A Midsummer's Journey

I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

I frown upon him, yet he loves me still-A Midsummer's Night Dream

They appeared in a wooded area. Hermione shivered as she felt herself come together and wondered what it would have felt like to splinch, leaving part of her body behind, though it seemed that she had left her life behind.

"Well, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Lupin said brightly. "It's only a short walk to where we will be residing. Shall we?"

Holding on to Lupin's arm, she stumbled along in the darkness. Soon, she saw the outline of a gate, and he pushed it open to let her in. The dark image of a two-story cottage appeared. What she could see of the grounds in the dimness looked wild and unfriendly. Lupin took out a key and opened the door. "Lumos diffama tus." Light sprang up from the various lanterns and candles, while the fireplace came to life with a whoosh. "Small, but hopefully comfortable," Lupin said brightly.

The cottage was long and narrow, with one common room that presented a kitchen, and a sitting area in front of a large stone fireplace. A plaid sofa and matching armchair sat before the fireplace. A narrow staircase spiralled up in the corner of the room.

"There are two bedrooms at the top, the bath in between. I have taken the liberty of putting your things in the right one. Considering the late hour, perhaps we should retire and leave it until tomorrow."

All she could do was nod.

He escorted her up the stairs and to her door. Opening it, he said quietly, "I thought you might be more comfortable with a few things from home."

He had thought the things he had gotten from her parents might help her adjust. Going into the Muggle world was not unfamiliar to him, though often uncomfortable. Explaining to her parents the need for her exile was hard, especially since he was not at liberty to tell them everything. He had not told them that he would be the one watching over her for the summer, nor the reason behind the need of going to a safe house. Though left with many unanswered questions, they had reluctantly agreed that it was the wisest choice. Her mother had been grateful that he had suggested personal items for her. She had tried to hide her tears when she handle him the bundle of things.

Hermione's eyes were filling with tears as she looked around the room. On the small four-poster bed was her favourite quilt, one her grandmother had made, blocks made by using scraps of clothing that had belonged to her father. A lilac heart-shaped pillow was lying at the head. Her secret pillow, she had called it when she was younger, a place where she hid her diary, though she had not written in a diary for many years. Her familiar Muggle suitcase was laid across the end of the bed, and she saw a thick, white envelope on top of it. Hurrying to it, she recognised her mother's handwriting. She ripped it open, unaware of Lupin closing the door.

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She did not appear downstairs until the afternoon. Knowing she was exhausted and upset, he had let her rest. "Tea?" he asked cheerfully, as she sat down at the table. Busying himself with the tea, he noticed her appearance. Her face was blotchy, and her eyes red. Her unruly, brown hair looked tangled and uncombed. However, it was the robe she was wearing that caught him off guard. Dark blue and silky, it was tied at the waist, enhancing her figure. He noticed she had blossomed into a nicely proportioned young woman. It flowed over small, well-formed breasts to a small waist that flared into nicely shaped hips. It made him a bit uncomfortable realising she was no longer the gangly thirteen-year-old he had last seen.

Setting the tea service before her, he buttered a crumpet and passed it to her.

"Did you rest?" he asked politely.

She didn't answer him; instead, she stirred her tea absentmindedly.

"There are some things about this place I must tell you. The house is completely secure from magical detections. Any magic you wish to use while here will be safe. The grounds should be safe also; however, it will be wiser that magic be limited outside. We do not want to push the limitations of the wards too greatly. Of course, one cannot Apparate or Disapparate onto the grounds."

She nodded.

"You may go outside into the garden, but do not go beyond the fenced-off area. The wards that conceal us carry no further than that. Do you understand?"

Again, she only nodded.

Stifling a sigh, he sipped his tea as he wondered how long her unresponsiveness would last. Dumbledore had told him of the situation about the girl and Harry. He realised she was already sinking into depression before this. Even though he knew all too well about depression, he was at a loss as how to help her out of it.

Leaving her to her musings, he went into the garden to read. The garden had once been a thing of beauty, but years of neglect had choked the lovingly arranged flowerbeds. Still, the flowers pushed their heads defiantly through the weeds, filling the air with their heady aroma. A lopsided shed stood near the vine-covered cottage, and a well was positioned within steps of the side door. He sat on a stone bench that was placed to overlook what was once a lily pond, though now it was full of debris, of leaves and dead wood. Now, was nothing more than a murky mud hole. Opening the book he had brought, he sat staring at the pages wondering what he should do.

During supper that evening, he regaled her with stories of the Marauder's and the antics that James and Sirius had gotten into. Trying to keep things light-hearted, he related the story of the time Sirius and James had managed to steal personal letters of Snape's from a girl he was sweet on, and posted them on every door in the Great Hall. After an hour of such tales, he was still getting no response from her. He decided to turn in.

"Good night, Hermione. If you should need anything, you know where I am." He felt he should say more, but feeling that he had failed somehow, he went to his room.

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The following two days turned out to be no different. Still dressed in her bathrobe, Hermione was unresponsive and said little. Her bushy, curly hair was beginning to look as if tangled beyond repair, and from the beginning odour, she had not bathed. Dark smudges lay under her eyes, giving her a haunted look.

Exhausting his resources of school tales, he told her of his family and the village where he had grown up. Finally he gave up, feeling as if he were talking to a stone statue, and left her on her own as he went outside again.

Damn Moony. Pacing around the yard rubbing his neck, he tried to relive the tension that had been building up the last few days. You are going to have to do something. He had thought of using a Cheering Charm on her, but that would have only been a temporary fix. She needed to come to terms with whatever was troubling her.

He had let her know he was there to listen, not judge. Dropping his guarded manner, he had even hinted at the bleakness that he often found himself in, and the things he did to pull himself out of the melancholy. Her unresponsiveness growing; he was beginning to fear that she might even harm herself.

On the fourth morning as she came downstairs with no apparent change, he decided he had to change tactics. It would be the full moon in a few nights, and he could not bear the thought that she was like this if something unexpected was to happen. She needed to be alert and wary, though they were fairly secure, nothing was for sure.

"Hermione, we need to talk. You need to shake off whatever it is that's bothering you. Do you understand me?" he said firmly.

She didn't answer him, just frowned.

"I have been patient, but this must stop. There are things to be done..."

"Just leave me alone," she muttered.

"I have left you alone, and it hasn't helped. Should the world stop because you think an injustice has been thrust upon you?" he asked impassively, stifling the thought of hypocrite.

She looked at him with such hatred he noticed. She blames me for this, he mused. It did not upset him, but it might not help the situation.

"So how long do you expect to wallow in your self-pity and misery?"

"I said leave me alone!"

"That is something I am afraid I cannot do. If you think this a pleasurable way to spend my time, you, my dear, are highly mistaken," he said coolly, though pleased he had gotten a rise out of her.

She went silent once more, staring dully at him.

Inspired, he went upstairs, returning with an armful of books. Setting the stack of books down with a pronounced thud, Hermione looked at him scowling. "We are going to use this time to study. It is part of the agreement while you are here." He held up his hand when she opened her mouth. "There will be no argument. I am to enhance your skills, so that you may be able to defend yourself to whatever arises over the next year. As a Prefect and a seventh year, you will need to be on guard constantly. There can never be another case like the Greenberg girl. And I would suggest you get into more appropriate attire, and perhaps a bath," he finished calmly.

Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him. Lupin had been her favourite DADA teacher, and she respected his intelligence and polite, calm manner, but he was an irritant to her right now, pricking her in all the wrong places.

She's acting like a ten year old, he fumed, as she pushed the chair over with a crash. Not bothering to pick it up, she flounced upstairs. If she was ten, he would simply turn her across his knee. His fuming stopped suddenly, images of him turning her across his knee now caused blood to rush to his face and elsewhere. Oh dear. He hadn't counted on that, berating himself for even having such thought.

He set about assigning chapters and spells for her to research and write summaries on, when she had returned, bathed and dressed in her school robes. The sulky look had not left her face as he told her that this evening, she would be expected to perform them for him to grade.

"We aren't in school," she muttered testily.

"And when did schematics stand in the way of learning? I had thought better of you, Hermione." She did not miss the acid in his voice.

Reluctantly, she picked up a book. He hid a smile as he watched her. She was relaxing, and he saw some fire back in her eyes. The books were working; her love of studying would help her with her depression.

That evening, they had their first pleasant meal as she discussed the various charms she had learned about, and had questioned him on things she did not understand. He felt better about her until they had moved to the sitting area to read.

He glanced up from the book he was reading to see the tears coursing down her face once more. Bugger, he felt helpless, and it was turning into a slow anger.

"Hermione," he said softly, "is there something I can do for you?"

"You can let me go home," she pleaded.

Sighing, he put his book down and went over to sit by her. He reached out and took her hand, but she flinched. Withdrawing his hand, he felt the self-loathing surfacing, and tried to oppress it. "You know that what you ask is impossible," he said, turning his face from her as he stood up again, not wanting her to see the emotions raging on his face. "I know how you must feel..."

"How? How could you know how it feels to be trapped against your will, away from those you love?" she shouted.

How indeed, he thought angrily. You are speaking to the master of those feelings. Trying to keep his voice from shaking, he tried to reason with her.

"You know what will happen if you return to your parents. It will make the job for those seeking you so easy..."

"I don't care! I wish they would just go ahead and take me and be done with it!" she sobbed. "It's not like Harry would give himself up for me, even if he wanted to. Sirius nor Dumbledore would let him."

"You foolish girl!"

She looked up in surprise. Never had she heard Lupin's voice so full of fury.

"Do you think this is all about Harry? Damn it all, did you ever stop to think that I, we, don't want to lose you?"

She was startled at the look of anguish on his face as he turned on his heel and headed up the stairs. No, she really hadn't thought about that; how could she when she was so busy feeling sorry for herself, drowning in her own misery? Her mind spinning, she sat staring.

He slammed the bedroom door, grabbing the first thing he could, an oil lamp, and flung it against the wall with a feral snarl, getting no satisfaction as it splintered. Breathing hard, his blood boiling, it took him a moment before he realized the noises coming from him were starting to sound less than human. His lip curled in self-hatred, his now sharper fingernails biting into his palms as he curled and uncurled his hands. He knew this would happen. It was inevitable, this loss of control.

His senses had been heightened and enticed beyond what he could possibly stand. He had smelled the fear radiating from her, and it only exasperated his already churning instincts.

He had been concerned about his ability to keep a calm manner. It was only through a lifetime of concentration and control did he allow the stoicism to overrule the rage that could quickly flow through him at the simplest provocation. While in school, it had helped greatly that Sirius was always quick to anger. He let his emotions emit vicariously through him, especially when Sirius had raged about Snape. Even while teaching, he could maintain his calmness through time alone and the comfort of Dumbledore, who had so much faith in him. How was he to get through these weeks if he allowed her to grate on his nerves so?

Striding over to the bed, he grabbed a worn, black book lying next to his pillow, and flung it open. He sat down staring at the pages until the rage that coursed through his veins began subsiding. Fixing his eyes on the page, and though he knew by heart, he read and reread it. Putting it down at last, he sat there for a long time, with his head in his hands, giving over to exhausted tears that cleansed him. But they could not erase the words that always haunted him. The blood is cursed.

Isolation. Removal of contact from other living souls, be it real by physical barriers or self-imposed by withdrawing from society. I have learned to live in isolation, to set the barriers of indifference with politeness, and I justify my actions in noble cause of safety. But safety for whom? The safety of others, as though my presence would taint them in some fashion or safety for my own soul, so I may not yearn for things that are intangible for me? Are they really so far removed for my taking or does my self-imposed isolation cause it to be so? When the barriers of control fall away and the blood courses through my tainted being, resolving the stoic facade that I must daily impose, and reveal the emotional, savage person beneath, will those who know me not turn away in revulsion? Am I truly selfless or just selfish, falling into a martyrdom that is not real? When I look upon my reflection, why don't I see a man instead of a creature?

R.J. Lupin

Lumos diffama tus. Lumos-illuminate, diffama tus- to spread around