In Love and War

"Oh my God!"

Tonks gave a little squeak and somehow proceeded to trip, either over her own feet or the door, and sprawl on the floor.

"I--terribly sorry--wrong room?"

Well, that did it. The moment was officially dead, gone, and strung up by the heels, and Hermione was left wondering what on earth she had been doing.

All right, she knew very well what she had been doing. It was the why part that confused her.

And maybe she should have picked a different where and when. Or at least next time lock the door. Very clever of you.

For some reason, I don't think this is setting a very good tone for any future sex life I happen to have. Assuming that I'm not traumatized for life.

All right, enough internal melodrama. Keep to the subject at hand. She glanced down at herself dispassionately, noticing the sheet she had pulled up to half-cover her breasts --protecting your modesty? It's a little late for that, Granger, don't you think?

Mercifully, Tonks had managed to get to her feet and leave--closing the door and fleeing, most likely. How embarrassing for her, Hermione thought numbly. Why couldn't she have been minding her own business? What was she doing just walking into Remus' room anyway?

What, are you jealous now Hermione? Jealous that Tonks seems to just casually walk into his bedroom?

Well, you did the same thing, didn't you? Twice you've gone into his room uninvited, and neither time seemed to come out very well for you, did it?

She turned to look at Remus, steeling herself for the expression on his face. Would he be disgusted with her? Not angry--no, not him, not now, not with her. Hermione could imagine exactly how this would go: he would blame himself and she would blame herself and it would be a tangle of guilt with no end in sight. And she just couldn't handle the thought right now.

He looked, well, as if he had been caught having a too-private moment with a student--a former student, she corrected herself quickly. Horrified, ashamed, guilty.

Of course he's horrified. He just got caught in bed--in bed!--with one of his former students. How do you think you would feel?

She sat up, feeling her hair spill down wild and frizzy and completely out of control around her shoulders. Hermione could feel Remus draw away from her; she could sense the warmth and security of his body leaving her. The feeling of separation hit with the force of a slap on the face. Only moments before, she had felt so close to him, closer than she had ever let anyone else get to her. Now, she curled inward defensively, hunching her shoulders as if this would hide her breasts, allowing her hair to fall forward over her face and provide a kind of shield for her.

"Hermione," she heard Remus say softly, and she dimly realized that he was tucking the blanket around her, wrapping her up as if she were a small child being put into bed.

Suddenly she did not want him to see her like this, naked and flushed and still breathing harshly. "I think I should go now," she said quickly. Hermione disentangled herself from the covers and moved away from Remus, not noticing the sheets that fell to the floor. Without looking, she grabbed at her pile of clothes off the floor and began to pull them on, jamming her limbs into the sleeves and legs.

Remus hadn't said anything, but he wrapped one of the bed sheets around his waist and got up to help her. "Your shirt's on inside out," he said gently, moving behind her and helping her take off her blouse. He slipped it off her shoulders, turning it right-side out with capable hands. All the while, Hermione stood there shaking, her arms broken out in goose bumps crossed across her chest. When she didn't move to help him, he extended her arms himself, unfolding them and guiding them into the sleeves of her shirt.

Hermione looked up into his face. She was breathing in short, quick gulps of air--she could recognize the first signs of hyperventilation. God, she knew she was acting like a panicky child, and undermining everything she wanted him to believe about her. Why now, of all times, was she suddenly regressing, becoming more immature by the minute? She wanted to get away now, before she just humiliated herself further.

"Slow down." He finished re-buttoning her shirt and tucked the tags in. "Breathe, Hermione." Still seeming patient--how does he do it?--he gripped her shoulders, smoothing her hair back and tucking it behind her ear.

Remus pulled her against him, and she stopped struggling and leaned against his chest. Even now, as off-kilter as she felt, there was something fundamentally soothing about his presence. For a brief moment, she wondered what it would be like if she could stay there without worrying about being found out, without knowing that she had to leave soon, but she pushed the thought down. She knew where impulses like that could lead her, and it wasn't down the hall to her bedroom where she belonged.

"Don't worry," he said softly in her ear, one hand coming up to stroke her hair.

Like a child. He's treating me like a child. "I'm not worried," Hermione insisted.

He was silent, and Hermione knew he could tell she was bluffing. "You know if anyone's to be held responsible...if there's any trouble at all--"

"Don't say it." I really can't bear it if you're such a martyr right now. How can you be so good?

"You don't need to worry. I'll look after things. All right?" Cupping Hermione's chin in the palm of his hand, he brought her face up so that they were eye to eye. "Hermione..."

"I--I'm sorry. I think I should go now." She backed out of his arms, and before she let herself start to intellectualize the situation and remind herself that running away was seldom the right thing to do, Hermione left.

She wanted to run down the hall, not walk deliberately, stopping to make sure that the door didn't slam shut behind her. But there was no way to do that without attracting attention--it was bad enough Tonks knew; what if the rest of the household wondered what Hermione was doing crashing around upstairs? So she walked down the hall at a controlled pace until she reached her room.

Once inside her room, she shut the door behind her and leaned back against it, the first real wave of shock hitting her. It was a sharp relief to be in her own space again, to be alone, but even then she felt inescapably rattled.

Hermione walked rather unsteadily over to her bureau and ran her fingers over the empty, chipped porcelain basin, clumsily summoning water. She splashed the water on her face and on her overheated skin, not caring when it ran up her sleeves and down her collar, chilling her. After wiping her hands off on the rather musty smelling towel, she caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair still tousled like she had just gotten out of bed--well, she just had--and there was a hint of a bite-mark beginning to appear at the bottom of her throat. Digging through her bag, Hermione found her hairbrush and began trying to untangle her curls. She jerked the brush through her hair so roughly that tears sprang to her eyes when she hit a snarl. Finally, when her scalp was stinging from the harsh treatment, she put the brush aside.

She sat down on the narrow bed and tucked her feet under her, rocking back and forth in a monotonous movement. It was the kind of thing she used to do when she first arrived at Hogwarts and had trouble sleeping, when she still woke in the middle of the night and missed home terribly. In those days, she still hadn't been sure of this magical world that she found herself living in, but not belonging to.

Oh, she had thought she would adjust, given time, and then what had happened? The Chamber of Secrets had been opened, and suddenly Muggleborns were a target. And now Voldemort was back, and how on earth could she have ever thought she would fit in eventually? Oh no, she would always be different. No matter how hard she tried or how clever and skilled and good a witch she was, it would never be enough. She couldn't measure up.

Her thoughts raced on along this track, speeding and spinning around nearly faster than she could follow. What was she even doing in the Wizarding World? Maybe she should have stayed home and learned practical things; things that were actually useful in the real world, not spells and magic, things that should belong in fairy tales. Why wasn't she doing real things, the kind of things she could explain to a person on the tube without them thinking she belonged in a mental institution?

Of course she didn't want to leave the Wizarding World; it was too late for an alternative now anyway. Besides, she was good at magic--the brightest witch of her age, she repeated to herself. She did belong here; she had to, because she certainly didn't belong anywhere else. But what she had done now--it could only make her position more precarious if people found out.

What if Tonks told? Hermione imagined Dumbledore and McGonagall peering inquisitively at her, saying, "No, it couldn't be! Our Miss Granger would never carry on inappropriate relations with older men!" Then maybe they would question her about it or examine her memories, and they would know the truth... Maybe they would get it all wrong and accuse Remus of preying on her and he would be in such trouble he was thrown out of the Order of the Phoenix in disgrace, and had no place to live then and everyone in the Wizarding World would be against him more than ever and he would have no chance for a job...

And of course other people would find out; gossip would always out eventually. Harry would wonder what on earth she had been doing with his father's friend, and Ron would probably be angry and jealous.

And Snape would sneer at her and say, "I expected no more from a Mudblood like you."

Her memory summoned up those horrible words: "I see no difference."

McGonagall must have been utterly and totally mistaken. Their conversation seemed as if it had taken place ages ago, when Hermione still believed herself somewhat capable of behaving capably and maturely.

It wasn't all going to look better in the morning, but maybe by then she would be able to at least feel she could look someone in the eye. Hmm...not Remus. Not Tonks. Not Minerva, not Snape for certain... Don't feel like talking to Ron or Harry. Doubt Dumbledore will be available for a chat, not that I have anything to say to him... She sighed.

She still felt a bit queasy, though, try as she might to ignore it, the rest of her body was still feeling hot and frustrated... Why couldn't she just be done with such feelings, why did she still wish that she was back in the room with Remus, that at the very least he was holding her like he had earlier, his voice soft and soothing....

God, she felt guilty, thinking of the look on Remus' face when he offered to take the blame...

Blame! It's your fault and he must see it, he's just trying to protect you and you don't deserve it. Did you realize how much trouble you could get him into? Did you? No, of course not. Too busy with other thoughts, hmm? Just think of how you used to look down on girls who did things like that, who got into trouble. Remember how you sneered at them and thought they must be stupid? Remember how self-righteous and smug you felt? Always sure that you were different, better than they were. Well, you're not. You're not different at all, Hermione Granger.

Enough thinking for one night. Even though it was barely evening yet, Hermione pulled the covers up over her head and willed herself to go to sleep.

Don't want to get up.

There was an insistent rat-tat-tatting at her door that did not go away, even when Hermione put her pillow over her ear and groaned for whomever it was to stop.

"But Hermione..."

Ron.

"Too bloody early! It's still dark out, come back later."

"Hermione, I want to talk to you."

Deciding that he wasn't going to leave any time soon, Hermione got up to answer the door. She opened it partway and looked at Ron through the crack. Even if she hadn't recognized his voice, she would have known him then by the flash of red hair that so stood out in the dim light.

"Yes? What do you want to talk about?" she asked.

Ron stuck his foot in the door and nudged the space open wider, leaning in toward Hermione. "We're decorating the Christmas tree. Don't you want to come down and help us?"

"You woke me up for that?"

"Well...no. I wanted to talk to you last night, but you never came down for supper."

"I went to bed early." She stepped back, letting the door open with her.

Ron looked at her and said, "Did you sleep in your clothes last night?"

She glanced down and saw her rumpled clothing. "Oh. I guess I did."

"What's wrong, Hermione?"

It must be pretty obvious if he notices. She shook her head. "It's nothing, Ron. I'm just tired after the...accident."

He winced, and she saw him take a small step backward.

"I'm not contagious, you know. Not unless I bite you."

His cheeks went rather red, and he looked down at his feet "I know that. I didn't mean anything. I came here to say sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"I--the time with Harry. I should have said something. I shouldn't have let him pick on you that way."

"It doesn't matter, Ron."

No, Ron, standing up for friends doesn't matter at all. Really.

I already knew that you would pick Harry over me, just like usual. I simply didn't feel like having it rubbed in my face right then and there, but then I wouldn't expect you to pick up on that either.

She waited.

He's not going to go away, is he?

Ron just continued to stand there, shuffling his feet awkwardly. "I know it does, or you wouldn't be upset, would you?"

"Who said I'm upset?" she snapped.

"I don't want you to be mad at me," he said, looking at her with pleading eyes. "Really, I'm sorry."

He's sincere. He means well. It really would be cruel to shut him out right now.

She couldn't reject him callously, not then. He was apologize, and she knew that wasn't easy for him.

"All right, I'll be down in a little bit. I'll just need to get dressed...well, change my clothes anyway."

"Okay."

She started to close the door, but she stopped when he said once more, softly, "Please don't be angry like that again. It's--not good when we can't get along like that."

"I know, Ron."

---

That morning Dumbledore showed himself into Snape's makeshift office and took a seat. Snape sat at his desk, staring blearily at the papers, open books, and marked articles spread out in front of him.

"Tell me you didn't stay up all night, Severus."

Snape avoided the urge to rub his eyes and yawn. "I didn't. I got a few hours of sleep this morning, between three and six."

Dumbledore made a slight sound of disapproval, but said nothing.

"I know, I should be taking better care of myself."

"I didn't come here to reprimand you, though I'm sure you know some of us are worried..."

"Yes, I had a delightful conversation with Minerva the other day. You know, she wasn't given the nickname 'Meddling Minerva' for nothing..."

A slight smile crossed Dumbledore's lips, and he said, "If I remember correctly, you were the one who started that name when you were in school."

"Well, she certainly took a keen interest in what us Slytherins were up to," Snape said sharply, not adding the thought that this statement implied--that Minerva had had a strictly hands-off policy when it came to dealing with a certain quartet of Gryffindors.

"Just because things were a certain way in the past doesn't mean she can't take an interest in your well-being now."

"Of course not, Headmaster."

Well-being indeed.

Keeping late hours wasn't anything unusual for Snape--for most of his educational career he had considered his insomnia a blessing, giving him hours of productivity that others wasted on sleep, dreams, lovers' trysts--but he resented Lupin being the cause of his all night stint of studying.

Moreover, he resented Dumbledore asking him to spend time on Lupin's problems when he could have been spending time on the issue with Hermione. That was where the real challenge lay, where the real work was ahead of him...and where his true interest lay.

Perhaps it was best not to follow that train of thought.

Snape supposed that Dumbledore knew well enough what he thought of Lupin, but there was nothing to be said about that. He and Lupin tolerated each other and, when possible, avoided any mention of the past. That was enough of an agreement for Snape.

He finished shuffling papers, a selfish attempt to delay the conversation that was to come. "As usual, I seem to be the bearer of ill news."

"I suppose it's to be expected under the present circumstances." Dumbledore sighed. "We try for the students' sake when possible, but these are not light times...as much as the Ministry would like us to believe differently."

"Well, you already know what I think of those reactionary idiots in power."

"All too well."

"'Death Eater situation under control', 'Hogwarts Headmaster paranoid, militant objector to current government handling of--"

Dumbledore's response was bemused, but firm. "I appreciate your protective impulses, Severus, but we're not here to talk about the editorial page of The Daily Prophet."

"Yes, I haven't forgotten our latest little disaster on hand. I can tell you, Lupin's problem is nothing new--I've seen this before. It appears he's developing an immunity to Wolfsbane, just as I predicted," Snape said, with a bitter satisfaction.

"And our options?"

"At the moment? Well, we could increase the dosage, but that's merely a patch for the temporary problem, not any kind of solution."

"How long will that last?"

"Hard to say. It will buy us time, but how much varies greatly. It depends on individual factors--metabolism, and a half dozen other things. Far too great a range to give us a good estimate."

"And that means?"

Snape may not have liked Lupin, but he was frustrated at what he saw as the one of the greater failings of Potions. He hated not having a solution, and it was uncomfortable for him to have to tell Dumbledore that there was nothing he could do, that he didn't even know what kind of scenario he was working with.

"Could be six months, could be six years."

"Then there's hope?"

"If you want to look at it that way, I suppose you could say so."

"Perhaps an answer will be found--a new potion, say."

"Doubtful. Since Wolfsbane was patented in its trial form in the early 1980s, research in that field has come to a grinding halt. There's been more money spent on marketing in the last ten years than on research."

"So nothing we can count on." Dumbledore leaned back in the chair, his fingers steepled against his chin and closed his eyes.

Snape felt vaguely responsible for his negative answer, but it was only the truth. "No."

"We'll have to talk to him then. Tell him."

"He's not a stupid man," Snape said, rather grudgingly. "I'm sure he's wondered. He has the right to a straight answer."

"Yes, though I'd prefer it if such conversations were not had before breakfast." Dumbledore rose to his feet. "Thank you, Severus, for working on this at such short notice. I know it's not much of a vacation for you."

"Since when have I had 'much of a vacation'?"

"I know that you've been busy, and I'm sorry to have to give you extra work now."

"Don't worry, it's not as if my vacation has been truly interrupted--you didn't have to tear me away from the beaches of Tahiti."

"Perhaps another time...who knows, the beaches of Tahiti might do you some good."

Dumbledore smiled, and Snape couldn't help but imagine him at the beach, sprawling out on a recliner with his long white beard stretched out before him. That would be almost worth seeing.

"A likely story. I'd be bored stiff, and you know it."

"Have you ever heard that burying yourself in your work so much isn't entirely healthy?"

"I'll remember that sentiment at a time when everyone isn't queuing up at my door, needing something from me right now and it's a matter of life or death."

Snape tucked the papers neatly back inside their files, double-checking the cross-references until he was satisfied.

"Do you get any satisfaction at all from thinking of how many of those life or death matters you've settled for us?"

The half-joking tone was gone, and Snape looked away sharply.

"As you recall, there have been plenty of those matters that I settled less than honorably."

"That doesn't diminish the value of what you have accomplished for us now."

"Nor does it undo what I did in the past."

"Is it fair to expect it to?"

"I--" Snape rubbed his forehead, his weariness beginning to catch up with him. "I have nothing to say to that, except it looks like I'm going to be delving into my supply of headache curatives yet again."

"Come down and have some breakfast, Severus." Before he left, Dumbledore looked back to add, "You know what the Muggles say--it's the most important meal of the day."

"Shows what they know," he grumbled. "And I can't see how having to be around other people will improve my mood much."

How on earth he can be so blasted cheerful right now...

And you left Voldemort to serve this man. Ever regret it?

Yet he puts up with you, misanthropic bastard you, without fail. Even is good-humored about it--usually at your expense.

Far more than you deserve, mmm?

He went downstairs.

---

Hermione sat in what passed for a breakfast nook in the house, meditatively eating her breakfast cereal.

Ron had been happy to see her, but Harry hadn't said anything to her yet, other than giving her a quick nod hello. The two of them were in the other room, decorating the Christmas tree. Dumbledore and McGonagall had joined them, and Hermione could hear the sound of their laughter as they kept themselves busy transfiguring ornaments.

Christmas had lost the shiny glow it had when she was a child, which was to be expected. When she was younger, the thought that one day Christmas wouldn't seem so special had been upsetting, but now she simply didn't care at all. It was nice that Ron could still get excited, she reminded herself, and it was a good thing if they could take Harry's mind off his troubles.

The preparations for the holidays weren't enough to divert her attention, though. Hermione couldn't help but dwell on what had happened the evening before, as well as on something new.

As she was coming downstairs that morning, she had overheard a snatch of conversation coming from Remus' room. She recognized Tonks' voice, sounding angry but a bit wobbly.

"Was it just because of Sirius? Was it just what I could do for you?"

"No, Tonks, it wasn't like that...not at all."

Hermione had felt the urge to stop and listen for more, but it wasn't worth the risk of being caught. As much as she hated not knowing what they were talking about (and as much as she wondered if it had anything to do with recent events involving her), she had continued on and crept down the stairs as quietly as she could.

Still...she wondered and speculated, probably fruitlessly. What had they been talking about, and what did Sirius have to do with any of it?

"Hermione! Come in here!"

"Just a second, Ron."

Hermione got up to put her bowl in the sink, not bothering to cast a cleaning spell like she usually would have done.

"Hermione?"

"I'm coming!"

He was waiting for her in the doorway, and when she got within arms reach of him, he caught her around the waist and pulled her against him.

"What's this about?" she asked, not sure if she was amused or annoyed.

"Look up," he said.

"What?"

He pointed upwards, and Hermione's eyes followed the direction of his finger.

"Oh..."

"See, mistletoe!"

She was looking up, just the right angle for him to be putting his hand under her chin and moving in to...oh joy...kiss her.

He could probably taste the cereal she had just eaten, the way she could still taste traces on his lips of the toast and marmalade he had eaten this morning. Ron wasn't a bad kisser, she thought numbly--not too dry or too wet, not too overeager or too weak and gummy-lipped...but he wasn't Remus. He was Ron, and that was the problem.

Now he was wrapping his arms around her and almost crushing her against him, or so it felt. Hermione broke the kiss and pushed at his arms. "Not so tight, Ron! I've still got bruised ribs."

He left go of her quickly, his face flushing. "Sorry, Hermione."

"You can stop worrying, Mr. Weasley. I don't think Miss Granger has suffered any permanent harm from your...eager attention."

Oh, positively glorious. How nice to see you too, Professor Snape. Up to your usual standards, I see, picking on anyone who can't stand up to you.

Ron was examining the floor carefully, his ears even more red than before, and Hermione reached out to rub his arm gently. She looked straight at Snape, challenging him to look her in the eyes.

Next time, pick on someone who'll fight back.

Snape did not look at her though. Dumbledore stepped in, saying, "Oh, I thought it might be fun to enhance the holiday spirit with a bit of decoration. Harmless fun, but that's enough now." He waved his wand, and the sprig of mistletoe reverted to its former incarnation as a strand of unraveling red yarn.

Remus and Tonks must have come downstairs as well, just in time to see Ron's little public display of affection. Hermione noticed Remus looking away from her, his cheeks slightly flushed. Tonks looked thoughtfully at Hermione, then turned and went into the kitchen.

By now, Hermione had stepped away from Ron and moved into safer territory, in between Professor McGonagall and the Christmas tree. She made herself busy straightening out the ornaments on the tree, making sure the distance between them was even and they were turned forward.

The little crowd that had gathered at that awkward moment now dispersed. Harry and Ron were distracted from their decorating by a plate of cookies that Mad-Eye Moody brought out, and Hermione was grateful--if their mouths were full of food, they were less likely to talk to her or ask any questions she didn't want to answer. Remus and Tonks seemed to be continuing their quiet conversation in the breakfast nook, and Dumbledore had gone into the study to take care of some business. Snape had vanished, probably scared away by any signs of the coming holiday, thought Hermione.

She was still kneeling at the base of the tree, tugging at the tree skirt, when Dumbledore came out from the backroom.

"What is it, Albus?" asked Professor McGonagall, rising from the chair she had been curled up in (rather catlike of her, Hermione noted).

"I'm not sure yet." His face was grave. "I've just received a brief message from one of my contacts in the Ministry. He's not entirely sure what's going on, and he says not to panic--though it seems that's more or less what they're doing there. All they have to go on is a brief message that got through, saying 'Security at Azkaban Prison has been compromised. The Ministry is under attack.'"

Ministry...Azkaban....Fudge. Something jogged Hermione's memory...

The article in The Daily Prophet.

"In an attempt to reassure the Wizarding World of its safety, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge will be giving a speech and press conference on the grounds of Azkaban prison. Though he has agreed to discuss the capture of..."

"That's it, today was the day that Fudge was giving his speech at Azkaban."