Entry tags:

pairing:hp:hermione/remus, pairing:hp:remus/sirius, pt:100quills:hp:hermione, pt:50scenes:hp:general, pt:challenge_the:hp:general

[Fic] Quiet (Hermione/Remus, NC-17)
Title: Quiet
Author: Envinyatar (aka envinyatar15)
Pairing: Hermione/Remus (background Remus/Sirius, implied Remus/Tonks)
Rating: NC-17
Highlight for Warnings: *AU, first time, teacher/student, canon character death, some werewolf clichés*
Canon-compliance: Written pre-DH, so up to Half-Blood Prince
Word Count: 4,900
Summary: The air of the castle is fresher than the air in your dense rooms, almost howling into your ear in what you imagine might be the sound of your own voice during the full moon. But this sound doesn't frighten you anymore. It's rather soothing, actually. It marks who and what you are, takes away all the falsehood you've lived with for more than half of your lifetime.

Notes: Written ages ago for my dear freetheelves2, but I only got a chance to give this the final polish recently. I'm very sorry about the huge delay, honey! Beta'd by the amazing zebraspots05 - any remaining mistakes are my own.

For 100quills: #20 talk; 50scenes: #05 redeemer; challenge_the: #105 night.


Tap tap tap it goes. Feet on the stone, seemingly unattached to a body, seemingly alone. Just the noise is there, invisible in the darkness, and who knows, does it belong to a human or something else?

The answer is easy yet at the same time isn't. When both possibilities apply neither can be true.

*~*~*

Each night you roam the corridors, which you think is a very amusing fact. You, the Dark creature, having spent most of your life avoiding or fighting the darkness, now welcoming the dark, spending time in it, even embracing it. That’s not anything you would have ever seen yourself doing, a few months or perhaps years or perhaps ages ago; you don't quite remember.

Nowadays, however, almost anything is better than the deafening silence of your lonely quarters, and staring at the crackling fire in your hearth isn’t much better than lying awake during the night. Nor is reading a book – books have become a means to preserve this fabulous lie of a good life that you have realised doesn't exist. You rather walk than endure any of those. The air of the castle is fresher than the air in your dense rooms, almost howling into your ear in what you imagine might be the sound of your own voice during the full moon. But this sound doesn't frighten you anymore. It's rather soothing, actually. It marks who and what you are, takes away all the falsehood you've lived with for more than half of your lifetime. The castle doesn’t whisper lies to you as your rooms do with the warmth of the fire in it, the warmth of days past. The screams that come back to you in the empty hallways, preserved in your excellent memory, are much more welcome to you than the promises of love your lonely bed makes you remember.

- - -

Remus, please… Help me… I love you so much… You’re the only one left…

The knife twists and turns.

Where’s Jamie? Remus? Where is Jamie? I need him, need him… Where the fuck IS JAMIE?

Twist.

Hold me. Love me. Please. I need you.

Turn.

Remus! No! Help me! Make it go away, please make it go away… NO!

Twist.

Gods, Remus…More... Yessss...

Turn.

I HATE YOU! TELL ME WHERE JAMIE IS! Remus, I hate you so much… Why are you always lying to me?

Twist and turn, and the heart is bleeding.

- - -

Sirius had needed you after his escape from Azkaban, you knew that, and gladly you’d been there for him. Sometimes it had been too much though. You've had your chance to deal with James' death; Sirius hadn't and wasnt about to accept it. Azkaban had taken its toll.

You were grateful for missions Albus ordered you on. Still, there was only so much you could run away from, and your conscience wasn’t one of them. Always you returned, to be there for him for another day or week or month until it became too much for you once more, and you ran just again.

And then Sirius was dead, and you couldn’t help but feel responsible for that, because you hadn’t been there often enough when he must have cried for you, instead preferring the easy way out, acting as the coward you had been since your youth.

He was right. You always only lied to him – to protect him, to protect yourself.

Wasn’t his death your fault, then?

*~*~*

You wander the halls. Restless. Quiet. Listening to the screams. Still the coward I see, an inner voice every so often drawls, and the wounds of your heart break open and begin bleeding anew. The screams become louder, and you respond with a whisper: Not so much. The voice only laughs and shrieks and cries to that, and the world around you freezes and fades, but you keep on walking. You suppose it's the only thing you can do for all that you've done, and besides, it's darkness you seek, not the light.

It’s an odd coincidence that most nights you meet Hermione out of bed as well, practising spells and hexes and curses in one classroom or another. The first night you're stumbling down a corridor and she comes out of a classroom you stare at her for a long time. She stares right back at you, unmoving. Then she takes a step towards you, slowly, uncertainly.

“Remus?”

Her voice shakes you and reminds you of who you are, in her eyes – her friend and teacher, albeit she doesn't manage to call you Professor anymore. You draw yourself up, realising you're standing in front of your own classroom, and plaster a smile on your face, one that you hope looks convincing. It must, for she smiles as well, the insecurity gone.

You talk for a minute or two, then you take her back to her Head Girl rooms just off Gryffindor Tower, ensuring she gets back home safely. One never knows what might happen, now does one? Perhaps she would be dead once he turned his back on her… It’s been known to happen, at one point or another.

The first three or four times you happen to see her you don’t think much of it. You’re too deeply immersed in the memories of your beloved to feel worried about Hermione, and although she rouses you from your memories, you can't quite concentrate on her. You explain away the occurrences with her age – she’s a seventh-year now and of age, she fought against Voldemort and helped win the war when it had seemed almost hopeless. Yet she doesn’t feel prepared to take her NEWTs. You’ve spoken to her about her fears before, how she thought missing the first five months of school might have ruined her chances at a career; for what use was being a war hero if one couldn’t even perform the simplest of Transfigurations? That’s what she told you, and you tried to help her see the truth: that she’s a clever witch, one of the best (at which she blushed), and that she does most certainly not need to be afraid of failing her NEWTs. A little practise on her part would perhaps assure her of her talent and allow her to catch up to her own standard, and you tell her so, although you don’t honestly believe she needs it. At least in Defence she’s going to get full marks – being a war hero is good for something, at least – and you’re most certain this won’t change any time soon. From what you’ve heard the other teachers are impressed with her as well, which hasn’t changed much at all since the last time you taught here, four years ago.

All of this enters your mind and leaves just as quickly as Sirius takes over your thoughts. The twist-turn of the knife is taking up all of you, just like the fear your pain might one day go away, because anything but pain is not reality. The thought that it will leave is an illusion people indulge in, and you don't want to indulge in this utopia any longer. Everyone eventually gets thrown out of paradise, and you don't think you could take that one more time. Instead you embrace all those feelings inside yourself and hold on to them.

The guilt and the pain and the love are sharp and bitter and pulsing, and you feel very much alive.

*~*~*

At first you thought her practising would make her feel better. But it doesn’t, that much is obvious, for you meet her a fifth time in your classroom and a sixth and a seventh.

Then your perception changes. That seventh time you notice she's already waiting for you outside the classroom, and your werewolf senses catch an odd odour, one you haven’t smelled on her before. The scent, predominantly fear, mixed with something you can't decipher, you dismiss at first; there can’t be anything dangerous around. The war is over. Hogwarts is as safe as it’s ever been, with the exception that Albus isn’t there any longer. Minerva does all she can to step into his footsteps, though, and she’s become really good at that. She relies more on you and your ability to smooth ruffled feathers than Albus would ever have needed, but she does what she can, and so do you, because whatever you might feel, you owe this school a debt.

Repaying your debt might be therapeutic, forcing you to focus for a few hours each day, but it doesn’t make your life less painful or cause the screams to go away. They’re still there, waiting for you in the darkness where you gladly welcome them into your mind, and that's good. If it were any other way you would have left the school, debt be damned, and gone somewhere where nothing would get in the way of the pain.

This way, at least, you're not acting entirely selfishly.

*~*~*

Only the ninth time you meet her at night do you realise what the underlying odour is, because it’s the first time you’re really focused on her instead of on the whispers in the air, and you don't know which discovery shocks you more, the source of the odour or that you didn't leave your rooms tonight because you were trying to escape but trying to find.

And your finding is spectacular indeed.

She smells of desire.

You see it in her eyes, too, now that you're looking for it, but what’s more, you see she fights it. You see her blush consciously when you’re there, see how she averts her gaze from yours, unable to hold it. You notice that she’s careful to keep a certain distance between the two of you, and you wonder, why? Does she know what kind of a person you are, how disloyal, how unreliable, how cowardly? How dangerous?

And you wonder – is it that which arouses her and which she is frightened of at the same time?

An image flashes in front of your eyes, that of a young female body – hers – writhing underneath you, begging for you to pound into it, into her, the throat exposed for you to sink your teeth into. Trusting, vulnerable.

But before you let yourself be enveloped by the image, before you wonder how she might taste, calling as your mind's picture may be to your body, you push the thoughts aside. Instead you bring forth the screams in your memories. You don't bring her back to Gryffindor Tower this time but brush past her without a word. You want to protect her from the danger? Well then, you seem to be the only danger within the walls of this castle, so you better make sure to stay as far away from her as possible.

Coward.

*~*~*

At night, you're not roaming the castle anymore. Instead you hide in your quarters, unwilling to expose her to you, or you to her.

So when has it ceased to be about him and become about her?

You know that you should feel guilty for staying in the relative safety of your room. This way your rightful punishment can't be executed any longer. But you're not feeling guilty; you're feeling relieved, more relaxed than you have in years, and it's not because a young vibrant female body is lying beneath you, a willing body for you to take all your anger out on, but it's because for the first time since his death, you feel like you're doing the right thing.

The fire burns in the hearth. You watch it eat away at the wood, slowly reducing it to ash, and a weight is lifted from your shoulders.

*~*~*

The next day is a Saturday.

At the crack of dawn, you leave the castle and stroll down the path to Hogsmeade, slowly breathing in the fresh, chilly air of morning. Has the air always been this sweet, you wonder, sniffing carefully.

Moony, look Moony!

What's up, Paddy?

Come on over!

Yeah, I'll be right there. So, what is it this time?

You smile at the memory from your youth, playing and fooling around with Sirius who liked to transfigure into his canine form every so often to amuse you and, more importantly, James. You've nearly forgotten this one, hidden under layers of dust as it was before the wind came and blew it away.

*~*~*

When you've reached your destination, you kneel down in front of the tombstone and stare at it for half an eternity. Your eyes water, and you ask yourself, why have you never been here before?

The answer to that is easy. Because it was your mistake he was dead. Because you couldn't let him go.

But today you've come here out of some strange compulsion to do so, you don't quite know why, but you don't care, because all that counts right now is that you're finally where you should have been so long ago. One and half years now, and there aren't, as you would have imagined, screams being hurtled at you, nor is there a knife anywhere in sight to rip out your heart.

Instead, there's quiet. And it's the quiet that soothes your trembling and crying and hurting form, until eventually you fall quiet, too, murmuring “I'm sorry.” You reach out for the stone to caress it and finally turn around and leave.

*~*~*

The rest of the day you feel much calmer. There is a sadness in you that nearly makes you unable to move, but it's only grief, not guilt, that weighs you down that day. Different from guilt, the grief doesn't grow stronger with each day; it dissipates.

What has changed?

Everything.

*~*~*

A few days go by, days in which you learn how it is to be able to laugh again. Filius' tale of what he's found his students doing when he seemingly wasn't looking is refreshing, and when you feel laughter bubbling up from within you the urge to laugh becomes even stronger. It's not coldness ruling your life any longer, but something warmer, and it tickles and you laugh. For the first time in years, you laugh because you find something funny, not because you think you should find something funny.

You're learning to live again.

*~*~*

While you are off rediscovering your life, you don't spend much time thinking about her, about what your body would like to do to her. Or rather, you don't think about her during the day; during the night, things are a little bit different. They always are.

The night shows the truth.

You know you want her now, there's no denying it. She's brave and intelligent and beautiful, so how could you not want her? You realise that even during the war there had been something between the two of you, but then you didn't have the presence of mind to recognise it. You won't act on it, however. She doesn't know what she's getting herself into and you never want to hurt anyone like you did your past lovers by seeking forgetfulness in her arms.

So you try to pretend you don't think about her at night, don't get hard over thoughts of her lying beneath you, trembling and oh-so-tight.

More than once you wake up near the edge to completion, and there's nothing, nothing in the world that would have brought you back from there, so you stroke yourself once, twice with her image in your mind, and you come shuddering with her name on your lips.

Those are the nights that are the most difficult to ignore.

*~*~*

Since you stopped your nocturnal walks through Hogwarts she's come to see you more often after class. You try not to flee from her presence, but it's hard to ignore her arousal just as much as your own. Your body reacts instinctively; your natural appetites haven't been satisfied since you broke it off with your fiancée six months ago.

You speak to her about magical theory, Defence, the Dark Arts themselves. When the discussion turns to how essential it is to be able to control one's appetites – and sexuality plays a big role there – to perform the more advanced kinds of magic and to control the volatility of such magic, she flushes. The scent of her arousal intensifies tenfold. Instantly, your cock hardens in your trousers and you squirm; this isn't the time or place to lose control over your own desire. You ask her to leave.

She doesn't.

You growl softly – and beg she doesn't hear it – as she lifts her chin defiantly and tells you that's not what she intends to do. Her brown eyes swirl with something you wouldn't have thought you'd ever see again, but still you think it's her inexperience – you don't think, can't think she'd feel the same if she knew what she was getting herself into.

You tell her in no uncertain terms that this isn't possible between the two of you, not now and not ever, but your breathing is accelerated and you don't think you're very convincing. Your every argument falls flat between the two of you; they don't have the strength to float between you and create a wall that neither of you will be able to overcome.

Your fear – you won't say hope because you most certainly don't hope that she won't leave, oh no – comes true when she stands up and walks around the desk that has been separating you until now. Halting right in front of you, you see that she is nervous, her chest – you don't look at her breasts, no, never that – pumping, her face glowing pink.

It's all you can do to sit rooted to the spot, because your grip on your self-control is shallow at best and if you moved you would pin her to the surface of the wooden table and fuck her right then and there. You don't think this would be a particularly wise move.

Except, you have never chosen wisely in your life, have you? The right for restraint has been taken out of your hands when you were bitten all those years ago. Ever since you have been trying to achieve it, but your nature always gets the better of you.

Naturally the world slows and stops as she leans forward and her mouth crashes to yours, and the world begins moving backwards until you feel another female body pressing against yours, until it changes into a male body, and you push her away, because this isn't possible, this isn't how it is supposed to be at all; the past is the past and the present is the present. The world begins moving forward again, dizzying you for a moment.

She's hurt, you see that in her eyes. You get up and walk towards her, her name on your lips and your face apologetic, but you sense it's not enough. Before you know what happens something inside you breaks. You crush her against your body, feeling her every curve and kissing her with all your pent-up need. After a second, she gives in to your demanding mouth, melting against you with a groan escaping her beautiful throat, the throat that had you sweating night after night after night. Your hungry mouth seeks it out, licking and kissing its way down, nuzzling and gently biting at her ear before you reach what you've been longing for, but with this quiet intensity of yours that has her shaking in your arms. Your hands map out her beautiful body, dancing over her back and her sides and eventually her hips, sneaking underneath her shirt and slowly lifting it up. Speech is beyond you now, but you feel you will have to be careful with her. You want to try to give her ample opportunity to pull away if she wishes to, because you know you can't.

As you pull up the shirt she looks into your eyes. You're captivated by the trusting insecurity you see there. She lifts up her arms and you pull the shirt over her head and toss it away, staring at her, your insatiable hunger for skin overridden by surprise and wonder.

She's the one to move next, her hands coming up to unbutton your robes. One after another the buttons fall open, exposing your scarred skin to the world. You lick your lips in an attempt to hold back another growl that threatens to escape while her hands work on your robe, ghosting over your heated skin while you stand there and watch her through half-lidded eyes. When she's finally finished she bites her lip – and oh do you want to be that lip – and pushes the cloth away, revealing you to her eyes. You study her as she studies you, waiting for the inevitable to come – for her to turn away.

She doesn't.

Instead she lifts up a hand and carefully places it on your chest. You react by reaching out for her and drawing her close to your body, your mouth seeking hers out again, tongues dancing a dance older than time itself. The room itself is quiet, as if it were holding its breath, and only your own laboured breathing can be heard, every once in a while followed by a sigh or an almost-silent moan.

You go slowly, touching and kissing her wherever you can, your hands roaming her back and her stomach and finally, finally her chest. One of your hands reaches around for the clasp of her bra and unhooks it, freeing her breasts, small, firm and beautifully fitting into your hands as you cup them, to your gaze. Your breath hitches as you stroke across her nipple, and it answers with hardening until your mouth waters and you need to taste it, taste its perfection. Her own hands come to rest in your hair and she moans as you suck at her nipple, then move over to the other and lick and suck and bite until she presses you for more. Only then let you trail your mouth lower, across her stomach, your tongue circling her navel. You kneel down while your hands follow the road southward, coming to rest on her hips once more. Uncertain whether you are allowed to proceed, you look up to her flushed face, your eyes asking for her permission which she gives with widened eyes, darkened by desire.

You make quick work of opening her trousers and push them down, out of the way. But you know she's still nervous, so you don't try to push her for something she isn't yet ready to give, albeit you more than long to taste her. Standing up – and you try to ignore the cracking of your knees as you do so – you reach for her again, kissing away her nervousness, replacing it with need again. Only when you feel her relax against you once more do you push her against the desk behind you and settle her on the wood, spreading her legs far enough to allow you between them. You let her feel the erection outlined by your trousers, pressing into her groin because you can't help yourself, it feels so good. She surprises you this time by pressing back into you with a groan, still kissing you, to which your hands answer by trailing down to her crotch and feeling her wetness seep through her knickers, arousing you even further. You rub her through the cloth, pressing into her lightly while your thumb circles her clit, and she rocks against you with little motions that tell you she is ready, and you can't wait any longer anyway, because the need is overtaking you and you need to be inside her soon, otherwise you will come in your trousers, and wouldn't that impress her?

You rip the knickers from her body with a deliberate yank of your wrist. She squeaks in surprise, but your hand is instantly back where it was only a second before, and this time, your finger enters her deeply. Her mouth breaks away from you and she bares her throat to you as she throws back her head in pleasure. This is what you have been waiting for. Your mouth descends upon her, biting and licking her soft skin while your finger fucks her, and then she fumbles at your trouser placket blindly, opening the zip and pushing them down. You take over from her because she is too far gone, nearing orgasm; you can feel it, feel how she clenches around your finger. You won't let her come without you inside her, though; you're her first you realise, and you want to stake your claim. Freeing your hard cock from its confines, you pump yourself once, twice, spreading the precome over the shaft, then your finger leaves her and you position yourself at her entrance.

You feel the sudden urge to have her eyes locked with yours while you take her virginity, the most sacred gift a woman can give. Your mouth breaks away from her throat, your eyes focusing on hers and never breaking away. Only when you have her unwavering attention do you push forward, into her tightness, and both of you gasp as you take what she has offered to you, marking her as yours.

Her legs open wider with each inch that you slide in, careful. When you meet her resistance, you keep pressing until the barrier gives way, and she gasps again, this time in pain. But you know it will become less painful and more enjoyable once she's adjusted to your cock so deep inside her, so you keep moving until you're fully sheathed inside of her, and your breath is ragged because you can just keep from coming, it's been too long and she feels too good. You give her a moment until you feel her relax in your arms once more, then you pull out a little and push back in, rocking into her with carefully controlled motions. Her legs tremble around you, her eyes on yours wide with fear, but you don't change your rhythm until she catches up and rocks back against you. Then you pull back a little more and push in with a little more force, letting her feel you move inside of her, and her startled eyes on you tell you this was the right decision, that she feels this is the way it's supposed to be. Your hand sneaks down between the two of you, playing with her clit while you slide in and out of her, and you can't help it but shut your eyes and groan at the exquisite sensation of claiming her while your fingers bring her closer to the edge, closer to where she needs to go in order to make your claim final.

Your strokes grow more erratic now as she rocks harder against you, craving the friction both your hand and your cock can give her. This time you bury your head in her neck, willing yourself to calm down, to keep a hold on your control long enough, your eyes squeezed shut against the looming orgasm. Just a second, you breathe, just a second. Then she's there, crying out your name as you rock into her and she rocks into you, convulsing around you. It's all you need to fall over the edge, too, into oblivion, while you spend yourself inside her, waves crashing around you and taking you under.

Yours at last.

*~*~*

When you come to again, you realise you must be crushing her to the surface of the table. You can't have been gone for more than a second, but she's gasping for air underneath you, shaking and trembling in the aftershocks of her release. Quickly you lift yourself up on your arms, still pinning her to the wood and your bodies joined, wonder in your eyes at what has just happened. You wait for her to regain her breath, watching her every movement. Then, as she still won't look at you, you catch her chin with your thumb and forefinger and gently force her to face you. You look into her eyes for another second, then you lower your mouth and chastely kiss her on the lips before drawing back, a thank you at the tip of your tongue, but it never gets past there because you swallow it when she draws you back down forcefully.

And then, only then, you realise how this is supposed to feel. It's been too many years since you did something for the sake of doing it and not for the sake of forgetting that when warmth surges through your body – not the burning fire from before, but simple warmth – you feel as if you could explode from sudden happiness, and you laugh.

And she laughs with you.

*~*~*

Tap tap tap it goes. Feet on the stone, seemingly unattached to a body, seemingly alone. Just the noise is there, invisible in the darkness, and who knows, does it belong to a human or something else?

Then: tap tap tap, another pair of feet.

The creature of the darkness isn't alone any longer, there's someone, something else there, too, walking by its side, and who knows, perhaps this newfound companion can draw the first pair of feet back into the light.

For longer than just a moment.