(no subject)

[aidaapple]

Title: Untitled, as of yet.
Author: AidaApple
Rating: PG, at the moment
Pairing: RemusHermione.
Disclaimer: I honestly do not own Harry Potter, I just use and abuse the characters.

A/N - I've been a lurker of this community, and a reader of this pairing for a little while now, but I've only just turned my hand to writing it. It's such a shame that there's so few fics out there for it. I've written the first bit to something and really wanted the opinions of people more versed in the pairing. Hopefully, you'll be seeing more of me; as both a reader and a writer.

This is only a rough draft, by the way. Hope it doesn't offend your eyes too much.


"Miss Granger?" rumbled an irritated sounding voice, breaking her from her reverie.

Her boss poked his balding head around her door and fixed his small, dark eyes on her face. The door could not open enough to allow his substantial bulk to move inside. There were times when she was quite thankful for that. Peering around the stacks of broken artifacts and piles of paper, Hermione Granger forced her features into a calm, blank expression.

"Yes, Mr Newberry?"

"I want you to..." he began, breaking off as he attempted to suck in and squeeze through the slim gap - his large, strangely flat face working furiously," I want you to fix this for me before the important meeting on Monday."

He gave up half-way and wiped his receding hairline with a sweat stained, snitch patterned, handkerchief. It was a struggle to keep a look of contempt off her face; more work. This was her first job outside of Hogwarts and she had known she would be entering at a low level, she had known that they would take advantage of her in any way possible - despite her top marks... This did not make it any less of an annoyance.

Clenched in one of his pasty fists was a thin gold chain, from which dangled a half melted hourglass. A Time Turner.

"It's been terminated?" she asked, coolly, but reached out from the tiny object gingerly when he gave a curt nod.

Before objects came to her to be fixed someone would have a look at them; remove any potentially harmful magical residue that lingered around them, broke any remaining rune chains, and basically make them safe for her to handle. Cradling it in her palm she carefully prodded the series of runes inscribed around the edges with her wand and was met with a series of flashes that told her it was no longer operational.

"I'll have it in complete working order, first thing Monday morning," she said quietly, carefully signing her final piece of paperwork for the day.

Mr Newberry shifted from foot to foot and twisted his large handkerchief in his boulder sized fists.

"I would just like you to know that the meeting may feature you highly, Miss Granger, and doing a good job on this assignment," he gave her an oily smile,"might just work in your favour."

Against her will her spirits rose slightly - a promotion was just what she wanted. It might be a con to try and get her to work better, he was not above such things, but she could hope. There was always hope. Nodding, Hermione slid the small instrument into the little, beaded bag she had bought specially for the evening. Concealed beneath her practical, white button up shirt, soft blue jumper and loose grey wool skirt was a pretty and ridiculously expensive little dress.

Muttering a quick locking spell she bolted the door and began sliding off her work clothes to reveal the little dress beneath. Each piece of clothing was meticulously folded and placed inside the magically enlarged bag.

The dress was a deep aubergine colour with a tightly fitted, structural bodice and a layered, flowing silk skirt hemmed with black lace, that fell to mid-thigh. Slick, and flirty, the dress was a little boost of confidence that had hurt her bank balance, but was completely worth it. She slid the comfy, leather flats off her feet and tip-toed into black patent court shoes. A little pair of star shaped diamond studs and a matching necklace completed the ensemble.

When she arrived at the party she would shake her hair out of the bun in was restrained in and add a slick of eyeliner. Smiling to herself, she stood, unlocked the door and walked out towards the main atrium. A quick apparition later and she appeared in one of the litter strewn back alleys close to the Leaky Cauldron, and a minutes walk away from the minuscule cake shop that she would be retrieving a behemoth of a dessert from for Mrs Weasley.

Normally the Weasley matriarch would have made one herself - and would have been happy to do it - but, because of the size of the party and the suddenness of it, she had been half-forced to accept a cake from an outside source. The evening was more about the companionship, anyway.

The party was mainly a celebration for Ron and Harry, who had just been accepted into Auror training. Just the thought of them helped wipe the acrid taste that speaking to Mr Newberry brought straight from her mouth.

Hermione began walking briskly forward, but her heels made her unsteady and after a few steps on the cobbles she crashed to her knees. Tears sprang up in the corners of her eyes as pin-pricks of white hot pain shot through her knees and ankle. Blood appeared on her raw palms from where she had thrown her hands out to stop herself. She hissed angrily at herself and staggered to her feet, anxiously checking her dress for marks.

At least these things always seemed to happen when she was alone.

Just at that thought her head seemed to spin wildly and for a moment the soot-stained bricks in front of her span. Motion sickness gripped her and she felt as though she had jumped from a cliff and left her organs behind. The clamoring sensations seemed to grip her entire body for a moment and she leaned her hands on her scraped knees, gasping violently. Bile rose in her throat and she leaned over the gutter, coughing up a milky coloured liquid and feeling her throat tingling with the burn.

And as soon as it had begun, it was over.

Hermione took deep, choking breaths of frigid night air and wiped the heated tears from her stinging eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand. Her ankle throbbed painfully as she hobbled forward in search of her wand - feeling vulnerable and naked without it. She found it lying not far from a set of bulging black bin bags that reeked of the sweet scent of decay and cheap vodka.

A quick "Lumos" and she could scan the ground for her missing bag which she left without a good ten minutes later. If she stayed any longer she would be late for the celebration and would have to bear the brunt of Mrs Weasleys irritation and probably some snide comments about her own lectures on punctuality. It was clear that no one came down here - she would return and look for the bag in the light of day.

There was a tiny niggling feeling in the back of her mind that told her something was wrong which she chose to ignore. A small stomach bug, that was probably what it was. Nothing to be worried about.

It was deathly quiet in one of the many streets of Muggle London that wove away from Diagon Alley. Hermione huffed slightly - dismayed by the visible cloud of breath that swirled in plain view in front of her - and rubbed her arms. The ridiculous, purple dress that she loved chose to point out all of its impracticalities; it started too late, ended too soon, and did nothing to stop the chill wind that cut though the flimsy silk and turned the ends of her bare fingers a dull blue colour. Her heels kept her out out the slush for the most part, but bits of the chill wetness that squelched beneath her feet still managed to reach her toes.

Her ankle felt swollen and painful, but it didn't hinder her too much.

Somewhere to her left a dog howled and whined - probably begging to be let inside out of the frigid night. She rubbed her arms more vigorously and glared up at the puffy, grey clouds that threatened to spill hail, or snow, on her head at any moment. Her keen eyes picked out the little shop perched at the corner of the street and she hurried towards it - dismayed by the lack of lighting.

She fumbled with her watch, which was turned to the inside of her wrist, and held it up to the orange light of one of the streetlamps. The shop shut at half past five and it had only been five past when she left the office. Surely it should still be open? The niggling feeling in the back of her mind increased. She shook her head - a small, fussy movement she often made - when she saw that her watch had stopped.

A small, discrete, tap with her wand did nothing.

Soon she was stomping as quickly as she could towards the small windows. They were quite dusty and grimy, with the paint peeling from the olive coloured window frames, and the display was not the usual one of sumptuous cakes piled high with fussy little ribbons, decorative fruits made of marzipan and exotic looking flowers as big as her clenched fist. Instead, cheap looking, gaudy jewellery was stacked onto mannequins with their false eyelashes hanging off and moth-eaten velvet curtains were blocking the view into the rest of the shop.

This was the right street, definitely. Hermione glanced at the cleaner, newer looking sign with a mounting feeling of panic. As quickly as she could with her sore ankle she moved to the posters plastered on the brick wall across the street. They were overlapping and peeling slightly, but still readable. Her brown eyes quickly scanned the pictures and lines of text with and increasing feeling of desperation.

One showed a picture of someone who was undoubtedly famous, but who she didn't recognise ( she never did), shaking his long, sweat soaked hair and grinning. That was unremarkable. However, in the bottom left hand corner there was a small line of text stating: "Concert one night only, 30 October 1981."

It hit her like the Knight Bus a full speed. Her head swam with thoughts, but one surfaced in a boiling fury.

The Time Turner had not been terminated.

~oOo~

Her anger, her fury, at Mr Newberry over-rode everything and she walked through the Leaky Cauldron half in a rage. Eyes stinging with tears of raw anger, fingers twitching to hex the fat, balding pig of a man until he was sprouting feelers and hooves, or being pecked to death by a flock of twittering birds.

If she had been thinking rationally she would have returned to the alley and searched for the bag the Time Turner was contained in. Hermione did not often become as angry as she was then, but when she did it clouded her mind and blocked the logical mind she was so proud of. Her feet carried her on until she was storming aimlessly down the winding Alley. Rain, and sleet, began to fall.

The smell of coffee billowing from a door when it opened made her pause and stare hungrily into the tiny shop. It was obviously warm and - her stomach gave a loud rumble - she was ravenous. Her last meal was a full day ago at least. Saving her appetite for one of Mrs Weasley's all-night feasts suddenly seemed like a very bad idea. Pushing the door open, she slid gratefully inside and brushed a few clumps of sleet from her bushy hair.

The edge of her anger dulled somewhat.

An elderly man with a thick, grey beard that spilled in a jumbled tangle over the table he was occupying gave her a scathing look up and down. She returned his gaze steadily and wondered vaguely if she looked as cold as she was. Her numb fingers fumbled in the recesses of the tiny pocket at the front of the dress. Two gold galleons, five sickles, three knuts, a crumpled receipt and half a packet of chewing gum.

A young boy, with acne effectively laying seige to his features, raised an eyebrow when she approached the counter - sandles squelching on the lino as she moved forward.

"A bowl of lentil soup... A coffee - white, two raw sugars. Please," she forced a smile for him only to receive a glower.

Just as she was handing over the money the soft tinkling sound of a bell alerted her to another customer entering, and probably looking her over as well. She lifted the chipped plastic tray and slipped over to the only free table left - wedged in an alcove in one of the dim, grubby corners. She sat down and eyed the wide soup spoon critically in the light of one of the lanterns swinging erratically around the room. Deciding that she wouldn't catch anything from the suspicious looking stains - and almost too hungry to care - she sipped the steaming soup, mind whirring over thoughts of her situation and a solution to her problem.

It slid down her throat; hot and heavy with cream. Her stomach gave an impatient growl as she leaned over slightly and began slurping down the soup as quickly as she could without scaulding her throat and looking too disgusting. She was probably failing miserably. Scooping out her change she counted it carefully with a slight crease in her brow. Next to no money, no decent clothes to ward off the atrocious weather - the best part of all - and over a decade in the past.

Great, wonderful -

"Do you mind if I sit here? There's no seats left," said a slightly husky, embarrassed sounding voice.

Hermione swallowed a large quantity of boiling soup just as she looked up and choked slightly in her haste to answer. Standing there, looking at her expectantly with an equally chipped tray clutched in his hands, was a young Remus Lupin. The easy smile, the tawny hair and eyes, the silvery scars that showed on his face and peeked out in the small strips of skin that weren't hidden by a scarf, or long overcoat...

Definitely. Him.

This was the cherry on the cake of the worst day of her life so far.

"Yes, of course," she managed to choke out.

He gave her a slightly odd, reproachful look before sitting and making quite a job of sighing and unwinding the threadbare navy scarf from his neck. She just looked at her soup and pulled back her feet so that they were tucked beneath her chair. His legs were so long that even when he folded them awkwardly as far back as he could their knees still brushed. Her awareness of him was so heightened that she could feel the tiny amount of skin exposed by a rip in his jeans and smell his spicy cologne over the pungent scents of the soup.

Lupin coughed slightly behind the back of his hand and gave her another look over which made her feel horribly exposed. She noted how he wore his blond hair longer - constantly falling over his eyes - and how he hadn't shaved for a few days. The silence between them stretched with only the clattering of spoons breaking it occasionally.

"So," he said, finally, averting his eyes when she looked up.

"So?" she half-whispered back.

Time-line. Remember the time line. Don't do anything memorable. Don't say anything memorable. Better yet; don't say anything at all.

"Are you going somewhere?" he answered, after a pause.

"I've just arrived, unexpectedly. I..." she paused, fumbling,"I'm not really from around here."

"From somewhere warm?" he asked, giving her a coy, crooked smile.

"Your skills of deduction are obviously sharply honed," she muttered, with equal amounts of scorn and lightness.

He gave her a full grin then - showing white, straight teeth - and shifted slightly so that his legs rubbed, unintentionally, against hers. Hermione shifted until her back was pressed against the warped wood of the wall and cursed the fact that the alcove was so tiny she was completely boxed in. She was torn between gulping down the rest of her, rather substantial amount, of soup, probably causing herself some internal burns and high-tailing it out of there into the cold, wet, windy night...

Or, just shrinking back, being as uninteresting as possible and hoping that Lupin would leave quickly. Hermione found herself liking this option quite a bit - it prolonged the time before her imminent death from pneumonia. For several, uneventful minutes her hands were occupied with the tasks of pulling up the bodice of the dress and pulling down the hem as surreptisiously as possible while trying to eat the soup as slowly and painstakingly as she could manage.

He also seemed to be eating irritatingly slow and began shooting her glances at a worrying rate. Hermione could barely resist the temptation to give him the once over herself. His clothes were as well worn as ever, but they were all made of strong, hard-wearing material. No grey peppered his hair and laugh lines were non-existent, but that was to be expected. There was something more of a spark in his eyes - something happier and more mischievous, perhaps.

His hands were the same - she liked his hands. They were large and strong looking, but he was always careful with his movements and it looked as though deep thought and consideration went into his every one. She reached for the tiny, tarnished salt shaker and accidentally brushed his sleeve with her bare arm. He didn't seem to notice - she really hoped he didn't notice - the goosebumps that broke out from the simple, innocent contact.

It looked like he wanted to say something. She made a show of removing an (imaginary) hair from her soup.

"Did you go to Hogwarts?" he asked, face half hidden by a curtain of hair.

Hermione deliberately took an extra-large sip of soup to prolong her answer time. She knew he could smell chemical changes in her system, hormones and such, which allowed him to effectively gauge her - and everyone else's - emotions. He had once described it as a "tricky business", when she had finally coaxed him into talking about the differences between a werewolf and an unaffected human, but still found that most of his predictions were accurate by the time he had reached his mid teens.

She just hoped that the nervousness and mounting panic that felt as though it was rolling off her in waves wasn't apparent to him. Somehow she thought it really was.

"It's just that you look about my age," he paused, uncertain, and squinted at her in a way that made her deeply uncomfortable,"and I don't remember you."

"I didn't go. So you wouldn't recognise me. "

She continued to sip at her soup without offering a further explanation until he sighed and began to glance around the room. Irritation caused a furrow in her brow as she looked at him; hoping he would leave her be, trying to imprint the desire to leave in his mind. It seemed she was staring so hard that a hole would soon be burned through him.

"Where are you staying?" he asked, seemingly not willing to give up without wrestling some kind of substantial information from her.

A thirst for knowledge that she remembered well, that she had always admired... Her lips pressed into a thin line and he faltered slightly, giving her a little grin that made her anger at him dissolve slightly. Now was not the time for those kind of thoughts. Now was really not the time for those kind of thoughts.

"I don't know," she admitted quietly, looking down at the dregs of her coffee.

Deciding that she had done enough damage for one day she abruptly slid out of the chair and forced herself out of the alcove. Ignoring the way her entire body tensed up as she pushed against him she made for the door. Her ankle really was aching now, she noted regretfully. Sitting down had eased the pain somewhat, but now it simply throbbed harder with each step. Hermione had already decided to look for her bag. This was the only productive things she could do that would bring her a step closer to going home.

Creature comforts would simply have to wait.

At her abrupt departure Lupin had tried to grasp hold of her arm and had called after her. She hoped he would just brush her off and ignore the whole incident. There was no energy left in her to deal with such an intricate situation. The warmth the shop interior and the soup had begun to form was decimated as soon as she stepped outside.

Hunching her shoulders, she committed herself to a long, cold night. Her thoughts only on finding the bag, what happened afterwards would be dealt with as it came. One at a time, in order of priority - that was how she dealt with difficult tasks in difficult situations. Her thoughts turned to Harry and Ron; she wondered if they had realised she was missing yet...

~oOo~

"What are you doing?!" hissed a voice halfway between shock and amusement, from somewhere behind her.

Hermione froze, staring resolutely at the filthy pile of rubbish she was standing in and feeling the unidentified sludge seep between her toes. The last person she wanted to see her standing ankle deep in potato peelings, in the middle of a hailstorm, when she had no business being in that time, was standing right behind her. She shot up suddenly and stood rigid with her back stiff. Anxiously smoothing down the back of her dress she hoped he hadn't gotten the eyeful she was sure he had.

The sound of soft footsteps told her that he was approaching. Hermione glanced up at the sky, wished feverishly that she could just merge with the ground, and exhaled deeply. He had followed and she hadn't heard him. That was slightly worrying.

"Listen, love, if you need some help... You just have to say, you know," he said, reaching out for her gingerly as she turned around, as though he expected her to slap his hand away.

That made her a little irritated, and more than a little sad. She supposed he was always careful around strangers - always ready for ignorance and rejection because of the social stigma attatched to lyanthropy. His hand felt very, very warm against her cold, wet skin - so warm and dry that it stung painfully as her skin adjusted to the temperature. She brushed some of the hair that had escaped her bun carefully from her face and didn't respond to the light touch of the hand on her arm.

Help was something she really, sincerely wanted and needed. But disrupting the Time Line was something she wished to avoid at all costs.

"I dropped my bag somewhere near here, and I really need to find it," she said, not meeting his eyes,"but I'm fine."

"I don't need any help," Hermione stated irritably as he remained silent and began to smile slightly, straightening her shoulders a little she forced herself to meet his gaze.

Playing the damsel in distress was something she did not do. Spending any time longer with him might leave an imprint anyway. Regardless of her curiosity she would just have to brush him off. He looked so endearing as he tilted his head with a crooked smile on his face. The downpour had already plastered his hair to his face so that it obscured part of his features, but she saw a slight expression of amusement.

That really irritated her. Hermione took a step back but he took a step forward, the smile on his face broadening. It only took her a moment to whip out her wand and point it to the soft skin of his throat. Her temper was short and her stance an angry one. Instead of backing off he seemed to move closer until he towered over her and blocked part of the hail that was still slamming off their forms and the ground beneath.

"You're lying," Lupin said, in a deeper rumbling voice as though he was about to break into laughter.

"I really don't need any help!" she snapped, frustrated and only half willing to curse someone she would grow to respect so much.

Without dropping the hand that was clamped around her arm he reached up and unwrapped his scarf slowly before sliding the thick, slightly damp wool around her own neck. It was then she realised just how much she was shaking and how cold she must have looked. She pushed the wand further into his throat in a way that must have been uncomfortable for him, but he didn't even flinch.

"These are dangerous times you know, I'm not going to leave you wandering out here alone. I don't know where you've come from, but it's not safe around here anymore."

The playful light in his eyes faded and he suddenly looked very serious. This was the last thing she needed - for his stupid, stubborn chivalry to come into play. The hail became rain again and was falling so thickly that she could barely see past him. The last thing she needed was for that tiny bag to be washed down a drain, literally taking her future with it.

"This is the Muggle part of town, you must have realised that you had left Diagon Alley when you were following me," she forced out through clenched teeth.

"What if I was headed in this direction too?" he chuckled, not seeming to realise just how close she was to using an Unforgiveable.

His moods seemed to swing rapidly. Her mind flickered back to all the things she had read about werewolves and what Lupin had told her himself. According to one source, mood swings were common in the time before the full moon, accompanied by an increased amount of vigour and energy. Sirius took great pleasure in "Time of the Month" jokes that he seemed to have an unending supply of. That thought did nothing to lighten her mood.

"Because this alleyway is such a desireable destination," Hermione spat.

"At least let me walk you to wherever you are staying," he winced as she dug the wand further into his windpipe.

"No," she said, flatly.

Something in his expression said that he had just realised a detail that he had missed. Hermione dropped her wand from his throat and stared at him with a sour expression painted on her features. She didn't ever remember Lupin riling her up this much.

"You said which you didn't know where you were staying... But you really meant that you had nowhere to stay." There was a questioning glint in his eyes and in the dim light they almost seemed to glow.

She shifted uncomfortably and made to brush his hand off again. This time he actually let go, but only to unbutton his coat and shrug it off. Before she could even slip past him, he unwrapped it from around himself and swung it around her shoulders so that her arms were pinned uselessly to her sides. From beneath a curtain of soaked, bushy she stared at him as though she had never seen him before.

As though sensing her surrender he gave a lazy smile.

"I thought chivalry was dead," she grumbled, feeling a blush beginning to heat her cheeks.