Letters to Hermione
11th July, 1978
Remus looked back to her and winced when he saw her sitting with her eyes squeezed shut and a pained look across her face. Fuck. He looked away quickly, staring at the far wall as he contemplated running to his bedroom and locking himself inside where she’d be safe from him. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.
He wasn’t supposed to hurt her.
“She’s safe, Moony. It’s actually a long story, you’re not gonna believe - ”
Sirius began, but Remus cut him off quickly.
She’s safe. Sure. Perfectly safe, not at all in danger, Pads, save for the tiny little fact that I want to eat her fucking neck, nothing to see here.
“Why is she here?”
“You okay, Kitten?” Sirius asked the girl, effectively ignoring his question.
“Kitten?” No. That wasn’t… why was he using a term of endearment for her? She wasn’t his.
“All good, Mutt. I Just thought I’d give you two a minute to talk.” She spoke, reassuring Sirius with a comfortable familiarity that made his stomach twist in some sort of mix of relief and anger, and her voice, gods, her voice.
It was neither high nor deep, but steady, with a melodic lilt, almost as if she were singing the words. It was perfect. She was perfect.
She and Sirius exchanged a few more words but he didn’t pay attention, using the time to covertly study her side profile. Gods, she was perfect, and he’d been harsh and dickish and now she was staring down at the ground as if she couldn’t bear to look at him and she was walking away and – no.
No. Not yet.
Without a thought, he shot his hand out, wrapping it around her arm to still her movements.
“Wait.” He commanded. She turned her head to look up at him, and he was lost all over again. He tilted his head down, running on pure instinct, and drew in another long breath, her scent invading his body all over again. He let out an odd whine he’d never heard himself emit as he felt his body relax instantaneously.
She smelled like him. It was faint, but it was present, and he had no way to explain how on earth she could have picked up his scent, nor could he put reason to why he so desperately needed her to smell like him, but relief coursed through his veins.
She smelled like him. It wasn’t enough, though. It should be stronger, he should… gods, her neck was right there. But she smelled like him, and his chest felt a little less like it was being ripped in half, his mind a little clearer. It helped.
He pulled his head back, fighting the desire to bury his face in her hair, and looked into her eyes once more. She looked confused, a sadness in her eyes he couldn’t place, but he had to fix it, somehow.
“I’m sorry, I’m not… I’m not the greatest with new people. And I was, erm… I was sick a couple nights ago so I’m a bit out of sorts, of course.” He told her softly.
“It’s okay.” She responded. “I gave Sirius a bit of a shock when I popped up, too. You two talk.”
Fuck, that voice. Maybe she really was a siren.
Shit, maybe she was part Veela?
He’d never been around one, sure, and he didn’t recall their pull being described as this intense when he learned about them in school, but that would certainly explain things, wouldn’t it?
He opened his mouth, the question on the tip of his tongue, then shook his head. No. The coloring was all wrong, and she was too… human.
He could sense it, somehow. He gave her what he hoped would come across as a reassuring smile, though he could feel in the pull of the muscles around his mouth that it came out strangled just like everything else had been, and forced himself to release her arm and step away.
Remus stood staring after her as she walked down the hallway and shut the door to the guest room, then turned around and stared blankly at Sirius for a moment before he sighed and walked closer.
“Who is she?” He asked.
“Ah.” Sirius began, a broad grin stretching across his face. “She is Carina Hermione Black.”
Hermione.
Like a fucking Bowie song.
Because of course she was.
“A cousin?”
“My sister.”
“Rydych chi'n celwydd (you are a liar.) You don’t have a sister.”
“Well, I do now. Dear old Dad had a thing for muggle waitresses back in the fifties and sixties, and now… she’s here. And you’re going to have to get over your weird little refusal to get to know anyone new, because she’s staying.”
“She’s staying here?”
“Yep. Already settled in. I know you didn’t want a roommate, and you know I meant to respect that, but she doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“No.” Remus said, a bit too quickly, then added, “She should stay. She can stay. Its fine, if she stays.”
Gods, the thought of her going elsewhere was even more unbearable than the thought of her staying. She wasn’t safe here, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t safe elsewhere, either. She was… everything, and he was bloody terrified of her and he craved her and she was Sirius’ sister. Fuck.
“She’s really your sister?” Remus asked.
“I know, it sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. And I’m sorry, Moony, because I know how you are with new people, but I can’t just leave her to fend for herself.”
“No, no, I get it. It’s just… the strangest thing.” Remus couldn’t wrap his head around any of this, and it seemed to get more confusing by the second. How could she be so... this, whatever this was, and also just so happen to be his best friend’s sister?
“That I have a sister?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. That. Are you sure she needs to stay here, though?”
“I’m sure. You’ve got to trust me on this. She’s been through a lot, and she needs me right now. She needs people, in general. She doesn’t have anyone else anymore. And I swear it, she’s bloody brilliant. She’s good people.”
“What do you mean ‘anymore?’” His chest tightened with worry as the word reverberated through his head.
“Ah. Well. That Death Eater shit in Redbridge, awhile back.” Sirius sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“What happened?” Remus demanded.
“They got her parents. Her Mum and Stepdad. She got away, thank the Gods. She’s got this scar, though, its brutal.”
“They hurt her?” he spat, inadvertently balling his fists at his sides.
She was hurt.
She wasn’t supposed to be hurt, he needed to…
Before he could stop himself, Remus turned and stomped down the hallway, barely twisting the knob of her door before he shoved it open. He felt manic, breathless, until he looked down and saw her standing near the foot of the bed.
Safe.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, the words coming out almost a sigh of relief.
“No, I’m okay.” She told him, and Gods, her voice was so damn soothing, it was almost as if he could feel the weight of it wrapping around him like an old quilt.
“She’s fine, Moony.” Sirius said from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and held a hand up, mentally begging him to just, kindly, if you please, shut the entire fuck up, then turned his attention back to her.
“You have a scar.”
“Yes. It’s fine though.” she said, wrapping the figurative blanket tighter around him. She took a step closer and pulled up her sleeve, then brought her forearm up near her face.
Mudblood. Etched into the otherwise perfect skin of her arm, angry and pink. A cursed blade, he assumed. As if the lettering itself wasn’t bad enough, whoever had done this to her had done a complete hack job, judging by the smattering of smaller, slightly curved scars next to part of the word.
“What the fuck,” he whispered, his fingers twitching with the need to reach out to her.
He shoved both hands in his pockets and continued to stare at her arm. The scar was cruel. Grotesque. But some small part of him, buried deep in the back of his head seemed almost… content, at the sight of it.
It made no sense, but then again, what did? The only thing he could bring himself to care about was that she was here, and she was safe, and she was supposed to be both of those things.
Everything was strange and fucked but this was right, and she smelled right,
“Sirius said he told you that you can stay here?”
She nodded, casting a small smile over his shoulder toward Sirius, and Remus nodded back in return.
“Good. You should stay here. Where you’re safe. I’m… well, as I said, I’m not feeling well. Not usually this much of an arse.”
“Yes, he is.” Sirius called over his shoulder.
Fair.
“Shut up, Pads.” he responded, more of the tension leaving his body as she heard her emit a soft giggle.
Safe.
“I’m gonna go lay down. I, um… can’t believe Sirius has a sister.” he told her, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe any of this and he needed to go chain smoke and scribble in his journal and maybe cast a silencing charm and scream for seven hours but this would be okay. She was safe.
“It really is nice to meet you, Carina.”
“Hermione. My middle name.”
“Hermione.” He repeated. Like a fucking Bowie song.
/I care for no one else but you/
“You’ll be safe here, Hermione.”
/I tear my soul to cease the pain/
“Thank you, Remus.”
/I think maybe you feel the same/
Remus nodded again, then turned and left the room, his mind buzzing.
/What can we do/
He entered his room and cast a silencing charm over his shoulder before he tossed his wand on to his desk and then moved to the record player, pulling out his copy of Space Oddity and placing it on the turntable he had sitting on a stack of books in the corner next to his spare bookshelf.
/I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do/
He moved the needle to the third track, then grabbed his latest journal off the top of the stack and settled on the floor next to the record player, leaning back against the wall and balancing his journal on his knees as he dug in his pocket for one of the pens he’d swiped from Lily.
/So I’ve been writing just for you/
11th July, 1978
Journal,
It is absolutely, unequivocally, a full name type of day.
I don’t know how to put it into words. There’s a girl, Sirius’s sister if you can believe that. I know, the fact alone that I’m mentioning a girl is a shock in itself but, hold on to your arse, journal, because it gets weirder.
Her name is Hermione.
Hermione.
Hermione.
Yes, Journal. As in ‘Letters to Hermione’ Hermione, though I suppose she’s more likely named for Shakespeare since she’s about ten years too young to have been named after my favorite Bowie song but it’s still perfect. She’s perfect.
There’s a girl, and she’s Sirius’ sister, and she bears the name of a Bowie song, and her eyes look like melted chocolate, and she smells like Mam’s cocoa on Nadolig and I wanted to devour her.
I wish I meant that in a metaphorical sense, Journal, but don’t be mistaken.
I wanted to sink my teeth into her fucking flesh.
There was this spot, at the base of her neck, right on the side, and I swear to the gods, journal, it feels like the wolf knows something I don’t because all I could think is that I was SUPPOSED to bite down, right there, that it would fix everything, but I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be fixing.
I’ve never felt the way I did today. It was like that feeling directly before a transformation, but different, and even more intense.
But then my hand was on her arm, and she smelled like me, and she’s here and she’s safe and it’s right. There is a list that would take up a dozen of you, journal, of all the things that are wrong, but its better now. I think I can just… breathe through it.
And, maybe, hold my breath around her because she makes my fucking teeth hurt.
Shit. Cunt. Arse.
Remus John Lupin (has gone completely fucking mental)
P.S – fine journal, you caught me. I’m on the floor listening to Letters to Hermione on repeat because apparently this is my life now. Although, just between me and you, J? A man could get used to days filled with nothing but her and Bowie.
Gallwn i arogli ei cont. Beth mae'r fuck yn bod gyda mi?
(I could smell her cunt. What the fuck is wrong with me?)
13th July, 1978
Remus sipped his coffee and leaned back against the counter, his eyes committing every moved she made to memory as she made her tea. He wanted to be the one doing that for her, had almost asked if he could, but stopped himself when he realized how pathetic he would have sounded.
Pathetic, maybe.
Definitely.
But gods, he couldn’t shake this constant urge to just… care for her, in some way, however small.
Two sugars.
Noted.
14th July, 197814th July, 1978
Remus smiled down at the two mugs in his hand – his coffee, her tea – and had to physically shake his head to brush off the thoughts about how very much he could get used to doing this. He walked into the dining area, where Hermione had sat down and lit a cigarette – a smoke before her tea seemed to be a common thing – and, with a bit of a shake to his hand, set the mug down in front of her.
“Bore da, Hermione. Good morning.”
“Oh!” she said happily, her eyes going wide as she looked from him to the mug and back again.
She picked it up and brought it to her nose, taking a long sniff and then let out a satisfied sigh – she seemed to love the smell of peppermint too, though he would wager his last knut that her liking for the scent couldn’t rival his in the slightest.
“Thank you, Remus. Good morning.”
He smiled softly and gave her a quick nod, then turned away and walked back to his room, shutting the door behind him.
14th July 1978
J,
I made her tea.
She smiled at me.
Rwy'n siwr bod ei cheg yn blasu fel mintys pupur.
(I bet her mouth tastes like peppermint.)
Good fucking morning,
-RJ
** ** ** ** **
15th July 1978
J,
She bought a little crystal candy dish and filled it to the brim with Rhode’s Chocolate Cremes.
She did that for me.
For me.
My fucking teeth hurt.
-Remus John Lupin, Pathetic Bastard at Large.
** ** ** ** **
17th July 1978
J,
Sirius keeps whining about her ‘girling up the place,’ though I know he’s just trying to get a rise out of her. I don’t mind it so much. It’s nice to have a woman’s touch – and even nicer to know Lily may not yell at us for the mess next time she comes round.
I hate this flowery cleaner she uses. I hate how the scent lingers on her skin. I fucking HATE nag champa, but she burns it on the dining table and on her dresser. It drives me mad, the way it gets all over her and mixes with her scent.
We’ll not talk about the incense burner and nag champa on my desk I just picked up at the shops today.
-RJ
** ** ** ** **
20th July 1978
J,
I’ve gone out into the sitting room the last few nights. I used to read out there in the evenings, but I’d taken to hiding in my room a bit too much. It’s easier now, though. My teeth still hurt, and she still makes me feel… everything. There’s some piece of the puzzle I can’t quite get to click in to place and, somehow, inexplicable as it may be, I feel like she knows something.
The way she looks at me sometimes is just so damn… knowing. I don’t know WHAT she knows, but I know she knows it.
It’s easier now. I sit and watch her read and I think I could spend the rest of my life just being in her presence. That would be enough.
I know it sounds pathetic, journal, but I swear it, she watches me, too.
She feels this too.
Efallai fi jyst eisiau fuck hi?(Maybe I just want to fuck her?)
Perhaps this is just… what it feels like to want that? I’ve never allowed myself to want that, aside from in the abstract. There’s never been an actual person that I just… needed like this. Maybe I can just simply wrap it up in that neat little bow and blame hormones.
Rwy'n gelwyddog.(I’m a liar.)
-RJ
** ** ** ** **
26th July 1978
J,
From a purely hypothetical standpoint, if one were to accidentally snatch a jumper that a certain curly-haired individual discarded over the back of a dining chair and take said sweater into their room and hide it under their pillow just to be able to smell her while he slept, that would be dreadfully creepy, wouldn’t it?
If said person were to also happen to spend quite a bit of time in the last week laying on his bed with said jumper fisted in his hand, and if he were to bury his nose in said jumper while he slid his hands into his pants and thought about the way her lips part just slightly when she sighs, that would be criminally insane, yeah?
It’s a good thing this is just hypothetical, Journal.
What kind of monster would do such a thing?
-Remus John Lupin, Friendly Neighborhood Beast.
29th July 1978
“I have books.” Remus rushed out. Shit. He had very much intended to not sound like an idiot. He had a whole plan in place. He was going to casually mention that she was welcome to peruse his bookshelves any time and he was absolutely not going to be awkward about it, he’d even practiced in his room for nearly an hour.
But then he’d heard her scream in the shower and then his feet were carrying him down the hall before he could stop himself and then she walked out, all Christmas morning and vanilla shampoo and her hair was wet and she said his name but her voice was so… thick and his brain short circuited.
“Books?” she asked with an amused smile. Gods, please, let me be the reason for every smile.
“Yes. Come to my bedroom.” He commanded, then bit back a groan. Why was he so bad at this? “Would you, I mean? Not… not for – I mean, for the books.”
Smooth, Moony. He thought to himself.
Sure, he would absolutely love to get her into his room, into his bed, to keep her there for days or weeks or – but he really did just want to make sure she had some books to read.
He sighed, bringing a hand up to rub his temples, and tried again.
“What I meant to say is that I’ve noticed you were reading through that copy of ‘Rebecca’ again, which you’d already read before you read ‘Middlemarch’ and you seemed to move through ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’ rather quickly, and now I sound as if I’m stalking you…” he sighed again, squeezing his eyes shut. Brilliant.
“Remus, it’s okay. You have books, in your room?” she asked, the warmth of her voice falling over him like a blanket. He had no idea how it always seemed to calm him in an instant, but he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to complain. He just wanted her to keep talking to him, forever, just like that.
“Yes. I can tell you really seem to like to read, and I thought you may get rather bored here when we’re both gone. I have a whole wall of bookshelves in my room, and I wondered if you might like to come see if there’s anything you’d like to borrow, since I can’t imagine you managed to bring many books with you.”
“Yes, Remus. I would love to browse your bookshelves.” she grinned broadly, and he felt his heart leap to his throat, could almost actually feel himself choking on the damn thing.
Yes.
Good.
Keep fucking smiling at me.
“Brilliant.”
Remus pulled his bottom lip between his teeth as he watched Hermione strain to try to reach a book – Dune, because of course she’d go right for one of his favorites. She was adorable. She was a bit on the small side, though he’d wager she was rather average in stature for a girl their age – there was, most assuredly, not a single other thing average about her. She stood somewhere around 162 cm if he had to guess, but he still towered over her at his 188.
He liked that. He wanted to tower, where she was concerned.
She was in his room, and everything smelled like her, and he hoped, beyond hope, that her scent would linger. His eyes darted toward the bed, where her jumper was still hidden under his pillow, and he decided he should absolutely not be focusing on that right now, so he pushed away from the desk and moved behind her.
As cute as it was to watch her try to reach the higher shelf of his floor-to-ceiling bookcase, he could hardly sit and watch her struggle when he was right there to help.
He was supposed to help her, in that strange surety that he had when it came to so many things about her.
He stepped up behind her and offered to help, but as he reached for the book she rocked back on her heels and her back pressed against his chest and that damn brain of his went all fuzzy again.
He had to get closer.
Gods help him, he was supposed to get closer.
Tilting his head down, he leaned in, closer, closer, until he was drowning in that godsdamned infuriating hair of hers, drawing in her scent like he was dying for oxygen, and he was, nearly constantly, dying to drown in her.
It hit him again, then.
Peppermint. Sugar. Chocolate.
Chocolate.
But, chocolate in a way that was… him.
She was supposed to smell like him.
He moved in an instant, unable to pause for even the briefest of seconds and think about his actions because she was here and she was in his room and her fucking back was still resting against his chest and she smelled like him.
She smelled like she was his.
A frenzied sort of desperation engulfed him as he gripped on to the shelf above him so hard he was sure he’d split the wood and brought his right hand down to grab her by the hip and spin her around. He took a half step closer, caging her in against the bookshelf, and she cast her eyes up to meet his and she was his.
Mwynglawdd. Mine.
This wasn’t normal, what she was doing to him, whatever she was doing to him.
Remus was fluent in Welsh and English. He even knew a bit, albeit it a small amount, of French, Gaelic, and Spanish, and at least five ways to cuss someone out in Russian.
Nevertheless, he lacked the language to put this into words, but it was something.
She was something and his throat was dry, and his fucking teeth hurt.
“What are you?” he rasped out.
“A Libra.” She said, a small smile playing across her lips and gods she was cute, and how dare she be so perfect?
“Don’t.” He commanded, his fingers digging into her hip in a frenzied attempt to just keep her. He needed to keep her, right here, or he was sure he would break. Her lips parted slightly in shock and her eyes tightened a bit.
He wasn’t supposed to hurt her, he was going about this all wrong.
He sighed, softening his voice, and tried again.
“Just… don’t. What are you, Hermione?”
“What are YOU, Remus?” And there it was again. That look she gave him, every so often, as if she held the answer to some riddle he hadn’t even known he was meant to be solving.
What are you, Remus?
She couldn’t mean… no. No, she couldn’t mean that.
She couldn’t know that he couldn’t watch her run in fear, he couldn’t let her be afraid of him, no matter how much he knew she should be.
Gods, she couldn’t know.
He released his grip on the shelf and grabbed her by the chin, likely far too roughly but it was as if he was a man standing outside of his own body, watching himself act beyond his control.
He leaned in and sucked in a breath through his teeth as his nose brushed hers and her breath ghosted across his lips.
What was she doing to him?
“What do you mean? What the fuck do you mean by that?” he whispered, the words coming out a desperate, feverish sort of plea.
“What do you mean, Remus?”
“I… I mean…it’s like you’re under my skin, and I can’t wrap my head around it. And you smell like peppermint and sugar and chocolate, but that part, its… different, and I don’t… I don’t understand it, but you smell like me, Hermione, why do you smell like me?” he begged.
She stared back up at him, their eyes locking again, and gods, to close this tiny shred of distance between them would barely take any movement at all, and he could taste her breath, and she just kept looking at him.
“Why do you smell like me?” he asked as he absentmindedly stroked his thumb over her mouth, caressing her bottom lip so softly he could barely feel it beneath his touch but, oh, he felt it. He felt her, everywhere.
“Why do you smell like you’re mine?”
And then, Hermione Black fucking killed him.
Not in the physical sense, but some part of the restraint he’d spent years carefully constructing, wrapping around himself like barbed wire, died in the breath that passed between them as she sighed out his name, all breathy and tortured and desperate and perfect and his.
“Fuck it.”