(no subject)
Title: Burn Away
Ships: Remus/Hermione
Rating: R for now, may go up later.
Spoilers: HBP
Disclaimer: Remus isnt mine, unfortunatly, oh, neither is any of the other stuff... ; )
Summary: After the war Remus and Hermione unexpectedly find each other again.
Authors Notes: This is my first attempt at writing chaptered Remus/Hermione, so I'm hoping you all like it. Feedback is totally welcome, constructive or otherwise. I'd love to hear whatever you liked or disliked, and advice will be rewarded with chocolate! And I have to give a gigantic THANKYOUILOVEYAHUN to my beta
mystjade
He hadn’t heard from any of the handful of survivors of the war in 5 years, besides Minerva. Not that he particularly wanted to. What little was left of him had shattered when Harry had died. He was devastated-as they all were, though with the grim satisfaction that he’d taken Voldemort down with him. The last remaining reminder of his childhood was gone. More than that, Harry had grown into a true friend in his own right. Remus couldn’t bear to lose anyone else…he’d lost it all already. So he closed himself off, even more so than he had been before. After the funerals and the tiny celebration and remembrance they’d held in the Burrow, he’d packed up what little he had, and left.
He’d never been the most social person anyway, he told himself, why stick around when no one needs you any longer? So he tucked himself into a meaningless Muggle job, selling antique books. Minerva was the only one he made contact with for a reason-she brought him the Wolfsbane. So at least he didn’t have to worry about maiming or killing the unsuspecting Muggles he’d surrounded himself with. He just locked himself away in his small flat, and cast a silencing spell on the whole place, so the police wouldn’t be called when someone heard his howling.
The transformations had become more painful after the war. He supposed it was because he didn’t have anyone to help him afterwards. Sirius used to be there for that, picking his almost broken frame up off the floor every time, placing him in a warm bed, and forcing him tea and potions to help the pain. And after Sirius had fallen, Molly had taken up his mantle, fussing over him like she would one of her own children. Of course he had taken care of himself plenty of times. For those long years that Sirius sat in Azkaban, those times when he was away from the group on missions. But ever since he’d left the world he was meant in, his bones ached even more when he struggled to stand afterwards, his skin tingled and burned intensely, missing that help.
He’d sworn Minerva to secrecy about where he was; assuming anyone bothered to ask. He didn’t want to see them…he could barely stand seeing her once a month, her sad eyes begging him to come back. She’d tried offering him a job at Hogwarts again; the ministry’s attitude towards werewolves was slowly changing…due to the help of one brilliant witch he used to know. She’d begged him to come round Arthur and Molly’s for George’s wedding. She’d even offered to let him live in the castle, teaching or not.
After one particularly violent discussion, after what must have been the hundredth time she’d invited him to the Burrow, he’d snapped…
“I don’t want to fucking see them, Minerva!!!” He’d yelled, throwing his teacup across the room, watching it burst into a million tiny pieces against the floor. “ I don’t want to have Molly fuss and hug and cry at me! I don’t want to eat her food, or see her children, or hear them ask me where I’ve been!” He kicked the stool he’d been sitting on, watching it tip and clatter to the floor, and folded his arms across his chest, his breath coming out of him in ragged, furious gasps.
Minerva had looked at him with wide eyes, her normally stern face shocked and upset, her eyes almost looking as if she was about to cry. She’d grabbed her cloak, shock giving way to a cold fury, as she huffed towards the door. She had turned and looked back at him, her hand on the doorknob…
“Ok Remus, if your going to insist on making yourself as miserable as possible, then fine…but it wont ever bring them back. And I’d like it if you wouldn’t act like a flaming 4 year-old brat the next time I see you!” The door closed with a resounding snap, and Remus let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and slumped to the floor, resting his lined face in his hands.
It felt as if he was drowning there, the sobs coming from deep down, and rising through his chest. He shook and shivered with them, cries tearing from his throat so fast that they made no sound. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and balling his fists up against his eyes, pushing so hard he saw stars. He sobbed like he’d never let himself before. But unlike he’d heard, the crying didn’t make him feel better…if anything he felt worse as he dried his eyes however many hours later. Tears changed nothing. It was too late for him to find comfort in letting it all out. After all, how could a little water do anything to change that hurt?
So he’d continued on, ignoring the world he was supposed to be in, ignoring the memories and nightmares. He tried to make himself comfortable in his routine.
***
5 years after the fall of Voldemort, Hermione Granger sat silently in the middle of a rain soaked graveyard, surrounded by her friends. Though they didn’t speak to her any longer… She came to visit them on their birthdays every year. This time it was Harry’s. It shouldn’t be pouring like it was; being the end of July, but it was a very fitting atmosphere, she thought, with a morbid chuckle. She welcomed the rain; let the earth cry today, it hid her tears well. She laid her soggy flowers on his tomb, and traced a path in the raindrops clinging to the stone, the water converging in her fingers’ wake, spelling out ‘waste’.
The rain poured down harder, but Hermione took no notice of it. She sat and stared at the tomb of her best friend, and those of her others surrounding it. She knew she should get up, and go home, get ready to go visit the Burrow, Molly always planned parties for the birthday’s as well, even though there wasn’t much to celebrate. She just couldn’t bring her legs to work. Standing and walking away was the last thing she wanted to do. Thunder sounded loudly above her, and shook her from her thoughts, the ground under her trembling slightly. She stood, and made her way over to the other graves, Neville, Tonks, Dean, Parvati, and then the Weasley’s, Bill, Percy, Ginny, Arthur, and finally Ron. She stopped and placed a flower with all of them.
And with Ron she also left a slip of parchment. She’d found it in the bottom of her old school trunk a few days ago, thrown in with a bunch of old essays and assignments. It had his writing scrawled on it, a quick little note he’d passed to her in class.
‘Hermione- you’ll help me with this assignment wont you? I’ll be buggered if I can figure out what she’s talking about!’
And she’d written back…
‘IF you’d been paying attention - or had read the pages she assigned last night, you’d understand!
And, yes, I’ll help…but only if you promise to read it!’
They must have passed notes like this a million times, but when she’d found it, she threw it to the floor like it burned her. She was amazed at how bad it hurt to remember the boring times as well as the big events in her past. Even the times when they had annoyed her she now missed.
And everyone kept telling her it would dull with time…if anything time was making it worse. She found herself lingering at the graves longer and longer each visit. She thought about them all the time. It effected her job, she over slept all the time, nightmares keeping her up, arriving to her desk in the Ministry archival department looking like she’d been swept up by a tornado, her hair frizzing wildly, and her eyes wore dark circles, staining her pale face. She’d heard them all start to whisper as she left the elevator in the mornings… That she was looking so ill, poor dear, can’t even keep her hair done.
It didn’t bother her though, the whispered concern and slight disgust, she was used to it, numb to it now. At first it had made her face burn and her fists clench at her side…at first the loss had been too raw…how dare they even speak of her friends like they knew them. Like they had any idea of how it felt to have the two most important people in your life ripped away at the same time. Like they had any clue of just what she had seen, the nightmares that woke her at night. They had no idea at all.
She moved her hand over the slip of parchment, kissed it, and laid it down on the cold stone, watching the rain cause the ink to blur already. The rain was running into her eyes, making her blink furiously, wiping away the water and her tears as well. She shivered against the wind, and water, and reluctantly tore herself away from the graves. She turned to leave, whispering a quiet ‘happy birthday’ over her shoulder, and made her way out of the gloomy place, weaving through head stones and puddles of water as best she could.
She walked past the imposing iron gates of the large graveyard that had been built just to house the casualties of the war. ‘A place of honor’ they’d called it. But Hermione only saw death and waste. Normally she would have just Apparated from there to her small flat in London. But for some unknown reason she decided to continue walking, making her way down the small gravel road, and descending into the small suburban Muggle town. She wandered aimlessly through the rain and explored the gray town, thinking how nice it must be to be a boring normal person. The suburb, with its cute little houses slowly turned into a city, with apartment buildings and small cafés. She made her way blindly through the crowds of people hunched under umbrellas, thinking of better times, and wondering if there was any way she could get out of going to the Burrow for the “celebrations” that evening.
She slowed her pace as she tried to think of an excuse to give Molly. The older woman wasn’t easily fooled; after all, she was the mother of Fred and George. That’s when she noticed something shining at her from the window of a small shop. Curiosity peaked she stopped and pressed her hand to the glass of a small bookstore. What had caught her attention was the gilded edge of a rather gaudy book cover catching the light just right. Being Hermione Granger, unable to ignore any book, she let her eyes wander and take in the whole display. The sign in the window proclaimed a sale on several of Shakespeare’s works. Having always been a lover of the Muggle playwright Hermione felt the thrill that only books could entice in her anymore.
The one thing she hadn’t lost, she thought bitterly as she pushed the heavy door of the shop open, and stepped in, to the tinkling of a small bell announcing her arrival. Not particularly wanting the attention of an over-zealous shop keep, she made her way quickly to the shelves before whoever it was tending the shop answered the bells call. She pushed her soaked hair off her face and looked at the rows of books, breathing in the smell of ancient paper and leather. She ran her hand down their spines, glad that she’d fled into the right isle, authors beginning with “S”.
Hermione’s eyes lit up as she scanned the old books, looking for something, but she didn’t quite know what. She knew, as it had happened a million times before, what ever it was would jump out at her from the selves. She ran her fingers lightly across the titles, loving the old comfort of knowing soon she’d read something important, taking that knowledge into herself. Books had been her only friends when she was a little girl. Being an only child, and living in a small town where only a handful of other children lived, and none her own age, she had made her own playmates. Her mother had helped her construct the storybook characters out of construction paper and Popsicle sticks.
Later when she’d started Muggle school, she had been teased for caring one of them to school in her lunch bag. Harry and Ron had been the first friends she’d had that stuck with her for more than a month or two. They had been the first ones to, not really understand, but tolerate her love of reading. Sure they had taunted her about it, but she could tell, that unlike the cruel children she’d grown up with at home, they didn’t mean to hurt her with it.
As she reminisced on her childhood, a deep sadness making her ache, a title she’d ran her finger over jumped out at her, just as she’d expected it would. Her fingers almost tingled as she removed the tome from its perch and ran her hand of the delicate gilded title on the front…
Remus Lupin watched the young woman as she walked slowly down the row of books, running her hands reverently along the spines. He’d heard the bell go off to signal that someone had entered, and had come to the front of the store, just to find it empty. Knowing his faculties weren’t failing him; he searched silently among the shelves until he’d spotted her. Light amber hair, darkened by the rain outside, that clung to her face, and hung limply down to her elbow, dripping water onto the carpet. He couldn’t clearly see her face from the angle he was watching her from, but he could tell she was wearing a grimace, as if just looking at the books hurt her. Though, by the way she touched them gently, almost worshipful, he could tell it wasn’t the book that had upset her.
Suddenly he was stuck with a memory, another young woman he’d known, another lover of the written word. A face that came unbidden to him the middle of the night, just like all the others he’d left behind. He had no clue who this woman in front of him was, but her resemblance to the brave Gryffindor girl he’d known made his heart go out to her, and he wanted desperately to know what had made her so sad. He watched as she continued slowly down the isle, letting her fingers guide her down the line. If he didn’t know better he’d think she were blind, searching for braille. When her fingers stopped their slow pace on one of the spines, she looked up at a book, and pulled it slowly from the shelf, running her hands lovingly over its cover, and Remus caught a glimpse of the title as she opened it, and smiled.
Feeling strangely drawn to her, Remus made a quick decision, and stepped silently from his hiding spot. Hermione’s eyes were rapidly taking in the words on the first page, when a voice sounded out at her, causing her to jump in surprise, and look up.
“Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, brief as the lightning in th…” Remus started to recite from the play the woman was reading…but his voice died in a strangled gasp, as she jumped and looked straight at him…
Hermione managed her own gasp, and the book tumbled from her hands as she stared into the eyes of part of her past she never thought she’d see again. Time stood still as she saw the same shock of recognition run through Remus’ amber eyes. They stood there staring at each other for what seemed like hours, before Remus finally dropped his gaze to the carpet, and shifted uncomfortably.
“Remus?” Hermione finally stumbled to speak, her eyes still staring unbelievingly at him.
“Hello Hermione” Remus looked back into her eyes, and gave a small shrug, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in.
Ships: Remus/Hermione
Rating: R for now, may go up later.
Spoilers: HBP
Disclaimer: Remus isnt mine, unfortunatly, oh, neither is any of the other stuff... ; )
Summary: After the war Remus and Hermione unexpectedly find each other again.
Authors Notes: This is my first attempt at writing chaptered Remus/Hermione, so I'm hoping you all like it. Feedback is totally welcome, constructive or otherwise. I'd love to hear whatever you liked or disliked, and advice will be rewarded with chocolate! And I have to give a gigantic THANKYOUILOVEYAHUN to my beta
mystjade
He hadn’t heard from any of the handful of survivors of the war in 5 years, besides Minerva. Not that he particularly wanted to. What little was left of him had shattered when Harry had died. He was devastated-as they all were, though with the grim satisfaction that he’d taken Voldemort down with him. The last remaining reminder of his childhood was gone. More than that, Harry had grown into a true friend in his own right. Remus couldn’t bear to lose anyone else…he’d lost it all already. So he closed himself off, even more so than he had been before. After the funerals and the tiny celebration and remembrance they’d held in the Burrow, he’d packed up what little he had, and left.
He’d never been the most social person anyway, he told himself, why stick around when no one needs you any longer? So he tucked himself into a meaningless Muggle job, selling antique books. Minerva was the only one he made contact with for a reason-she brought him the Wolfsbane. So at least he didn’t have to worry about maiming or killing the unsuspecting Muggles he’d surrounded himself with. He just locked himself away in his small flat, and cast a silencing spell on the whole place, so the police wouldn’t be called when someone heard his howling.
The transformations had become more painful after the war. He supposed it was because he didn’t have anyone to help him afterwards. Sirius used to be there for that, picking his almost broken frame up off the floor every time, placing him in a warm bed, and forcing him tea and potions to help the pain. And after Sirius had fallen, Molly had taken up his mantle, fussing over him like she would one of her own children. Of course he had taken care of himself plenty of times. For those long years that Sirius sat in Azkaban, those times when he was away from the group on missions. But ever since he’d left the world he was meant in, his bones ached even more when he struggled to stand afterwards, his skin tingled and burned intensely, missing that help.
He’d sworn Minerva to secrecy about where he was; assuming anyone bothered to ask. He didn’t want to see them…he could barely stand seeing her once a month, her sad eyes begging him to come back. She’d tried offering him a job at Hogwarts again; the ministry’s attitude towards werewolves was slowly changing…due to the help of one brilliant witch he used to know. She’d begged him to come round Arthur and Molly’s for George’s wedding. She’d even offered to let him live in the castle, teaching or not.
After one particularly violent discussion, after what must have been the hundredth time she’d invited him to the Burrow, he’d snapped…
“I don’t want to fucking see them, Minerva!!!” He’d yelled, throwing his teacup across the room, watching it burst into a million tiny pieces against the floor. “ I don’t want to have Molly fuss and hug and cry at me! I don’t want to eat her food, or see her children, or hear them ask me where I’ve been!” He kicked the stool he’d been sitting on, watching it tip and clatter to the floor, and folded his arms across his chest, his breath coming out of him in ragged, furious gasps.
Minerva had looked at him with wide eyes, her normally stern face shocked and upset, her eyes almost looking as if she was about to cry. She’d grabbed her cloak, shock giving way to a cold fury, as she huffed towards the door. She had turned and looked back at him, her hand on the doorknob…
“Ok Remus, if your going to insist on making yourself as miserable as possible, then fine…but it wont ever bring them back. And I’d like it if you wouldn’t act like a flaming 4 year-old brat the next time I see you!” The door closed with a resounding snap, and Remus let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and slumped to the floor, resting his lined face in his hands.
It felt as if he was drowning there, the sobs coming from deep down, and rising through his chest. He shook and shivered with them, cries tearing from his throat so fast that they made no sound. He curled in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and balling his fists up against his eyes, pushing so hard he saw stars. He sobbed like he’d never let himself before. But unlike he’d heard, the crying didn’t make him feel better…if anything he felt worse as he dried his eyes however many hours later. Tears changed nothing. It was too late for him to find comfort in letting it all out. After all, how could a little water do anything to change that hurt?
So he’d continued on, ignoring the world he was supposed to be in, ignoring the memories and nightmares. He tried to make himself comfortable in his routine.
***
5 years after the fall of Voldemort, Hermione Granger sat silently in the middle of a rain soaked graveyard, surrounded by her friends. Though they didn’t speak to her any longer… She came to visit them on their birthdays every year. This time it was Harry’s. It shouldn’t be pouring like it was; being the end of July, but it was a very fitting atmosphere, she thought, with a morbid chuckle. She welcomed the rain; let the earth cry today, it hid her tears well. She laid her soggy flowers on his tomb, and traced a path in the raindrops clinging to the stone, the water converging in her fingers’ wake, spelling out ‘waste’.
The rain poured down harder, but Hermione took no notice of it. She sat and stared at the tomb of her best friend, and those of her others surrounding it. She knew she should get up, and go home, get ready to go visit the Burrow, Molly always planned parties for the birthday’s as well, even though there wasn’t much to celebrate. She just couldn’t bring her legs to work. Standing and walking away was the last thing she wanted to do. Thunder sounded loudly above her, and shook her from her thoughts, the ground under her trembling slightly. She stood, and made her way over to the other graves, Neville, Tonks, Dean, Parvati, and then the Weasley’s, Bill, Percy, Ginny, Arthur, and finally Ron. She stopped and placed a flower with all of them.
And with Ron she also left a slip of parchment. She’d found it in the bottom of her old school trunk a few days ago, thrown in with a bunch of old essays and assignments. It had his writing scrawled on it, a quick little note he’d passed to her in class.
‘Hermione- you’ll help me with this assignment wont you? I’ll be buggered if I can figure out what she’s talking about!’
And she’d written back…
‘IF you’d been paying attention - or had read the pages she assigned last night, you’d understand!
And, yes, I’ll help…but only if you promise to read it!’
They must have passed notes like this a million times, but when she’d found it, she threw it to the floor like it burned her. She was amazed at how bad it hurt to remember the boring times as well as the big events in her past. Even the times when they had annoyed her she now missed.
And everyone kept telling her it would dull with time…if anything time was making it worse. She found herself lingering at the graves longer and longer each visit. She thought about them all the time. It effected her job, she over slept all the time, nightmares keeping her up, arriving to her desk in the Ministry archival department looking like she’d been swept up by a tornado, her hair frizzing wildly, and her eyes wore dark circles, staining her pale face. She’d heard them all start to whisper as she left the elevator in the mornings… That she was looking so ill, poor dear, can’t even keep her hair done.
It didn’t bother her though, the whispered concern and slight disgust, she was used to it, numb to it now. At first it had made her face burn and her fists clench at her side…at first the loss had been too raw…how dare they even speak of her friends like they knew them. Like they had any idea of how it felt to have the two most important people in your life ripped away at the same time. Like they had any clue of just what she had seen, the nightmares that woke her at night. They had no idea at all.
She moved her hand over the slip of parchment, kissed it, and laid it down on the cold stone, watching the rain cause the ink to blur already. The rain was running into her eyes, making her blink furiously, wiping away the water and her tears as well. She shivered against the wind, and water, and reluctantly tore herself away from the graves. She turned to leave, whispering a quiet ‘happy birthday’ over her shoulder, and made her way out of the gloomy place, weaving through head stones and puddles of water as best she could.
She walked past the imposing iron gates of the large graveyard that had been built just to house the casualties of the war. ‘A place of honor’ they’d called it. But Hermione only saw death and waste. Normally she would have just Apparated from there to her small flat in London. But for some unknown reason she decided to continue walking, making her way down the small gravel road, and descending into the small suburban Muggle town. She wandered aimlessly through the rain and explored the gray town, thinking how nice it must be to be a boring normal person. The suburb, with its cute little houses slowly turned into a city, with apartment buildings and small cafés. She made her way blindly through the crowds of people hunched under umbrellas, thinking of better times, and wondering if there was any way she could get out of going to the Burrow for the “celebrations” that evening.
She slowed her pace as she tried to think of an excuse to give Molly. The older woman wasn’t easily fooled; after all, she was the mother of Fred and George. That’s when she noticed something shining at her from the window of a small shop. Curiosity peaked she stopped and pressed her hand to the glass of a small bookstore. What had caught her attention was the gilded edge of a rather gaudy book cover catching the light just right. Being Hermione Granger, unable to ignore any book, she let her eyes wander and take in the whole display. The sign in the window proclaimed a sale on several of Shakespeare’s works. Having always been a lover of the Muggle playwright Hermione felt the thrill that only books could entice in her anymore.
The one thing she hadn’t lost, she thought bitterly as she pushed the heavy door of the shop open, and stepped in, to the tinkling of a small bell announcing her arrival. Not particularly wanting the attention of an over-zealous shop keep, she made her way quickly to the shelves before whoever it was tending the shop answered the bells call. She pushed her soaked hair off her face and looked at the rows of books, breathing in the smell of ancient paper and leather. She ran her hand down their spines, glad that she’d fled into the right isle, authors beginning with “S”.
Hermione’s eyes lit up as she scanned the old books, looking for something, but she didn’t quite know what. She knew, as it had happened a million times before, what ever it was would jump out at her from the selves. She ran her fingers lightly across the titles, loving the old comfort of knowing soon she’d read something important, taking that knowledge into herself. Books had been her only friends when she was a little girl. Being an only child, and living in a small town where only a handful of other children lived, and none her own age, she had made her own playmates. Her mother had helped her construct the storybook characters out of construction paper and Popsicle sticks.
Later when she’d started Muggle school, she had been teased for caring one of them to school in her lunch bag. Harry and Ron had been the first friends she’d had that stuck with her for more than a month or two. They had been the first ones to, not really understand, but tolerate her love of reading. Sure they had taunted her about it, but she could tell, that unlike the cruel children she’d grown up with at home, they didn’t mean to hurt her with it.
As she reminisced on her childhood, a deep sadness making her ache, a title she’d ran her finger over jumped out at her, just as she’d expected it would. Her fingers almost tingled as she removed the tome from its perch and ran her hand of the delicate gilded title on the front…
Remus Lupin watched the young woman as she walked slowly down the row of books, running her hands reverently along the spines. He’d heard the bell go off to signal that someone had entered, and had come to the front of the store, just to find it empty. Knowing his faculties weren’t failing him; he searched silently among the shelves until he’d spotted her. Light amber hair, darkened by the rain outside, that clung to her face, and hung limply down to her elbow, dripping water onto the carpet. He couldn’t clearly see her face from the angle he was watching her from, but he could tell she was wearing a grimace, as if just looking at the books hurt her. Though, by the way she touched them gently, almost worshipful, he could tell it wasn’t the book that had upset her.
Suddenly he was stuck with a memory, another young woman he’d known, another lover of the written word. A face that came unbidden to him the middle of the night, just like all the others he’d left behind. He had no clue who this woman in front of him was, but her resemblance to the brave Gryffindor girl he’d known made his heart go out to her, and he wanted desperately to know what had made her so sad. He watched as she continued slowly down the isle, letting her fingers guide her down the line. If he didn’t know better he’d think she were blind, searching for braille. When her fingers stopped their slow pace on one of the spines, she looked up at a book, and pulled it slowly from the shelf, running her hands lovingly over its cover, and Remus caught a glimpse of the title as she opened it, and smiled.
Feeling strangely drawn to her, Remus made a quick decision, and stepped silently from his hiding spot. Hermione’s eyes were rapidly taking in the words on the first page, when a voice sounded out at her, causing her to jump in surprise, and look up.
“Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, brief as the lightning in th…” Remus started to recite from the play the woman was reading…but his voice died in a strangled gasp, as she jumped and looked straight at him…
Hermione managed her own gasp, and the book tumbled from her hands as she stared into the eyes of part of her past she never thought she’d see again. Time stood still as she saw the same shock of recognition run through Remus’ amber eyes. They stood there staring at each other for what seemed like hours, before Remus finally dropped his gaze to the carpet, and shifted uncomfortably.
“Remus?” Hermione finally stumbled to speak, her eyes still staring unbelievingly at him.
“Hello Hermione” Remus looked back into her eyes, and gave a small shrug, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding in.