A Midsummer's Journey

Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,-A Midsummer's Night Dream

The rumbling thunder brought him out of his revelry. He went over to the window to gaze up at the approaching storm. It had been an unusually hot summer already, the heat doing little to help the stifling tension that was in the house. He watched the lighting flash orange across the sky. It was too high up to bring the much needed rain or relief to the heat. As another bolt lit the sky, he saw Hermione sitting on the stone bench in the garden. He hesitated, and then went downstairs.

Stepping outside, he smelt the musty air, the heat pressing in on him. Going over to Hermione, he sat down beside her. She did not look at him, but gazed heavenward, still watching the bright lighting flash across the sky.

"We will not get rain from this storm, unfortunately."

She nodded and took a deep breath. "When I was little, I was terrified of thunderstorms. I would cry out and my parents would come to me and comfort me, telling me that the noise was only the angels celebrating. It gave me some comfort to think of that, but the real comfort was knowing they were just across the hall and would always come when I cried."

He was silent for a moment before speaking softly. "I never was afraid of the storms. I rejoiced that there was something out there wilder than me." He gave a dry laugh, waiting for some response then continued. "Everyone is afraid of something. Whether it is of things real or those unknown. There is nothing to be ashamed of, even if you cannot face your fears. Knowing your fears and the breadth of your tolerance for them is what's important. And when you cannot bear them alone, that's what friends are for."

Sighing, she said, "I guess I just wanted one more summer of that. The safety of being at home with my parents. I know they cannot realize what's going on with the Dark Lord, and I wanted to forget about things for a while. It would have been my last summer at home. I just think I wanted to be a little girl again before I had to grow up."

They sat in silence for a while before she spoke again. "Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Please forgive me for the last several days."

"Nothing to forgive," he said gently.Â

"I know I was being a bitch. I took it out on you."

"That's what I am here for," he said, smiling.

She looked at him and a small smile flickered across her face.

"I want you to realize that I am your friend before all else, and am here for you in that capacity," he told her, holding her gaze.

She nodded and looked toward the sky once more.

"And I would like you to call me Remus."

Again she nodded.

He reached out, wanting to give her a reassuring touch, but remembering earlier, he withdrew. It was she who reached out and closed her fingers around his hand. They sat in silence while the storm passed overhead.

_________________________________________________________________

"I noticed there were some spades and clippers in the shed out back. I think the garden could be very lovely if we could get the weeds under control," she said over their breakfast. " 'Hard work is good for what ails you' my grandmother would always say."

"She sounds like a wise woman," he said, glad for her brightened mood.

"And I would enjoy the company, if you would like to join me." He knew it was her way of apologising once again.

"I would be honoured."

She looked at his robes dubiously. "It is really hot today."

"Really? I hadn't noticed," he said, fanning himself with his hand.

She laughed.

"I take the hint. I think I might find something more comfortable for playing in the dirt," he said, heading back upstairs. He had not failed to notice her attire when she came down this morning. She wore a light green shorts outfit, the shirt short, barely brushing the top of her shorts. He had accidentally sliced his finger cutting the bread when he had first seen her. Charming, he thought, chiding himself.

When he appeared back downstairs, she had to keep her mouth from falling open. He was wearing a pair of loose, worn jeans, with frayed edges and holes in the knees and a white tee shirt. The contrast from his grey robes which made him look washed out, to the bright white of his shirt, which made his light brown hair seem shiny, and she noticed, for the first time, the gold highlights dancing in it. Where had the gray gone? Though thin, he was very lithe and solid looking in this new light. He was nice to look at, she thought, why hadn't she noticed it before? He shuffled a little and she realized she was staring rudely at him.

"What, I wouldn't fit in the Muggle world?" he asked teasingly.

"Oh, yeah..." she blurted with a bit more enthusiasm than she had meant to.

He flashed her a smile and winked, causing her to flush and fiddle with the gardening gloves she had donned.

They toiled in the garden all morning, fighting with the unrelentless hold of the weeds that had overtaken the garden. She stole hidden glances at him, marvelling at the difference in his looks, as he picked up limbs and rocks and threw them over the fence. Not only did his clothes make him look different, he looked healthier, younger than she had thought.

He took her instructions quite well until she asked him to remove a stump.

"But it's been here longer than the house has," he argued, looking at it disparagingly, doubtful at his ability to remove the large embedded thing without magic.

"Afraid of a little hard work?"

He scowled at her and picked up the shovel and began digging.

She hid her laughter as she kept hearing his muttered curses over the next hour.

He was aware of the glances she kept casting at him all morning. It made him self-conscious yet flushed. Hoping that he wasn't as obvious, he leaned on the shovel to wipe the sweat from his face, enjoying the view as she bent over pulling hard on some ironweed that did not want to be uprooted. Through half closed eyelids, his gaze moved over her form, the well-sculpted legs up to the firm, round bottom, which was much enhanced by her position. Her thin cotton shorts were clinging to her from perspiration, and he could make out her undergarments, noting they were patterned with small pink roses... Bloody hell! He jerked out of his revelry and threw down the shovel with a clatter, causing Hermione to jump and turn around to see him striding hurriedly over to the well. Pulling the bucket up by hand, he dumped the water over his head.

Thinking the stump was getting the better of him, unaware of his musings, she smirked and went back to her task.

What the bloody hell are you playing at, Moony old boy? Damn, it was going to be hard enough being alone with her when he was fighting off his wolf urges this week, he surely didn't need his lust getting the better of him, wondering where it had came from.

Er, can I remind you that you are human, you git? he heard Sirius's voice speak. So often when he had been down or belating his inhuman nature, Sirius was quick to kid him until he got mad or laughed. But there had always been wisdom to the words he used. He just hadn't been this near the opposite sex for a while, and he shouldn't have been staring.

They moved on to tackle the murky pond together. Hermione sighed and stretched, giving him a smile.

"Much more relaxing than practising hexes all day." She sighed again, contently.

"Are you saying that I am a taskmaster?' he asked in mocked indignation.

She smiled, knowing he had tried to keep her busy to keep her mind from sinking into deeper depression.

"Well, now that you mention it, you were beginning to remind me of Professor Snape."

He stood with his hands on his hips, contemplating her. "I don't think that was a compliment, but I will take what I can. Well, I cannot let this opportunity of teaching pass." He bent down and tugged a twisted, green growth out of the mud.

"Now then, here we have the screwberry root..." Kerplop! A glob of squishy, dank mud hit him full in the mouth.

"What the h...." he started, then he heard the muffled giggling.

Hermione was standing there, trying hard to stifle her laughter, her hand holding another glob of smelly mud.

"Miss Granger," he said, trying hard not to swallow mud and laugh at the same time, "I am afraid that, if we are to study that interesting mud you are holding, you too will have to a closer look." He dodged the next glob that flew at him, as she burst out laughing and tried to get away. He caught the side of her shirt as she ran and they both slipped in the soggy ground. Scrambling to get to her before she found her feet, he grabbed her shoulder with one hand and brought a large glob of mud up to her face.

"No!" she squealed, still giggling.

"Come now," he said in mocked anger. "If I can wear a mud mask, surely you can." He touched it lightly to her face.

Splat! She had grabbed more mud and splattered him in the chest this time. "OK, you little vixen," he growled, smearing her face with the mud.

It took them a full five minutes to quit laughing. Leaning against each other, he reached up and rubbed his finger down her nose. She was still giggling when she reached over and drew a small circle in the mud on his cheek. But then their eyes locked. His had gone very smoky and he held her gaze with them.

He looked at her smiling face, thinking it was quite lovely, glad that she was healing. Though she would never be considered a great beauty, he was drawn to her soft brown eyes, which reminded him of a doe, gentle and velvety. The heart-shaped face was flushed under the mud, and her lips were full and enticing. Slowly, he moved in closer to her.

He's acting like he is going to kiss me, she thought, amazed. But then, as quickly as it started, it passed as he got to his feet offering her his hand.

Smiling, she took it, thinking she had just imagined the moment as they headed back to the house to clean up. Before they went in, he broke the silence. "You know, I now see why women put mud on their faces. I do believe my pores are clearing as we speak," he said, so seriously that they both burst into laughter again.

The physical labour agrees with you Moony old boy, Remus mused to himself as he cleaned up in the bathroom. He peered closer at his reflection. "Merlin's beard!" he hissed. He knew what he had forgotten to do over the last week, being so preoccupied with trying to settle Hermione in and helping her to adjust. The age-enhancing potion that he took daily. And... he groaned, hurrying into his bedroom, knowing what he would find. Bugger, he had forgotten to obtain a fresh supply while at Hogwarts. He picked up the bottle he had, noticing it would only do him maybe two weeks, not the seven he still had left here. His concern had been with the Wolfsbane potion, and true, this was not life-threatening, but it could make things more uncomfortable for Hermione.

Picking up a small mirror, he sat on the bed and looked at his reflection. His hand moved over his smooth face, pale gray eyes, the colour of stream washed stones, staring back at him. The lines around his eyes were visibly diminished and the gray in his hair was gone. His face was fuller, with a healthy glow.

He had been taking the aging potion since he was sixteen. Looking much younger than his classmates, he had begun to wonder about his looks when Dumbledore and the school nurse, Madam Pomfrey, had taken him aside and explained. He had not known that the curse of agelessness was part of his affliction. Regeneration, they had told him. His body would repair itself quickly and most common ailments, such as colds would never trouble him. And youth. They had suggested that he age his outer appearance so questions would not arise, since his chronological years and his appearance would soon outstrip each other.

This new development had horrified him. The thought of being almost an immortal, to live with the hell of the lunar cycle forever, and the longer he lived, the more the chance he may inflict his disease on another human being. And to watch his friends and love ones grow old and die while he remained youthful and alone was too much to fathom. He had expressed his fears in a tumble to Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey, as they tried to calm him down. Trying to make light of it, they reminded him how much effort and finance went into beauty products for Muggle and witch alike in the journey to stay young and beautiful. They can have it, he thought bitterly. It was a secret he had not shared with anyone, not even his closest friends.

Well, there was nothing to do about it now, unless he could water down the potion. If Hermione noticed and questioned him about he would just explain. Must be why I have been prone to saluting her so often today, he thought wryly. Ah, the lust of youth. He couldn't help but grin.

__________________________________________________

Thump. Rolling over, she heard the noise again that had awaken her. Thump. Getting her bearings, she got out of bed and realized the noise was coming from outside. Padding over to window, she gazed out into the back garden. Thump.

Scanning the area she saw what, or rather who, was making the noise. Lupin. He was splintering wood. What time was it, she wondered? It had to be late. The mugginess of the night enveloped her and she quietly opened the window, not wanting him to know that he had woke her.

As the window swung open, the aroma of the garden flowers and the hint of rain engulfed her. Leaning out, she got a better view of him as he splintered the wood. He had taken off the shirt that he had been wearing and was dressed only in jeans. She saw that his back was well formed and every muscle was outlined as he swung the axe, bringing it down with tremendous force each time. Sleek rippling muscles flowed down to the top of his jeans, where his waist tapered nicely into thin hips. In the bright three-quartered moonlight she could see the sweat running down between his shoulders blades and when he stopped to mop his brow, she realized she had been holding her breath. His form was beautiful, she thought. Her mother had always loved art, being a Sunday painter herself, and had always taken her to museums and galleries. The love of the classical to modern art had been one area that she and her mother shared, for her father always guffawed that it looked like one-armed, blind men had created most art. But here was a body worth looking at, she mused, wondering if his backside and legs were as nicely sculpted as his back.

Feeling a tightening in her stomach, she blushed. She was getting aroused watching him as he swung the axe, swiftly and with such deftness it was hard to distinguish when he set a new piece on the block to chop. Feeling foolish, she wanted to look away and go back to bed, but stayed sitting at the window until the pre-dawn when he finally decided to lay down the axe and head inside.

He knew she was watching him. It had taken all his self-control not to glance up at the window where she was. He had heard the window open, though a normal man would not have. His sensitive hearing had alerted him to the slight movement. He worried a little about her seeing him, perhaps wondering why he was up all night, but then again, she already knew what he was and that insomnia was a burden of his kind.

So was the heightened sense of awareness of her. It helped little that the cottage was so small, the walls so thin. He could tell when she turned over in the bed each night, identifying each part of her body by the squeak of the springs of the mattress. And what was worse, after this afternoon seeing her in her shorts outfit, he was now seeing each part of that body as he heard the soft movements. The blood had rushed through his body, making him feel like a schoolboy, quick to boil when looking at a pretty girl. Damn, he had gotten so worked up, it was either a choice of attending to his lust by hand, which he had felt too foolish to do, or work it out. The next occupants of this place would have wood for several winters.

O weary night, O long and tedious night,

Abate thy hour! Shine comforts from the east,

That I may back to Athens by daylight,

From these that my poor company detest:

And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,

Steal me awhile from mine own company.