Chapter Text
I'm tugging at my hair
I'm pulling at my clothes
I'm trying to keep my cool
I know it shows
I'm staring at my feet
My cheeks are turning red
I'm searching for the words inside my head
(Things I'll Never Say - Avril Lavigne)
November 5th, 1993
"But, sir," Hermione said, unable to restrain herself, "we're not supposed to be on werewolves yet; we're due to start hinkypunks—"
"Miss Granger." Professor Snape's voice was deadly calm, and it left her both annoyed and slightly afraid. She really did not want him to embarrass her again.
How was it that she worked so hard to be the best witch possible—which was supposedly the whole reason for attending Hogwarts in the first place—and yet the only thing this one professor did was ridicule her for her efforts? His grudge against Harry seemed personal, as he was always pointing out Harry's celebrity status as though it was a privilege rather than the burden Hermione knew it was. But what on earth she ever had done to make Professor Snape hate her so much?
"I was under the impression that I was teaching this lesson, not you. And I am telling you all to turn to page 394. All of you! Now!"
Hermione's book was already open, and the glare Professor Snape was giving her said even that had been the wrong thing to do.
"Which of you can tell me how we distinguish between the werewolf and the true wolf?"
Hermione's hand, as usual, was in the air because she had already read this chapter—actually, she had read the entire book. Her objection over the lesson's topic had been for the benefit of her classmates, who seemed not only confused at Snape's change in Professor Lupin's plan but also looked as though they did not even know how to translate the words that had come out of his mouth. Knowing that Professor Snape considered ineptitude to be frustrating—and frustration turned to anger and the loss of House points when it came to him—Hermione had tried to save them all from the man's wrath. It had worked only in that his attention had hyperfocused on her, even as he ignored her waving hand.
"Anyone? Are you telling me that Professor Lupin hasn't even taught you the basic distinction between . . ."
A strange unsettling anger began building inside of her when Professor Snape dared to mock Professor Lupin's teaching methods. Hermione had developed an instantaneous respect for the shabby-looking professor, who had saved them all on the Hogwarts Express from a dementor like some noble hero out of one of Lavender's stupid romance novels. Professor Lupin was brave and heroic and brilliant and handsome and how dare Professor Snape mock—Wait . . . handsome? Where on earth had that come from?
She blushed at her thoughts, unaware that her hand was still in the air. Thankfully, Professor Snape was now glaring at Parvati who had apparently dared to interrupt him whilst Hermione was daydreaming.
"We told you. We haven't got as far as werewolves yet, we're still on—"
"Silence!" Professor Snape hissed. "Well, well, well, I never thought I'd meet a third year class who wouldn't even recognise a werewolf if they saw one. I shall make a point of informing Professor Dumbledore how very behind you all are . . ."
And there it was again. He insulted Professor Lupin.
For some reason, she could not allow that to continue. "Sir, the werewolf differs from the true wolf in several small ways. The snout of the werewolf, for instance—"
The professor glared down at her, black eyes narrowed. "That is the second time you have spoken out of turn, Miss Granger. Five more points from Gryffindor for being an insufferable know-it-all."
She slowly lowered her hand as shame rolled over her body; her vision blurred as tears began stinging the at corners of her eyes. She had been called that before, a know-it-all; it was audibly more pleasant than what Malfoy generally called her, and yet this one word hurt more. She could not help being a "Mudblood" as Malfoy had labelled her, but apparently, she should be able to stop the need to prove herself to everyone. Prove that she was smart. Prove that she had read all the books and practised all the spells. Prove that she was worthy of her magic when the rest of the Wizarding world—Slytherins especially—said she was not.
"You asked us a question and she knows the answer! Why ask if you don't want to be told?" Ron snapped.
Professor Snape began issuing detentions.
Hermione softly smiled at her friend for standing up for her. Of course, she wished that he had not needed to do so. She also wished that he had not called her a know-it-all himself just that morning when she asked if he had completed his Transfiguration essay, because no, he had not, and apparently, the fact that she had—a week before it was due no less—was an offence to the very nature of Ron's lazy attitude in regards to education.
It was then that she realised why she enjoyed Professor Lupin's class so much. He never made her feel like her overly-extended efforts were an offence to magic. Plus, he seemed to genuinely care for Harry's well-being—calling him by his given name instead of "Mr Potter" like the rest of the staff. Professor Lupin was relaxed and informal, and it made her feel like he knew them all and respected them as well. It also did not hurt that when he smiled at her, she felt like . . . Hermione's face warmed again at the thought.
Great, she silently scolded herself. Another crush on another professor. Harry and Ron would never let her live it down. Not after everything that happened with Professor Lockhart last year.
November 6th, 1993
Her fingers were stained with ink, which was not unusual in the slightest. The two rolls of parchment required for Professor Snape's essay had been finished long ago, and she was just now adding the final touches to the third roll, silently wondering if he would actually take points from her for not following directions properly. He had only asked for two rolls of parchment, but in her defence, the amount of information she had found would not have fit on just two rolls.
Still, in studying up on lycanthropy, she found strangely little information. Basic facts like how the virus was transmitted (through a bite from the mouth or scratch from a claw via a fully transformed werewolf and only during the full moon), how lycanthropy could be cured (it could not), and far too much prejudiced information regarding how to capture, maim, kill, and ultimately cast out werewolves. It sickened her—most especially when, while reading about how to rid werewolves from society, she spotted a handwritten note in one of the margins that said: Just like Mudbloods.
"How are these even allowed in the school?" Hermione wondered aloud, making a mental note to add it to her growing list of books she found inappropriate for students. It was a list she planned on eventually giving to Professor Dumbledore in the hopes of having them either removed entirely or, at the very least, placed in the Restricted Section.
Turning her attention back to her essay, she scowled at the title: How to Recognise and Kill Werewolves. She shook her head. Professor Snape might as well have asked them to write a confession of premeditated murder. Did he really expect a group of teenagers to willingly learn how to kill someone?
A werewolf is a human being who, during the monthly full moon transforms into a deadly and terrifying monster.
Hermione frowned, tapping her wand on the parchment to erase the last four words.
—transforms into a potentially dangerous creature resembling that of an actual wolf with varying differences including a shorter snout, more human-like eyes—though the colour is almost always gold—and a tufted tail.
Werewolves suffer from a condition called lycanthropy which is incurable, though a potion invented by famed Potioneer Damocles Belby called Wolfsbane Potion helps werewolves retain their human mind during the transformations.
She briefly looked over her history regarding the Wolfsbane Potion, which in itself was limited other than to say how expensive it was and near impossible to brew without being a Potions Master. Though it was not a required part of the essay, she included what little information she found regarding werewolf packs and mating habits.
The safety of a mate is a werewolf's primary instinct. It goes above and beyond that of the need to hunt, even. Rivalled only by the need to protect one's pack. Werewolves mate for life, though often until the proper mate is found, an Alpha wolf will engage with another female of its pack, generally his Beta. It is impossible to tell the difference between a wolf's mate or individual pack due to the fact that werewolves always bite to mark between the neck and shoulder. This is thought to be because werewolves are savage beasts who, when in beast form, eagerly seek to kill.
Hermione frowned once again and reached for her wand to amend the previous sentence. She looked over the symptoms of lycanthropy, which looked to be terribly painful. Her heart hurt just to think of what an unfortunate existence it would be, especially to know that the Wizarding world judged these people for a condition they could not control.
When without a mate or pack, symptoms of lycanthropy worsen. Before and after full moons, werewolves will appear sickly pale, complain of stomach problems, muscle pain, headaches, and sensitivity to light, smell, and sound. Because of the severity of their symptoms, werewolves are known to prematurely age—
Huh.
She thought back to a few days earlier when she watched Professor Lupin holding his head in his hands by his desk, looking pained before politely requesting that Seamus and Dean quietly read instead of actively gossiping as they had previously been doing.
She had not realised it at the time, but since she had already finished her own work, her eyes had been glued to Professor Lupin, noting the beautiful colour of his hair. Blond, but darker, like the colour of wet sand on a beach, with little flecks of grey scattered among the strands. She had thought it strange at first, considering she had overheard someone mention that Professors Lupin and Snape attended school together at some point, which meant they were near the same age, and yet Professor Lupin looked years older.
"Oh my goodness," Hermione muttered to herself.
Professor Lupin had been sick all week. Yesterday, Professor Snape substituted for his class.
Last night was the full moon.
She added it all up in her head quickly. The way Professor Lupin had looked sick the prior week, as well as the day they had all stepped foot on the Hogwarts Express—which had, coincidentally, been the day before the full moon as well. The grey in his hair despite his young age, the headaches and noise sensitivity, the boggart that changed into the moon, the scars on his face—the scars! How had she not put it all together before? Better yet, how could Professor Dumbledore have hired a werewolf to teach at a school?
No. Hermione reprimanded herself for even thinking such a horrible thing. Of course he should teach here. Professor Lupin was brilliant—the best Defence teacher they'd had yet. Suddenly, she felt awful that she had so quickly judged a man based on his condition, an action she had been disgusted with earlier. Not only that, but after reading the symptoms once again, she realised that her favourite teacher, a man who had saved their lives from a dementor, was suffering.
Without another thought, Hermione pulled her books and parchments together, loaded up her book bag, and rushed out of the library.
She excused herself early from lunch and sneaked back to the dorms where she dug into her trunk and pulled out a large bar of Honeydukes chocolate that she purchased when she and Ron had gone to Hogsmeade. Though she was not overly fond of sweets, she remembered that Professor Lupin had given it to them following the dementor attack, insisting that chocolate would make them all feel better. With Harry's reactions to the creatures, Hermione thought it would be prudent to stock up on a few bars, just in case.
Heading down the stairs, she found her way into the hospital wing where she literally ran into Madam Pomfrey.
"Oh! Miss Granger. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey. Yes, I'm well. I was just wondering if Professor Lupin was here. Professor Snape mentioned that he had taken ill," Hermione said and began looking around the hospital wing for the man, noting that there was a bed at the end of the aisle secluded by a large curtain.
"He's well looked after, my dear," Madam Pomfrey promised, though the way she eyed Hermione felt suspicious. "Unfortunately, he's not taking visitors."
"I understand. Would it be all right if I left something for him?" Hermione asked, holding out the large bar of chocolate. "I'm not sure if it'll help, but he gave us all chocolate after the dementor attack, and I, well, even if it doesn't make him feel better, I'd just be repaying him."
"I'll take it, dear." Madam Pomfrey nodded with a strangely tearful smile. "It's very kind of you to think of him."
"He's a wonderful professor, and . . . it made me sad to think of him being ill," Hermione said and then turned to walk away.
Moments later, Madam Pomfrey opened the curtains that surrounded Remus's bed. He had overheard the entire conversation, drawn from sleep by the sound of Hermione's voice. He was badly bruised and exhausted from the full moon, but the Wolfsbane Potion that Snape had given him had not been poisoned, so he spent the night warded in his rooms—docile but lonely.
Madam Pomfrey pinned him with a look. "She knows about your condition?"
"Apparently," Remus replied and reached for the bar of chocolate. He took a moment to breathe in the scent as he tore at the wrapper. "Poppy, how do you, Minerva, and Professor Dumbledore remember Hermione as Mia, but no one else does? Severus clearly loathes her, and with good reason considering how often she hit him in the face growing up, but I'd think that if he knew who she really was . . . his disdain would be quite a bit more obvious."
"Minerva put a charm on the girl when she first entered the Wizarding world," Poppy explained. "She recognised Miss Potter almost immediately and insisted that the headmaster explain himself. I believe it was exactly because of Severus that Minerva put a modified Notice-Me-Not on Miss Granger. She has to renew it once a year when the girl returns to Hogwarts. Frankly, I doubt either Minerva or the headmaster had planned on telling me, except that Hermione is in the hospital wing so often thanks to her adventures with Misters Potter and Weasley that I was bound to catch the charm on her sooner or later."
Remus snorted in amusement. "Notice-Me-Not. That used to be one of Mia's favourite charms. She'd find it hilarious that it was being used on her."
"If I remember correctly," Madam Pomfrey said with a smirk, "Miss Potter was more inclined toward Skin Blemish Hexes and manipulated potions."
Remus grinned at the flood of memories. "So, when people look at her and begin to recognise her, their minds get distracted?"
"Something like that. Clearly it doesn't prevent the lingering feeling of resentment, though. If Severus's reaction to Miss Granger is any indication, I'd be terrified to think of what would happen if any of your former Ravenclaw classmates caught sight of the poor girl."
"How come I can remember her? How come I know exactly who she is and will become?"
"That, I believe only you can answer," Madam Pomfrey replied with an irritable sigh, clearly annoyed that she did not have all the answers herself. "Eat that up, and then get some rest."
The Pack Bond, Remus thought to himself as the mediwitch left his side. Hermione did not have his mark on her neck like Mia had, but it still existed in some form because it existed for him. Mia was still alive somewhere, inside Hermione, waiting to return to the world, and the wolf in him knew it. Knew that she lived, that she was there, and that she still belonged to him.
It was a thought that warmed his heart. Unfortunately, if he could recognise Mia in Hermione because of the Pack Bond, that meant that because of their shared Soul Bond, sealed or not, Sirius would know the girl upon sight.
November 8th, 1993
"Cheer up, Harry," Hermione said as she patted him consolingly on the shoulder. "Maybe if you ask Professor McGonagall, she could arrange it so you could get another broom?"
She did not see the point but, then again, she barely saw the point of Quidditch at all. It was brutal and barbaric, but she was not about to say anything like that right now with Harry still mourning the loss of his Nimbus.
"Even if she did get him a new broom, it wouldn't be as good as the last," Ron pointed out. "I still can't believe Snape—"
"Professor Snape," Hermione corrected.
"—took fifty points just because I threw that crocodile heart at Malfoy. He didn't do a bloody thing—"
"Language," Hermione reprimanded him.
"—when Malfoy was acting like a dementor just to have a go at you, Harry. Next time I see that pointy-faced prick—"
"Language!" Hermione hissed.
"Ease off, Hermione," Harry said.
"If Snape's teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts again, I'm skiving off," Ron declared as they headed toward the Defence classroom. "Check who's in there, Hermione."
She peered around the classroom door and smiled brightly at the sight of Professor Lupin. "It's okay!"
The class entered the room all welcoming back their professor, not with kind words asking about his health, but with complaints about Professor Snape and the unfair treatment and ridiculous assignment.
"It's not fair, he was only filling in, why should he give us homework?"
"We don't know anything about werewolves—"
"—two rolls of parchment!"
"Did you tell Professor Snape we haven't covered them yet?" Professor Lupin asked, frowning slightly.
The babble broke out again.
"Yes, but he said we were really behind—"
"—he wouldn't listen!"
"—two rolls of parchment!"
Professor Lupin smiled at their indignation. "Don't worry. I'll speak to Professor Snape. You don't have to do the essay."
"Oh, no," Hermione said disappointedly. "I've already finished it!"
Professor Lupin laughed and then knelt down in front of her desk with a kind smile that made her cheeks feel hot. His attention felt both exciting and comfortable all at the same time.
"Hermione, I would be delighted to read your essay. If you'd like, I will consider giving you extra credit for all the hard work I know you put into it."
She smiled brightly and let out a loud sigh of relief.
After class ended, Remus watched Hermione pack up her things. He noticed her eavesdropping on Harry and Ron, who he could hear were having a conversation about Malfoy. A conversation that Remus noted he should, as a professor, be interrupting.
"I'm serious, Harry, the next time I see him I'm going to punch him in his stupid face," Ron announced.
"'Violence is the last refuge of the incompetent,'" Hermione quoted to her friends, who both looked at her with furrowed brows.
"Did you just call me stupid?" Ron asked, confused.
"Isaac Asimov," Remus said, drawing their attentions back to the front of the room. At Ron and Harry's perplexed expressions, he chuckled softly. "Hermione was quoting a famous Muggle author."
"You've read Foundation, Professor?" Hermione inquired with a smile.
"I read quite a bit," he answered, "and I have a knack for memorising quotes. For instance, 'People sleep peaceably in their beds at night only because rough men stand ready to do violence on their behalf.'"
"George Orwell!" Hermione exclaimed excitedly.
"I see you play the game," Remus said with a challenging smirk, nostalgia wrapping around his heart snugly. "How about this one: 'Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another.'"
Hermione grinned, looking just a bit smug. "Another famous Muggle author. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle."
"Half right. Wizard."
"Really?!" Her eyes lit up excitedly.
The reflecting light from the nearby window made the chocolate brown or her irises almost look amber, and the snug comfort in Remus's chest pinched in painful reminder of who the girl both was and was not yet.
Harry and Ron stared between the two.
"If you're done talking Gobbledygook with the professor, can we go?" Ron asked.
Hermione visibly bristled and then turned around to reach for her bag. Remus watched as she noticed a piece of paper on her desk that had not been there before. She reached down and picked up the paper—a chocolate bar wrapper with the Honeydukes logo printed on the front.
He smiled as she read the note he had written on the inside of the wrapper.
Thank you for your kindness.
A blush spread across her cheeks, and she looked up at him as Harry and Ron disappeared through the door behind her. She offered Remus a bright smile before darting out of the classroom.
He had wanted to convey his appreciation for her concern, and maybe even let her know that he was aware that she knew his secret and appreciated that she had not gone running to Professor Dumbledore, demanding what he was thinking hiring a monster to teach at the school. He wanted her to know that he was grateful for her.
However, Remus took notice of the blush on her cheeks as she sped from the room as though Fiendfyre was licking at her heels. He raised a confused eyebrow before his heightened hearing caught the exact way her heart rate accelerated, and his eyes widened slightly.
Oh no, he thought. This is unfortunate.
"Take the memories," Remus said once the Dumbledore's door had shut behind him. "Get them out of my head."
"Good afternoon, Remus." Dumbledore smiled, ignoring the strange outburst. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? Lemon drop?"
"No!" Remus snapped angrily. After a moment of silence, he reconsidered and reached his hand into the small bowl of sweets, withdrawing several pieces. "I'm taking you up on your offer to remove my memories."
"Has something happened?" Dumbledore asked. "You look a bit distressed."
"She . . . Hermione . . ." Remus grimaced. "The girl has a crush on me."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled in amusement. "I see."
Remus glared at him. "This isn't funny."
Dumbledore actually had the nerve to smile, which told Remus that the headmaster found it at least slightly amusing.
"I'll take out some of my memories . . ." Remus informed him, "and I need you to keep them safe for me. They're . . . specific and precious, and I'd appreciate it very much that no one look at them. If I'm to do my job, it might be prudent to not have flashbacks of my ex-girlfriend lingering in my subconscious while I attempt to educate her fourteen-year-old self. Also, she has a crush on me."
"So you've said," Dumbledore replied, actually chuckling under his breath.
"Merlin, this is mortifying."
"You worry too much, Remus," Dumbledore insisted with a smile. "I'm well aware that you would not look at Miss Granger with inappropriate thoughts; you're a good man—"
"Would you mind informing Professor McGonagall of that?" Remus asked in a clipped tone.
Dumbledore went on as though he had not been interrupted. "I am also aware that the situation can be quite distressing, so I will do what I can to help. Remember, you'll still be conscious of the memories. You won't have lost them."
Remus nodded, feeling grateful to be relieved of the burden, but guilty of wanting to part with his memories in the first place. That, and he was honestly terrified of anyone viewing them without his permission. "Hopefully it'll take the sting away, as you've said. And make me feel less like throwing up when I look at one girl and remember the other."