Sometimes Salvation
Everyone is worried about Harry, and of course, they should be. Hermione knows this. She worries about him, too; that's second nature now, as automatic as breathing and bickering with Ron.
But when Hermione arrives at number twelve, Grimmauld Place after spending two weeks with her parents, she's startled by how thin Professor Lupin is, how worn and grey, even worse than he was when he started teaching at Hogwarts.
"He won't eat," she hears Mrs. Weasley telling Tonks. "He sits in that study all day and drinks tea. Research for Dumbledore, he says, but he's-- Oh, hello Hermione. I didn't see you come in."
Hermione doesn't understand why she's not supposed to know Lupin is in mourning, but she's old enough to have realized that silence is often the wiser course when it comes to Molly Weasley.
She watches Lupin push food around his plate at dinner, not really eating anything, watches him have nothing but tea for breakfast and lunch for days on end, and knows that someone has to do something.
Harry tries, dragging out his old photo album, and that seems to work for short periods of time, but Hermione knows she's missing something, some vital piece of information her brain hasn't yet seen fit to cough up. But Harry's mourning, too, and morose even on his good days; Hermione can see, even if no one else can, that these reminiscing sessions are wearing on Lupin.
She starts sitting with him at night, after dinner, curling up in a chair across from the desk he sits at, reading books and stealing glances at him as he does his research and scribbles notes in a spiral-bound notebook.
She draws a deep breath and he looks up. "Yes, Hermione?"
"Why are you using a notebook instead of parchment?"
"It's easier," he says. His mouth twists in an odd half-smile. "And cheaper."
"When we win," she says, halting under his gaze in a way she never is in class, "when we win," her voice stronger this time, "things will change."
His eyes are neutral, his voice pleasant when he replies, "Do you really think so?"
She opens her mouth, because of course she thinks so; that's the nature of things, to change and grow and improve. Then she looks around at the dust and Doxy-infested study in the Black family house, wonders if there is any such thing as progress, any possibility of their winning, and says nothing. She drops her eyes, embarrassed, but he's already returned to his book.
The night of the full moon, the first since Sirius fell, Hermione waits in the kitchen with Lupin for Snape, watches him drink the Wolfsbane potion, and trails after him up the stairs, to the door of the room in which he'll be spending the night.
Everything clicks into place the moment she sees the door, the missing piece. He is staying in Sirius's room. He's always stayed in Sirius's room.
"Oh." She doesn't mean to say it out loud.
With his hand on the doorknob, he turns and raises an eyebrow. "Hermione?"
"I just-- You--" She stops, licks her lips nervously, and takes a deep breath. "I'd like to help."
He smiles sadly. "Thank you, Hermione, but I don't think that's a good idea."
"I know I'm not--" 'Sirius,' "trained, but I've been practicing healing spells. After--" 'After Ron and Neville and I were hurt. After Sirius died.'
"Of course you have," he says, not unkindly. "But it's inappropriate--" She sets her jaw and he sighs, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Do whatever you please, Hermione. I'm sure you will anyway." He sounds more resigned than annoyed. He gives her a key. "Lock it from the outside. The spells on the door deactivate at moonset." Then he slips into Sirius's room -- the room he shared with Sirius -- and closes the door with a click. She turns the key in the lock, her stomach flipping with anxiety and something else that skitters along her nerves like fear, but isn't.
She sets her alarm just in case, though she thinks she's too anxious to sleep, and is startled awake by it a few minutes before moonset.
She washes her face and brushes her teeth, then slips up the stairs to Lupin's room. On the way, she runs over the spells in her mind, telling herself there's no need to be nervous -- she can handle anything that arises. She pushes open the door to find him slumped on the floor, naked and shivering. She's tempted to turn and run, pretend she isn't seeing this, because no one should see anyone reduced to this state, let alone someone they respect and care for, but he needs help and there isn't anyone else.
Embarrassment makes her flush, but after taking a deep breath to steady herself, she kneels down next to him and puts a hand on one shaking shoulder.
"Professor Lupin?" she says tentatively.
His breathing is labored and his face grey, but he manages a pained shadow of a smile and says, "Up bright and early, are we?"
"I told you I was going to help you," she answers in the same exasperated tone she'd have used on Harry and Ron, surprising both of them.
He makes a sound that may be a laugh, she isn't sure. "So you did."
His eyes close and he grimaces. She slides an arm around him, attempting to help him stand, and is taken aback by how heavy he is, considering he looks like too little skin stretched over too much bone. And she flushes, because he's naked, and she knew that, but now he's naked and pressed against her and it doesn't matter that he's too weak to stand on his own, too thin to be healthy, too damaged to be considered good-looking. The pads of her fingers move over chilled, sweaty skin, and she wants.
She swallows hard and nearly shoves him onto the bed, crawling in behind him and covering them both with the sheet, trying to will him to stop shivering. She knows she should sit in the chair instead, but it looks uncomfortable, and she can warm him up like this.
"Hermione--"
"Sleep now, Professor," she says, with the brisk cheerfulness she's heard from Molly Weasley and Madam Pomfrey for years. She tries not to curl up against him, because that would be rude, and after a few minutes, feels him relax into sleep.
She plans only to watch over him, to make sure he doesn't need anything, but she falls asleep as well. When she wakes, she is pressed to his back, one arm draped over his hip. Her fingers brush at the edge of the coarse, dark hair curling low on his belly, and she can't seem to stop touching him, gently, slowly, stroking in small circles. He snuggles against her, sighing, his back broad and smooth, and warm against her breasts. There is a small dusting of freckles on his shoulders, and she has the sudden urge to taste them, leans so close she can count them, her breath stirring the hair on the nape of his neck. She flushes, skin suddenly overheated and sensitive.
She pushes his fringe off his forehead where it falls over his closed eyes. His face is peaceful in sleep, the lines smoothed out, thin lips curved in a small smile; he looks younger, happier. It seems cruel to wake him, to take that from him.
Curiosity finally overwhelms her, and she moves the sheet to look down at what her hand is doing. His penis is hard, rising away from his thighs, and she can't help but stare at it, entranced. Her mother had sat her down last year and given her The Talk, with charts and illustrations from Gray's Anatomy and The Joy of Sex, but Hermione realizes it's not the same thing at all in the flesh.
She slips her hand down a little further, fingertips skating along the base of it, and lets out a little squeak when it moves. She's breathing rapidly now, nipples hard and aching against his back, the soft cotton of her t-shirt rubbing against them sending pleasant shocks through her.
Taking a deep breath, she wraps her fingers around the shaft, stroking gently. It's warm and hard, and heavier than she expected, and she feels an answering heat between her legs. He groans, and his hand covers hers, moving harder, faster, and she's afraid he'll realize she's never done this before. She's afraid he'll realize she oughtn't be doing it now.
He shifts onto his back and groans again, hoarse and guttural, and his hips move, thrusting into her grip, his fingers still holding hers steady.
His eyes open wide and he stares at her in shock as he spills himself over their hands, his belly, the sheets.
"Hermione," he gasps. "God, Hermione."
The sound of ragged breathing -- hers, his, she can't tell the difference at the moment -- fills the room and it takes every ounce of will she has not to snatch her hand away in shame. She draws it back slowly, surreptitiously wiping it on the sheet. They are silent for what feels like an eternity, though she knows it can't be that long, because the sun through the half-closed blinds still throws bars of light and shadow across the comforter.
Finally, she says, "Professor?"
His laugh turns into a small groan. "Don't you think that's a bit formal, considering you've just had your hand on my prick?" Embarrassment burns in her cheeks but before she can say anything, he's scrabbling on the night table for his wand. He spells himself clean and says, "I really do need to sleep now, Hermione. I think you should go."
"No," she says, finding her voice, "I'll stay as long as you need--"
But he's already asleep.
She curls up behind him, pulls up the sheet, and takes care to be as quiet as possible as she slips her hand, the same hand that was just stroking his penis, beneath the elastic of her knickers. She rests her forehead against his back, breathing him in, and bites her lip to keep silent when she comes.
She doesn't mean to fall asleep again, but she does, and it's only the screaming that wakes her, the sound of Mrs. Black's rage startling her up and out of bed before she remembers where she is. Then she hears Mrs. Weasley shouting back at the portrait, and knows she's going to get caught.
'Think,' she tells herself, fighting down panic. 'It's what you're best at.'
The only thing she can come up with is the wardrobe, so she ducks inside, and pulls the door almost all the way closed, leaving it open just enough to let in some light. She recognizes the worn robes Professor Lupin usually wears, hanging with longer robes made of obviously more expensive material, and a jumble of Muggle clothing, new and old, in between. She takes a deep breath, smelling dust, wool, leather, and something else besides. It's familiar, though she can't quite place it at first. And then it hits her. 'Oh. Sirius.'
Mrs. Weasley knocks and enters without waiting for an answer. She carries a tray, which she sets down on the chest of drawers, and then she stands there for a few moments, looking down at Professor Lupin with a sad expression on her face. Finally, she walks out, shaking her head, and Hermione can breathe easily. She moves the tray closer to the bed, so he won't have to get up to reach it, and then she slips out, back down to the room she shares with Ginny, hoping Ginny won't ask where she's been.
He stays up in his room all day, and she's glad she doesn't have to see him. But that makes it easy, much easier than she expected, to make her way down the hall to his room that night, after everyone else is asleep.
She's only checking to see if he's doing all right, to make sure he ate the food Mrs. Weasley brought up to him. She practices the lies inside her head, wondering if he will believe her, if he will ask. If it even matters.
Light spills onto the dark carpeting from beneath his door, so she knocks before pushing it open, not giving him the chance to deny her entrance.
He's sitting in the armchair by the window, an old book in hand, dressed in striped pajama bottoms and a threadbare t-shirt.
"Hermione. I wondered when you'd arrive," he says flatly, and she flushes. "What happened this morning was a mistake. It was inappropriate, and it cannot happen again. I realize--"
She leans forward and covers his mouth with hers -- simple, effective, and something she's been thinking about for almost three years now. He tastes of tea. She shivers as his tongue touches hers, and his ink-stained hands grip her shoulders, dark against her white t-shirt.
He pushes her away, but he's breathing heavily, and she takes that as a compliment. "Hermione--"
"You didn't eat your dinner," she says.
He looks disconcerted for a moment; then, "I fed it to Buckbeak."
"You can't starve yourself to death. We need you. Harry--"
He looks away. "Harry needs many things we can't give him."
She shivers again, this time at the frost in his voice, but says, "Then we shouldn't deny him the things we can." She's fairly certain Harry's not the only one they're talking about.
"I'm old enough to be your father."
"My father is several years older than you are," she counters, prepared for this. "Muggles marry later than wizards. You know that. And wizards live longer than Muggles. What exactly does that prove?"
"I'm your teacher," he says, as if reciting from a list. She has no doubt he has numerous objections, and will spell out every one of them if she lets him.
"You were my teacher," she corrects, ignoring the twinge of conscience at bringing up something that may still sting. "And while I hope to learn more from you, you are not in any official sense responsible for me in any way."
His laugh is short and tinged with exasperation. "Hermione--"
She likes the way he says her name, would like to hear it again the way he'd said it that morning. "If you don't want me--" her confidence deserts her for a moment-- "or if you only like men--" She reaches out a hand, lets it rest on the hard bulge of his erection, feeling the heat of it through the thin cotton pajama bottoms he wears, and her self-assurance returns. "But I don't think that's true."
His hand covers hers, his long, strong fingers wrapping around her smaller ones, but he doesn't remove it from his body; she knows she's won, no matter what else he says, and it's easy enough to keep him from saying anything, to lean forward and kiss him again, to press down her palm and feel his breath hitch in her mouth.
But when he breaks the kiss he's not smiling and he doesn't kiss her again. His eyes are dark and his hand tightens over hers, lifting it from his body.
"You need to go back to your room, Hermione," he says hoarsely.
She looks down at where their hands are still joined, trying to get her breathing under control. "I want to help you."
"I know." He rubs his thumb over hers, and she sways toward him, but he stands, forcing her to take a step back. "I know you do. But this isn't right."
He leads her to the door, but still keeps her hand in his, and she makes no move to break free.
"I don't think you want me to go," she says, and he drops her hand as if it burns him.
He sounds determined when he says, "Good night, Hermione."
She frowns at him, but before she can say anything more, his hand at her back has guided her into the hallway, and he's shut the door behind her.
Maybe he's forgotten, but he gave her the key, and she uses it the next night, this time waiting until his light is out before pushing her way into the room.
His chest is bare, the sheet tangled around his legs. Grimmauld Place never gets warm, even in the summer, but the rooms are too stuffy to be cool. The window is open, an occasional soft breeze blowing in. The curtains, she notices for the first time, have been removed.
Though the moon is just past full, not much light seeps into the room, but Hermione has been in here often enough to make her way to the bed easily. She sinks down on it softly, afraid of disturbing him, and curls up on her side behind him. She places one hand on the warm skin of his back, tracing the lines of old scars with eyes and then fingers. She wishes she were bold enough to use her tongue. He shivers beneath the touch, and rolls toward her. His mouth opens a second before his eyes, and whatever word he would have spoken dies on his lips when he sees her.
"Please," she says, and again, "please."
He sighs and closes his eyes again for a moment, shaking his head. But his hand comes up to cup her cheek, and his thumb ghosts over her lips.
"Hermione."
His tone is neutral, and she can't read his eyes in the dark, but she takes it as a good sign that he hasn't pushed her out of bed, or got up himself; he hasn't told her no, hasn't said anything about not wanting her. Hermione, being a natural Gryffindor, doesn't need to be told to press her advantage.
She slips a hand around the nape of his neck and pulls him forward for a kiss, her mouth opening to his, his hands gentling her when nerves make her movements too frenetic. She wants to give him this, to touch him and make him feel the way she feels when he touches her -- so alive she's almost bursting with it, can feel it buzzing along her skin and humming in her veins. She doesn't think anyone else has touched him in the weeks since Sirius died, and she wants to make up for that, wants to touch and kiss every inch of skin she can lay hands or lips on.
And she wants him to touch her the same way, in places only her own hands have been before. When his hand presses against the wet cotton of her knickers, his eyes hold hers, asking permission.
She can only manage another whispered, "Please," overwhelmed by the sensations he's arousing with his hands and lips. "Oh," she says when his fingers slide over the slick, sensitive flesh between her thighs. "Oh, please."
He easily finds her clitoris, rubs it with gentle fingers until she feels like she's going to die if he doesn't stop, and kill him if he does. Her whole body is taut and straining against his hand, hips rising off the bed of their own volition, and she can't find the breath to speak, to curse at him for torturing her like this, to beg him to hurry, to do anything more than grunt and gasp as his hand works an older, wilder kind of magic than anything she's learned in school. He leans in to lick at her nipples, and even through the cotton of her t-shirt, the feeling is electrifying; it pushes her over the edge, and ecstatic pleasure surges through her, better than anything she's managed by herself. He keeps his fingers pressed hard against her clit, and she rides it out, body melting into soft waves of liquid bliss.
She's a little shocked when he rubs his fingers over her lips, tasting herself for the first time, but then he kisses her, licks away the salt tang of it, so now it's him and her and them, and she thinks she could learn to like it.
She can feel his erection against her hip, so she slips her hand down inside his boxer shorts, curls her fingers around it and begins to stroke, remembering how he'd done it the other morning. He groans against her neck, nipping at her skin and setting loose yet another flood of heat in her veins. She wonders vaguely if she will have marks, and if she'll have to hide them, but then he's touching her again, this time his fingers slipping inside while his thumb flicks against her clitoris, and for a moment, she loses track of what she's doing.
"It's okay," he whispers hoarsely. "That's right, Hermione, you've got it now."
His encouragement is almost as amazing as what he's doing with his hand, and she feels the pressure building inside her again, but she's determined to bring him off before she comes again. It's only fair.
With that in mind, she sweeps her thumb over the slit, and does it again when he shudders against her, and then he's spurting hot and sticky over her hand and thigh. He doesn't say anything this time, just throws his head back and bites his lip, and the small part of her mind not completely focused on what they're doing wonders if he's thinking of Sirius.
And then he does something with his fingers, and she's coming, the hot, wild pulse of orgasm shuddering through her again, deeper this time, and harder. She clings to him, burying her face against his chest, and he murmurs wordless nonsense in her ear.
She lifts her hand to her mouth, as he'd done earlier, and licks at her fingers, tasting him now, the way she tasted herself, and he lets out a little moan. His tongue sweeps over her fingers as well, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded before he moves her hand and slips his tongue inside her mouth.
"Good night," he whispers against her ear after he breaks the kiss, and lets his hand rest on the curve of her hip as he drifts off to sleep.
She falls asleep curled against him, ecstatic with the way things have gone. He shakes her awake while it's still dark, and after soft, sleep-stale kisses, she reluctantly slips back to the room she shares with Ginny, who slumbers on, oblivious.
No one seems to notice that the world has changed completely since they went to bed last night, and Hermione is glad. She knows she should think about what she's doing, and that other people might think it's wrong, but Lupin ('Remus,' she tells herself, hugging his name close, the way she'd like to hug his body) needs her, and she has discovered she likes being needed.
It is the same the next night, and the next. Hermione holds her secret close, feeling useful, needed, wanted, more than she ever has before, in ways that Harry and Ron have never shown her. She tries not to be obvious when she brushes against him as they pass in the hallways or work in the library. She sits next to him at meals now, almost giddy from the brush of his fingers against hers as he passes the salt or they reach for the serving spoon at the same time.
She grins in satisfaction when she overhears Mrs. Weasley tell Professor McGonagall that Remus looks healthier than he has in weeks, that he's eating again, and perhaps the healing process has begun. McGonagall sighs in relief, and Hermione thinks she would be proud of her.
In the weeks since Hermione's begun sneaking into Remus's room, she's learned how to please him with her hands and mouth; he's a fine teacher and she, as always, is an apt pupil. She enjoys it all, the learning and the acts, as much as she enjoys what he does to her with his hands and lips and tongue.
It's not enough, though, and she decides that if they're doing this, they ought to see it through to its natural conclusion.
She knows the charms, of course. Every year, Madam Pomfrey has a special session on contraceptive charms with the third-years, and Hermione practices diligently. She never feels any different (she doesn't think she's supposed to), but she's certain she's doing it right. After all, she is the cleverest witch in her year.
She isn't quite sure how to broach the subject, though. They don't speak when they're together at night, except in small moans and gasps of encouragement; he whispers instructions in her ear, asks questions about how the things he does make her feel, and tells her in turn how much he likes what she's doing to him. It makes her feel warm and wanted.
She's afraid if they talk, he will talk himself out of it, so she never gives him the chance. But she thinks this requires a discussion, and she braces herself for it, working through the pros and cons in her head, certain it's the next logical step, and that he'll see it the same way if she can just present it properly.
It's not as though she expects him to fall in love with her. She tells herself she's certainly not falling in love with him. She just wants to help, wants to show him someone cares. She wants him to rely on her, the way he relied on Sirius, and she promises herself she won't leave him, the way Sirius has.
When she slips into bed beside him the night she's made this decision, she wakes him by coaxing to him to hardness with her mouth, and then stops when she's sure of his attention.
She slides her body along his, enjoying the sensation of his skin and hair and muscle rubbing against hers as she moves up to whisper in his ear. "I think we should have sex." She blushes as she says it, even after where her mouth has just been.
He laughs breathlessly, a sound that makes her heart race. "What do you think we've been doing, Hermione?" He brushes the backs of his fingers against her cheek.
"I mean," she takes a deep breath, believing that if she means to do it, she ought to be able to say it, "intercourse."
"Ah." Gently, he pushes her unruly hair behind her ear. "I don't think--"
"I know the charms," she interrupts.
Another huff of laughter. "Of course you do. But--"
She continues speaking, afraid that if she lets him get started, he will talk them both out of it. "I realize it's... different. But I thought maybe you could, maybe," she lowers her gaze and blurts it out almost as one word, "you could pretend I'm Sirius."
He recoils as if he's been struck, and springs from the bed.
"I think that's quite enough," he says, voice cracking like a whip.
"Remus, please," she says, reaching out a hand, proud of saying his name without stumbling over it, of the way her voice doesn't waver.
"Is that what this is, then? Is that what you think I've been doing?"
"Isn't it?" He doesn't answer, and she gets out of bed to put a hand on his arm, which he shakes off. "I don't mind. Really."
"You should mind, Hermione. You should mind very much. I find I do." He clips the words off precisely, razor sharp and ice cold. She shivers. "I do not need your pity."
"I don't--" she tries again, but he's gone. She doesn't know how she knows, but she's lost him, and she doesn't know how to bring him back.
"Good night, Hermione." With one warm hand at her back, he guides her to the door before she even realizes what he's doing. "Don't come back."
And she finds herself on the other side of the door. She hears the tumblers click into place as he locks it.
"Remus, please let me in. I'm sorry. I didn't mean-- Can we please talk about it?" She waits, but there's no response, and the doorknob doesn't turn when she tries it, just in case. She leans against the door and sighs. "Truly, I'm sorry."
With a deep breath, she slips down the hall, taking less care to be quiet than she normally does. A fluttering black shadow at the corner of her eye catches her attention, and she freezes, but when she looks, there's nothing there. Just a shadow in a house full of them, she tells herself, though she quickens her pace back to the room she and Ginny share.
Remus isn't around at all the next two days -- off on Order business, Tonks says with a sad smile. "Takes his mind off -- you know." And Hermione nods. She does indeed know, better than Tonks thinks, and she can't help but be suspicious of the timing.
She tries his room while he's away, hoping she can be there to apologize when he comes back, but the door is locked and the key won't turn.
When he finally does return, after another two days, he looks tired. He closets himself with Kingsley Shacklebolt in the study for a long time, and when they emerge, the other adults are gathering in the kitchen. They call Harry in to meet with them, which makes him smile grimly and square his shoulders. Fred and George, too, are invited into the kitchen, but the door is shut in her face, and Ron's and Ginny's.
Ginny shrugs and runs upstairs for the Extendable Ears. She brings back only one set, and they spend the next few minutes getting situated so they can listen in, Ginny and Ron fighting over who goes first, while Hermione sits impatiently, tapping her foot against the stair below her.
Finally, it's her turn, and as she presses the buds to her ears, she hears Remus's voice, tired and sad.
"You're using children to fight your war, Albus. They're children."
Hermione bites her lip, wishing she could see their faces.
"Is that what you say when Hermione Granger sneaks into your bed each night?" Snape's voice is venomous.
There is a long moment of shocked silence, and then cacophony so loud she has to remove the Extendable Ears.
She stands and walks down the stairs, ignoring Ron and Ginny's questioning looks.
"Hermione's been helping me after the full moon, yes," Remus is saying when Hermione pushes her way into the room, unnoticed, the door wide open behind her. Dumbledore's head is bowed, and Mrs. Weasley's face is white with shock.
"Is that what you're calling it?" Snape replies derisively.
"That's none of your business, Severus," Remus says softly, but with a hint of steel.
"She's young enough to be your daughter, Remus," Mrs. Weasley shrieks.
At the same time, Harry yells, "You don't talk about Hermione like that, Snivellus."
"Potter!" Snape snarls, wand appearing in his hand.
Mr. Weasley, who has a talent for making himself heard above the din without shouting says, "Harry, don't speak to Professor Snape that way," while Remus says almost exactly the same thing, and everyone else is talking, a jumble of angry voices that hurts her head.
She stalks up to Professor Snape, all thoughts of Potions marks and respect for her elders gone. "You don't know anything about it," she says furiously. "You don't know--"
"Nor do I care to," he interrupts. "What you do while sneaking about the halls of this mausoleum is of little concern to me, Miss Granger."
"Then you should keep your big nose out of other people's business!" Harry shouts, and Hermione throws him a grateful look, but Remus puts a hand on Harry's arm and shakes his head.
The others slowly fall silent to stare at her as she moves to Remus's side.
"I am not a child," she says when she has their full attention. It's the only defense she has, and it's not enough. She can see that in the looks on their faces, the defeat and regret in Remus's eyes, and in the way they explode into noise again. She hears bits and pieces as they all speak at once: 'shameful' and 'poor dear, taken advantage of,' and 'young girls these days,' and 'thought Lupin had better sense,' and, most disturbingly, 'what about Ginny?' from Mrs. Weasley.
"Perhaps it would be best," Remus says when everyone quiets down again, "if I left until winter term begins."
"Where will you go?" Hermione asks. "You can't--"
"I'm not entirely without resources, Hermione."
"Yes, Remus," Dumbledore says as if she hasn't spoken. "That sounds like a good idea."
They make plans, rearrange everything, as if Hermione isn't there at all, as if she has no say. They treat her as if she is a child, when she hasn't been since the fight at the Department of Mysteries.
She and Harry exchange a glance, and she knows, now, how he feels, how his whole life has been managed like this, decisions based on what Dumbledore considers best for the Order, for the wizarding world, rather than what is best for Harry, and now, what is best for her.
Remus is packing when she catches up with him, the threadbare robes and old Muggle clothes from the closet folded neatly into his old suitcase. The darker, richer clothes look lost and lonely with so much space around them.
She hangs back, one hand on the doorknob, wanting to change his mind, wanting to shoulder her share of the blame, though she still doesn't believe they've done anything wrong.
"It's not--"
"Don't say it's not fair," Remus interrupts without looking at her. "You are not the heroine of a cheap romance novel, and I am not a tragic hero. That's the complaint of a child, which you adamantly insist you are not. Life is not fair. It never has been."
"But it should be," she says desperately.
He shrugs in resignation and turns to face her. "Perhaps." He sounds as helpless as she feels. "Needless to say, I have taken advantage of you, and for that I apolo--"
"Don't," she says furiously, striding into the room, white-hot anger boiling up again, and he's her only target now. "Don't you dare apologize."
He smiles then, and cups her face, thumb running over the arch of her cheek, making her shiver. "You're a true Gryffindor, Hermione. And still the cleverest witch of your age I've ever known." He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. She sucks in a breath, hurt at how easily he returns to treating her like a child, and how he doesn't even seem to notice. He turns back to his suitcase, closing it and knotting the string neatly around it.
"Will you, will you at least write to me?"
"That's probably a bad idea right now. In a few months, perhaps..."
"It's not right." She wishes she were the kind of girl who threw tantrums, stamped her feet and chucked things about. She wants to right now. At the Order, for doing this to him, to them. At him, for accepting it so readily. At herself, for being stupid enough to get caught. "They're driving you out of your home."
He laughs, and for the first time, she can hear bitterness in it. "This isn't anyone's home anymore," he says. "Sometimes I don't think it ever was." He takes her hand, squeezes it lightly. "You told me we shouldn't deny Harry what he needs, and if I'm to be any use to Harry, to the Order, I need to get out of the," another harsh laugh, "doghouse with Molly and the others." He drops her hand, picks up his suitcase and walks to the door.
"I think I love you," she blurts.
He turns back with a sad smile. "Then what am I so afraid of?"
While she's still pondering this odd response, he leaves. She watches him go, her heart sinking like a stone in deep water. By the time she hurries down the stairs after him, he's gone, out of the house. And it's all her fault. She wants to curl up and die.
She turns to head back up the stairs and Ron is standing there, staring at her, as many questions in his eyes as freckles on his pale face.
"Ron--"
"Did you really--"
"Yes," she says, and though he's standing right in front of her, she can feel him moving away.
"Oh." He looks stricken.
"Ron, please understand--"
"It's all right, Hermione," he says, and she can tell he wants to believe it as much as she does, but he doesn't. Neither does she.
He walks away and she doesn't try to stop him, just one more person she stares after as he goes.
"He'll come round eventually," Harry says from behind her, making her jump. "It's okay."
"I was only trying to help," she answers miserably. "I just wanted-- He wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping. He needs someone to look after him."
"You can't save him," Harry says sadly. "I couldn't save Sirius, and you can't save Lupin."
"But--"
Harry shakes his head. "Sometimes you just-- You can't."
Hermione knows he's right. But she's determined to find a way to keep trying.