thought of Lily one time when I found her in similar circumstances just moments after overhearing an argument between her and Snape. I had not left Lily, however, and I preferred not to leave Ginny to her distress either. "May I ask what's bothering you? Are you being harassed?"
"Nothing like that," emerged her muted voice, grief stricken. Her back and shoulders shook a little, from contained sobs.
"Please tell me."
Silence remained for a few long moments. I was just on the verge of standing up and excusing Ginny to her dormitory when she finally spoke. "I've made a fool of myself."
I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted as she continued.
"I was so stupid. To keep writing in it, to even pick it up after I saw what happened. Dad always said you couldn't trust anything that thought for itself unless you could see where it kept it's brain, and still --" she sniffed, elaborately. "I was just so lonely," she cried, her voice leaking sorrow, begging for absolution. "Homesick, and he would hardly look my way."
I was bemused, and said so. "I'm afraid I'm missing something, Ginny."
She set her hands in her lap and shook her head slowly, thoughtfully. "Last year, I found a diary among my schoolbooks," she explained. Her breathing was shallow. "It was blank. I thought maybe Dad had bought it for me, except I guess I should have known he hadn't. He never said anything about it, and it was sort of battered, second-hand."
"Go on."
"I -- I started writing in it a few days after I arrived here. I was lonely. I missed my parents. My brothers ignored me. It was hard for me to make friends. At first, I thought it was a normal diary, but pretty soon -- it started writing back." Her voice shook, and I detected fear beneath the sadness. "I should have thrown it away then, I know, or told someone, but he seemed so nice, so understanding."
"He?" I asked, concerned.
"Tom," she gasped, and hiccuped as though the name still frightened her. "I told him everything, how I felt, what was bothering me. I told him about -- about Harry." The name escaped her lips laden with meaning, spoken like a sigh, the childish crush painfully obvious in the reverent, needful tone. "He seemed interested - Tom, I mean - and after a while all I could think about during the day was running back to my dorm and writing to him."
"Eventually, though, he started to scare me. The things he said -- sometimes they were so cruel. He asked me to do things for him, things that would have gotten me into so much trouble if I'd been found out, and there were times I could hardly remember what I'd done at all. I felt like a completely different person." Her hands trembled and I patted her wrist comfortingly. "I tried to get rid of the diary. I threw it away a number of times. It kept coming back, and then once, Harry found it. I was mortified. I thought for sure, he would learn about everything, about my crush." Ginny's cheeks burned with embarrassment as she went on. "I took the diary back."
"And you're concerned," I said, speculating. "That Harry may have read it?"
By her expression, I could tell I was off the mark. "Haven't you heard," she demanded. "About what happened here last year? The Chamber of Secrets?"
I searched my memory of the previous year and placed myself in Romania, far beyond the reach of the British press and Hogwarts gossip. Nonetheless, the name sounded vaguely familiar to me, as though I had heard the place mentioned in past rumours. "Tell me."
"The Chamber was opened! There was a monster in it, people got petrified and everything; we were lucky no one was killed. Harry -- Harry killed the monster inside, the basilisk."
"I hadn't heard," I mentioned dully, with a pang of sympathy for Harry, who had already faced so much. I thought of James, and ached. "But what did that have to do with you?"
"It was me who opened it," she blurted out, and the tears sprang from her eyes in rivers. Beside her, I felt myself jump at the admission. Her grief and fear was palpable. "They say I was possessed, by the spirit in the diary." Raising her gaze to my face, she asked mournfully, "Do you know who Tom really was?" When I shook my head, she bit her lower lip. "Tom Riddle."
An electric shock bolted through my body, sizzling my nerves. I'd heard the name before, of course, as a member of the Order of the Phoenix; Dumbledore had once used it, probably to ease our fears of the man who called himself Lord. "But, Tom Riddle is --"
"Voldemort," she interrupted, speaking the taboo name. Her chin quivered as she backpedaled. "You-Know-Who." Her words faded as tears overcame her. For a long moment she cried, her entire body quaking with grief, remorse and terror. I wanted to comfort her, but I hardly knew her; I patted her hand, my fingers on her knuckles, and did not draw away when she clutched my hand spasmodically.
"I'm sorry," she murmured, fifteen minutes later, when the tears had dried up.
"It's okay."
She affixed me with a wavery smile, her eyes shrouded with tears that clung to her lower lashes. "You're the first person I've told," she explained after a moment. "Aside from my family. Harry knows, of course. I think the Headmaster explained it to him. I feel," she paused, drawing a deep breath. "I feel a bit better now."
My heart leapt a little, and I felt momentarily worthwhile, a sensation I had not been acquainted with since before James and Lily's deaths. "I'm glad. Do you think you'll be able to sleep?"
"Yes." She rose from the stairs gracefully. "Thank you, Professor Lupin."
"Remus," I countered. "Outside of class, you can call me Remus." At the time, I scarcely knew why I said it, aside from the fact that she had shared one of her deepest secrets with me, and that had created a bond. Somewhere in my subconscious mind, I must have registered the affect of her soft halo of hair, so like Lily's as it brushed my arm. I could smell the sweetness of her shampoo and feel the heat of her body due to our proximity, but I would swear upon the graves of my dead friends, all of them, that at the time, I scarcely noticed my feelings at all.
"Goodnight, Remus," she said, giving me a quick wave as she climbed the stairs. The skin around her eyes was pink and puffy from crying, but she looked lovely nonetheless, and far more at peace than I had yet seen her.
"Goodnight, Ginny," I called back with artificial ease, and stayed rooted to the stair, watching her go until her slim figure blended with the evening shadows and she faded from sight.